Footsteps sounded. Cazaril glanced up to see dy Tagille, winded and disheveled but with his sword sheathed, running into the courtyard. He dashed up to them and stopped abruptly. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d's h.e.l.l." He glanced aside at his Ibran comrade. "Are you all right, dy Cembuer?"

"Sons of b.i.t.c.hes broke my arm again. He's He's the scary one. What's happening out there?" the scary one. What's happening out there?"

"Dy Baocia rallied his men, and has driven the invaders out of the palace. It's all very confused right now, but the rest of them seem to be running through town trying to get to the temple."

"To a.s.sail it?" dy Cembuer asked in alarm. He tried to struggle to his feet again.

"No. To surrender to armed men who will not try to tear them limb from limb. It seems every citizen of Taryoon has taken to the streets after them. The women are the worst. b.a.s.t.a.r.d's h.e.l.l," he repeated, staring at dy Jironal's smoking corpse, "some Chalionese soldier was screaming and babbling that he'd seen dy Jironal struck by lightning from a clear blue sky for the sacrilege of offering battle on the Daughter's Day. And I scarcely believed him."

"I saw it, too," said dy Cembuer. "There was a horrible noise. He didn't even have time to cry out."

Dy Tagille dragged the corpse a little way off and knelt in front of Cazaril, staring fearfully at his skewered stomach and then into his face. "Lord Cazaril, we must try to draw this sword from you. Best we do it at once."

"No...wait..." Cazaril had once seen a man plugged with a crossbow bolt live for half an hour, until the bolt was drawn out; his blood had gushed forth then, and he'd died. "I want to see Lady Betriz first."

"My lord, you cannot sit there with a sword stuck through you!"

"Well," said Cazaril reasonably, "I surely cannot move move ..." Trying to talk made him pant. Not good. He was shivering and very cold. But the throbbing pain was not as devastating as he'd expected, probably because he'd managed to hold so still. As long as he held ..." Trying to talk made him pant. Not good. He was shivering and very cold. But the throbbing pain was not as devastating as he'd expected, probably because he'd managed to hold so still. As long as he held very very still, it wasn't much worse than Dondo's clawings. still, it wasn't much worse than Dondo's clawings.

Other men arrived in the courtyard. Babble and noise and cries from the wounded washed between the walls, and tales repeated over and over in rising voices. Cazaril ignored it all, taken up with his pebble again. He wondered where it had come from, how it had arrived there. What it had been before it was a pebble. A rock? A mountain? Where? For how many years? It filled his mind. And if a pebble could fill his mind, what might a mountain do? The G.o.ds held mountains in their minds, and all else besides, all at once. Everything, with the same attention he gave to one thing. He had seen that, through the Lady's eyes. If it had endured for longer than that infinitesimal blink, he thought his soul would have burst. As it was he felt strangely stretched. Had that glimpse been a gift, or just a careless chance?

"Cazaril?"

A trembling voice, the voice he had been waiting for. He looked up. If the pebble was amazing, Betriz's face was astounding. The structure of her nose alone could have held him entranced for hours. He abandoned the pebble at once for this better entertainment. But water welled up, shimmering, in her brown eyes, and her face was drained of color. That wasn't right. Worst of all, her dimples had gone into hiding.

"There you are," he said happily. His voice was a muzzy croak. "Kiss me now." you are," he said happily. His voice was a muzzy croak. "Kiss me now."

She gulped, knelt, shuffled up to him on her knees, and stretched her neck. Her lips were warm. The perfume of her mouth was nothing at all like a G.o.ddess's, but like a human woman's, and very good withal. His lips were cold, and he pressed them to hers as much to borrow her heat and youth as anything. So. He'd been swimming in miracle every day of his life, and hadn't even known it.

He eased his head back. "All right." He did not add, That's enough That's enough, because it wasn't. "You can draw the sword out now."

Men moved around him, mostly worried-looking strangers. Betriz rubbed her face, undid the frogs of his tunic, and stood and hovered. Someone gripped his shoulders. A page proffered a folded pad to clap to his wound, and someone else held lengths of bandages ready to wrap his torso.

Cazaril squinted in uncertainty. Betriz was here: therefore, Iselle must be, must be..."Iselle? Bergon?"

"I'm here, Lord Caz." Iselle's voice came off to his side.

She moved around in front of him, staring at him in extreme dismay. She had shed her heavily embroidered outer robes in her flight, and still seemed a trifle breathless. She had also shed the black cloak of the curse...had she not? Yes, he decided. His inner vision was darkening, but he did not mistake this.

"Bergon is with my uncle," she continued, "helping to clear dy Jironal's remaining men from the area." Her voice was firm in its disregard of the tears running down her face.

"The black shadow is lifted," he told her, "from you and Bergon. From everyone."

"How?"

"I'll tell you all about it, if I live."

"Cazaril!"

He grinned briefly at the familiar, exasperated cadences around his name.

"You live, then!" Her voice wavered. "I-I command you!"

Dy Tagille knelt in front of Cazaril.

Cazaril gave him a short nod. "Draw it."

"Very straight and smoothly, Lord dy Tagille," Iselle instructed tensely, "so as not to cut him any worse."

"Aye, my lady." Dy Tagille licked his lips in apprehension and grasped the sword's hilt.

"Carefully," gasped Cazaril, "but not quite quite so slowly, so slowly, please please ..." ..."

The blade left him; a warm gush of liquid spurted from the mouth of his wound after it. Cazaril had hoped to pa.s.s out, but he only swayed as pads were clapped to him and held hard fore and aft. He stared down expecting to see his lap awash in blood, but no flood of red met his sight; it was a clear liquid, merely tinged with pink. Sword must have lanced my tumor Sword must have lanced my tumor. Which was not not, it appeared, and the b.a.s.t.a.r.d fry Rojeras for inflicting that nightmare upon him, stuffed with some grotesque demon fetus after all. He tried not to think, At least not anymore. At least not anymore. A murmur of astonishment pa.s.sed among the ring of watchers as the scent of celestial flowers from this exudation filled the air. A murmur of astonishment pa.s.sed among the ring of watchers as the scent of celestial flowers from this exudation filled the air.

He let himself fall, boneless and unresisting, into his eager helpers' arms. He did manage to surrept.i.tiously scoop up his pebble before the willing hands bore him off up the stairs to his bedchamber. They were excited and frightened, but he was growing delightfully relaxed. It seemed he was to be fussed over, lovely. When Betriz held his hand, as he was eased into his bed, he gripped hers and did not let go.

28.

A tapping and low voices at his chamber door drew Cazaril from his doze. The room was dim. A single candle flame pushing back a deep dark told him night was fallen. He heard the physician, who had been sitting with him, murmuring, "He is sleeping, Roy-Royina..." chamber door drew Cazaril from his doze. The room was dim. A single candle flame pushing back a deep dark told him night was fallen. He heard the physician, who had been sitting with him, murmuring, "He is sleeping, Roy-Royina..."

"No, I'm not," Cazaril called eagerly. "Come in." He tensed his arms to push himself upright, then thought better of it. He added, "Make more light. A deal more light. I want to see you."

A great party of persons shuffled into his chamber, attempting to make themselves quiet and gentle, like a parade gone suddenly shy. Iselle and Bergon, with Betriz and Palli attendant upon them; the archdivine of Taryoon, with the little judge of the Father staring around in his wake. They quite filled the room. Cazaril smiled up amiably at them from his horizontal paradise of clean linens and stillness as candle was held to candle and the flames multiplied.

Bergon looked down at him in apprehension and whispered hoa.r.s.ely to the physician, "How is he?"

"He pa.s.sed a deal of blood in his water earlier, but less tonight. He has no fever yet. I daren't let him have more than a few sips of tea, till we know how his gut wound progresses. I don't know how much pain he bears."

Cazaril decided he preferred to speak for himself. "I hurt, no doubt of that." He made another feeble attempt to roll up, and winced. "I would sit up a little. I cannot talk looking up all your noses like this." Palli and Bergon rushed to help gently raise him, plumping pillows behind him.

"Thank you," said Iselle to the physician, who bowed and, taking the royal hint, stepped out of the way.

Cazaril eased back with a sigh, and said, "What has transpired? Is Taryoon under attack? And don't talk in those funereal whispers, either."

Iselle smiled from the foot of his bed. "Much has happened," she told him, her voice reverting to its normal firm timbre. "Dy Jironal had men advancing as fast as they could march from both his son-in-law in Thistan and from Valenda, to follow up in support of his spies and abductors got in at the festival. Late last night the column coming down the road from Valenda met the delegation carrying our letter to Orico in Cardegoss, and captured them."

"Alive, yes?" said Cazaril in alarm.

"There was some scuffle, but none killed, thank the G.o.ds. Much debate followed in their camp."

Well, he had had sent the most sensible, persuasive men of weight and worth that Taryoon could muster for that emba.s.sy. sent the most sensible, persuasive men of weight and worth that Taryoon could muster for that emba.s.sy.

"Later in the afternoon, we sent out parties of parley. We included some of dy Jironal's men who had witnessed the fight in the courtyard, and...and whatever that miraculous blue fire was that killed him, to explain and to testify. They cried and gibbered a lot, but they were very convincing. Cazaril, what really really-oh, and they say Orico is dead."

Cazaril sighed. I knew that. I knew that. "When?" "When?"

The archdivine of Taryoon replied, "There's some confusion about that. A Temple courier rode through to us this afternoon with the news. She bore me a letter from Archdivine Mendenal in Cardegoss saying it was the night after the royesse's-the royina's wedding. But dy Jironal's men all say he told them Orico had died the night before it, and so he was now rightful regent of Chalion. I suppose he was lying. I'm not sure it matters, now."

But it might have mattered, had events taken a different path...Cazaril frowned in curious speculation.

"In any case," put in Bergon, "between the news of dy Jironal's startling taking-off, and the failure and capture of their infiltrators, and and the realization that they marched not against a rebellious Heiress, but their rightful royina, the columns have broken up. The men are returning to their homes. I'm just back from overseeing that." Indeed, he was mud-splashed, bright-eyed with the exuberance of success-and relief. the realization that they marched not against a rebellious Heiress, but their rightful royina, the columns have broken up. The men are returning to their homes. I'm just back from overseeing that." Indeed, he was mud-splashed, bright-eyed with the exuberance of success-and relief.

"Do you think the truce will hold?" asked Cazaril. "Dy Jironal held the strings of a very considerable network of power and relations, all of whom still have their interests at risk."

Palli grunted, and shook his head. "They have not the backing of forces from the Order of the Son, now it's headless-worse, they've the near certainty that control of the order will pa.s.s out of their faction now. I think the Jironal clan will learn caution."

"The provincar of Thistan has already sent us a letter of submission," put in Iselle, "just arrived. It looks to have been hastily penned. We plan to wait one more day to be sure the roads are clear, and to give thanks to the G.o.ds in the temple of Taryoon. Then Bergon and I will ride for Cardegoss with a contingent of my uncle's cavalry, for Orico's funeral and my coronation." Her mouth turned down. "I fear we will have to leave you here for a time, Lord Caz."

He glanced at Betriz, watching him, her eyes dark with concern. Where Iselle rode, Betriz, her first courtier, must needs follow.

Iselle went on, "Don't speak if it pains you too much, but Cazaril...what happened happened in the courtyard? Did the Daughter in the courtyard? Did the Daughter truly truly strike dy Jironal dead with a bolt of lightning?" strike dy Jironal dead with a bolt of lightning?"

"His body looked it, I must say," said Bergon. "All cooked cooked. I've never seen anything like it."

"That is a good story," said Cazaril slowly, "and will do for most men. You here should know the truth, but...I think this truth should go no further, eh?"

Iselle quietly bade the physician excuse himself. She glanced curiously at the little judge. "And this gentleman, Cazaril?"

"The Honorable Paginine is...is in the way of being a colleague of mine. He should stay, and the archdivine as well."

Cazaril found his audience ranged around his bed, staring at him rather breathlessly. Neither Paginine nor the archdivine, nor Palli, knew the preamble about Dondo and the death demon, Cazaril realized, and so he found himself compelled to revert to that beginning, though in as few words as he could make come out sensibly. At least he hoped it sounded coherent, and not like the ravings of a madman.

"Archdivine Mendenal in Cardegoss knows all this tale," he a.s.sured the shocked-looking pair from Taryoon. Palli's mouth was twisted in something between astonishment and indignation; Cazaril evaded his eye a trifle guiltily. "But when dy Jironal bade his men hold me unarmed, and ran me through-when he murdered me, the death demon bore us all off in an unbalanced confusion of killers and victims. That is, the demon bore the pair of them, but somehow my soul was attached, and followed...what I saw then...the G.o.ddess..." his voice faltered. "I don't know how to open my mouth and push out the universe in words. It won't fit. If I had all the words in all the languages in the world that ever were or will be, and spoke till the end of time, it still couldn't..." He was shivering, suddenly, his eyes blurred with tears.

"But you weren't really dead, were you?" said Palli uneasily.

"Oh, yes. Just for a little while...for an odd angle of little that came out, um, very large. If I had not died in truth, I could not have ripped open the wall between the worlds, and the G.o.ddess could not have reached in to take back the curse. Which was a drop of the Father's blood, as nearly as I could tell, though how the Golden General came by such a gift I know not. That's a metaphor, by the way. I'm sorry. I have not...I have not the words for what I saw. Talking about it is like trying to weave a box of shadows in which to carry water." And our souls are parched. And our souls are parched. "The Lady of Spring let me look through Her eyes, and though my second sight is taken back-I think-my eyes do not seem to work quite the same as they did..." "The Lady of Spring let me look through Her eyes, and though my second sight is taken back-I think-my eyes do not seem to work quite the same as they did..."

The archdivine signed himself. Paginine cleared his throat, and said diffidently, "Indeed, my lord, you do not make that great roaring light about you anymore."

"Do I not? Oh, good." Cazaril added eagerly, "But the black cloak about Iselle and Bergon, it is gone as well, yes?"

"Yes, my lord. Royse, Royina, if it please you. The shadow seems to be lifted altogether."

"So all is well. G.o.ds, demons, ghosts, the whole company, all gone. There's nothing odd left about me now," said Cazaril happily.

Paginine screwed up his face in an expression that was not quite appalled, not quite a laugh. "I would not go so far as to say that, my lord," he murmured.

The archdivine nudged Paginine, and whispered, "But he speaks the truth, yes? Wild as it seems..."

"Oh, yes, Your Reverence. I have no doubt of that." The bland stare he traded Cazaril bore rather more understanding than that of the archdivine's, who was looking astonished and overawed.

"Tomorrow," Iselle announced, "Bergon and I shall make a thanksgiving procession to the temple, walking barefoot to sign our grat.i.tude to the G.o.ds."

Cazaril said in muzzy worry, "Oh. Oh, do be careful, then. Don't step on any broken gla.s.s or old nails, now."

"We shall watch out for each other's steps the whole way," Bergon promised him.

Cazaril added aside to Betriz, his hand creeping across the coverlet to touch hers, "You know, I am not haunted anymore. Quite a load off my mind, in more ways than one. Very liberating to a man, that sort of thing..." His voice was dropping in volume, raspy with fatigue. Her hand turned under his, and gave a secret squeeze.

"We should withdraw and let you rest," said Iselle, frowning in renewed worry. "Is there anything you desire, Cazaril? Anything at all?"

About to reply No, nothing No, nothing, he said instead, "Oh. Yes. I want music."

"Music?"

"Perhaps some very quiet music," Betriz ventured. "To lull him to sleep."

Bergon smiled. "If it please you, then, see to it, Lady Betriz." The mob withdrew, tiptoeing loudly. The physician returned. He let Cazaril drink tea, in trade for making more blood-tinted p.i.s.s for him to examine suspiciously by candlelight and growl at in an unsettling fashion.

At length, Betriz came back with a nervous-looking young lutenist who appeared to have been wakened out of a sound sleep for this command performance. But he worked his fingers, tuned up, and played seven short pieces. None of them was the right one; none evoked the Lady and Her soul-flowers, till he played an eighth, an interlaced counterpoint of surpa.s.sing sweetness. That one had a faint echo of heaven in it. Cazaril had him play it through twice more, and cried a little, upon which Betriz insisted that he was too tired and must sleep now, and bore the young man off again.

And Cazaril still hadn't had a chance to tell her about her nose. When he tried to explain this miracle to the physician, the man responded by giving him a large spoonful of syrup of poppies, after which they ceased to alarm each other for the rest of the night.

IN THREE DAYS' TIME HIS WOUNDS STOPPED LEAKING scented fluid, closing cleanly, and the physician permitted Cazaril thin gruel for breakfast. This revived him enough to insist on being allowed out to sit in the spring sun of the courtyard. The expedition seemed to require an inordinate number of servants and helpers, but at last he was guided carefully down the stairs and into a chair lined with wool-padded and feather-stuffed cushions, with his feet propped up on another cushioned chair. He shooed away his helpers and gave himself over to a most delicious idleness. The fountain burbled soothingly. The trees in the tubs unfurled more fragrant flowers. A pair of little orange-and-black birds st.i.tched the air, bringing dry gra.s.s and twigs to build a nest tucked up in the carvings on one of the gallery's supporting posts. An ambitious litter of paper and pens lay forgotten on the small table at Cazaril's elbow as he watched them flit back and forth. scented fluid, closing cleanly, and the physician permitted Cazaril thin gruel for breakfast. This revived him enough to insist on being allowed out to sit in the spring sun of the courtyard. The expedition seemed to require an inordinate number of servants and helpers, but at last he was guided carefully down the stairs and into a chair lined with wool-padded and feather-stuffed cushions, with his feet propped up on another cushioned chair. He shooed away his helpers and gave himself over to a most delicious idleness. The fountain burbled soothingly. The trees in the tubs unfurled more fragrant flowers. A pair of little orange-and-black birds st.i.tched the air, bringing dry gra.s.s and twigs to build a nest tucked up in the carvings on one of the gallery's supporting posts. An ambitious litter of paper and pens lay forgotten on the small table at Cazaril's elbow as he watched them flit back and forth.

Dy Baocia's palace was very quiet, with its royal guests and its lord and lady all gone to Cardegoss. Cazaril therefore smiled with lazy delight when the wrought-iron gate under the end archway swung aside to admit Palli. The march had been a.s.signed by his new royina the dull task of keeping watch over her convalescent secretary while everyone else went off to the grand events in the capital, which seemed to Cazaril rather an unfair reward for Palli's valiant service. Palli had attended upon him so faithfully, Cazaril felt quite guilty for wishing Iselle might have spared Lady Betriz instead.

Palli, grinning, gave him a mock salute and seated himself on the fountain's edge. "Well, Castillar! You look better. Very vertical indeed. But what's this"-he gestured to the table-"work? Before they left yesterday your ladies charged me to enforce a very long list of things you were not to do, most of which you will be glad to know I have forgotten, but I'm sure work was high on it."

"No such thing," said Cazaril. "I was going to attempt some poetry after the manner of Behar, but then there were these birds...there goes one now." He paused to mark the orange-and-black flash. "People compliment birds for being great builders, but really, these two seem terribly clumsy. Perhaps they are young birds, and this is their first try. Persistent, though. Although I suppose if I was to attempt to build a hut using only my mouth, I would do no better. I should write a poem in praise of birds. If matter that gets up and walks about, like you, is miraculous, how much more marvelous is matter that gets up and flies!"

Palli's mouth quirked in bemus.e.m.e.nt. "Is this poetry or fever, Caz?"

"Oh, it is a great infection of poetry, a contagion of hymns. The G.o.ds delight in poets, you know. Songs and poetry, being of the same stuff as souls, can cross into their world almost unimpeded. Stone carvers, now...even the G.o.ds are in awe of stone carvers." He squinted in the sun and grinned back at Palli.

"Nevertheless," murmured Palli dryly, "one feels that your quatrain yesterday morning to Lady Betriz's nose was a tactical mistake."

"I was not not making fun of her!" Cazaril protested indignantly. "Was she still angry at me when she left?" making fun of her!" Cazaril protested indignantly. "Was she still angry at me when she left?"

"No, no, she wasn't angry! She was persuaded it was fever, and was very worried withal. If I were you, I'd claim it for fever."

"I could not write a poem to all of her just yet. I tried. Too overwhelming."

"Well, if you must scribble paeans to her body parts, pick lips. Lips are more romantic than noses."

"Why?" asked Cazaril. "Isn't every part of her an amazement?"

"Yes, but we kiss lips. We don't kiss noses. Normally. Men write poems to the objects of our desire in order to lure them closer."

"How practical. In that case, you'd think men would write more poems to ladies' private parts."