Ista readjusted a blanket and leaned against the bark of the tree. The gnarled bole must be five hundred years old. Had this village stood here that long? It seemed so. Chalionese, Ibran, a number of Roknari principalities, Chalionese again…its masters had passed over it like tides across a strand, and yet still it remained, and carried on. For the first time in days Ista could feel her body start to really relax, in the safety of this calm hour, in the continuity of centuries. She allowed her eyes to close, just for a little.
Her thoughts grew formless, drifting on the edge of dreams. Something about running about the castle of Valenda, or possibly the Zangre, and arguing about clothes that did not fit. Flying birds. A chamber in a castle, candlelit.
Arhys’s face, crumpled in dismay. His mouth opened in an O of shock, his hands reaching out in horror as he stumbled forward. He uttered a hoarse noise, between a grunt and a cry, rising to a wail of woe.
Ista shot awake, her breath drawing in, the cry still seeming to ring in her ears. She sat up and stared around, her heart beating rapidly. The acolyte slept on. Some men sat in the shade across the grove near the horse lines, playing at a game of cards. Others slept. No one else seemed to have heard the shocking sound; no heads turned toward Arhys’s tent. The servant was gone from his place before its entrance.
It was a dream…wasn’t it? And yet it had too much density, too much clarity; it stood out from the mind-waverings that had preceded it like a stone in a stream. She forced herself to lean back again, but her ease did not return. Tight bands seemed to circle her chest, constricting her breath.
Very quietly, she put out a hand and rose to her feet. No one was watching her just now. She slipped across the few yards of sunlight between her tree and the next, and back into the shade. She paused at the tent door. If he was asleep, what excuse would she give for waking him? If awake and, say, dressing, what reason for barging in upon his privacy?
I must know.
Ista lifted the tent flap and stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the shadows. The tent’s pale fabric, thin enough that she could see the narrow shadows of the olive leaves moving on the roof, glowed with the light outside, which glinted also through half a hundred pinholes.
“Lord Arhys? Lord Arhys, I…” Her whisper died.
Arhys’s tunic and boots were folded on a blanket on the right. He lay faceup on a low camp cot on her left, covered only with a light linen sheet, his head near the door. A thin braid of gray-and-black cloth was bound about his upper arm, next to the skin, marking some private prayer to the Father of Winter.
His lids were closed, gray. He was unmoving, flesh pale and translucent as wax. Leaking through the linen over his left breast, a splotch of bright red burned.
Ista’s breath stopped, choking her scream. She dropped to her knees beside the cot. Five gods, he is assassinated! But how? No one had entered this tent since the servant had come out. Had the servant fatally betrayed his master? Was he some Roknari spy? Her trembling hand flicked back the sheet.
The wound beneath his left breast gaped like a small, dark mouth. Blood oozed slowly from it. A dagger thrust, perhaps, angled up into the heart. Does he yet live? She pressed her hand to that mouth and felt its sticky kiss upon her palm, desperate for some thump or flutter to show his heart yet beat. She couldn’t tell. Dare she lay her ear to his chest?
A hideous flash of memory burned through her mind’s eye, of her long, lean dream-man, and the red tide of blood welling up between her fingers in a flood. She snatched her hand away.
I have seen this wound before. She could feel her own pulse racing, beating in her neck and face, drumming in her ears. Her head felt stuffed with cotton batting.
It was the right wound, she would swear to it, exact in every detail. But it was on the wrong man.
Gods, gods, gods, what is this terror?
Even as she watched, his lips parted. His bare chest rose in a long inhalation. Starting from the edges, the wound slowly pressed closed, the dark slit paling, tightening. Smoothing. In a moment, it was only a faint pink scar ringed by a drying dapple of maroon. He exhaled in a light moan, stirring.
Ista scrambled to her feet, her right hand clenching around its stickiness. With a breathless stride, she slipped through the tent flap and stood blinking in the afternoon. Her face felt bloodless. The shaded grove seemed to spin before her eyes. She walked quickly around to the back of the tent, sheltering between it and the great, thick olive bole, out of view for a moment while she caught her breath. She heard the cot creak, movement on the other side of those opaque fabric walls, a sigh. She opened her right palm and stared down at the carmine smear across it.
I do not understand.
In another minute or two, she felt she could walk again without stumbling, breathe without screaming, and hold her face still and closed. She made her way back to her seat and plunked down. The acolyte stirred and sat up. “Royina? Oh, is it time to ride on already?”
“I think so,” said Ista. Her voice, she was pleased to note, came out without tremor or upward slide. “Lord Arhys arises… I see.”
He pushed the flap aside and stepped out; he had to bend his head to do so. He had his boots on again. He straightened, his fingers fastening the last frog of his tunic. His unstained, unpierced tunic. He stretched, and scratched his beard, and smiled around, the very picture of a man arising from a refreshing post-luncheon nap. Except that he had eaten nothing…
His servant scurried back, to help him pull tabard and sword baldric over his head. The little man supplied a light gray linen vest-cloak as well, elaborately embroidered with gold thread on the margins, and adjusted the hang to a pleasantly lordly swing about Arhys’s calves. A lazy-voiced order or two sent his people to work making their cavalcade ready for the road once more.
The acolyte rose to gather her things and pack them away. Ferda passed by, heading for the horse lines. Ista softly called him to her side.
She stared away. In a deliberately uninflected voice, she said to him, “Ferda. Look into my right palm and tell me what you see.”
He bent over her hand, straightened. “Blood! My lady, did you take an injury? I’ll fetch the acolyte—”
“Thank you, I am unhurt. I merely wished to know…if you saw what I saw. That’s all. Carry on, please.” She wiped her hand upon the blankets and extended her other arm for him to help her to her feet. She added after a moment, “Do not speak of this.”
His lips pursed in puzzlement, but he saluted and continued on his way.
The second portion of the ride was much shorter than Ista had expected, a mere five miles or so up over the next ridge and into a somewhat wider watercourse. The road switched back and forth a few times, angling down the steep slope, then ran beside the little river. Arhys moved up and down along the column, but fetched up toward the end by her side and Ferda’s. “Look, there.” He pointed ahead, an expansive wave. “Castle Porifors.”
Another walled village, much larger than the last, nestled by the stream at the foot of a tall rocky outcrop. Along the outcrop’s crown, commanding a long view of the valley, an irregular array of rectangular walls loomed, broken only sparingly by round towers. The blank walls, pierced by arrow slits and capped by crenellations, were of fine-cut stone, palest gold in the liquid light. Elaborate twining carvings, running in bands of contrasting bright white stone around the walls, marked it as the best Roknari masonry work of a few generations back, when Porifors had been built to guard Jokona from Chalion and Ibra.
Arhys’s upturned face held a strange expression for a moment, drinking in the sight, at once eager and tense, longing and reluctant. And for the briefest, lid-squeezed flash, weary beyond measure. But he then turned to Ista with a more open smile. “Come, Royina! We’re almost there.”
More of the baggage train split off at the village, and most of the soldiers. Arhys led his remaining troop and Ferda’s past those lesser walls and up a narrower road, single file, winding across the slope. Green bushes clung dizz
ily to the rocks with roots like grasping fingers. The horses’ haunches bunched and flexed, pushing them up the last breathless incline. Cries of greeting rang down from above, echoing off the boulders. Had they been attackers, arrows and stones would have fallen on their heads just as readily.
The cavalcade circled the walls and approached a drawbridge lowered over a sharp natural cleft in the rocks, its downward plunge adding another twenty or so free feet to the wall’s height. Arhys, now at the head of his troop, waved and gave a great whoop, then cantered his horse through the archway with a clatter like a drumroll.
Ista followed at a saner pace, to find herself in what seemed a sudden other world, a garden gone amok. The rectangular entry court was lined with big pots of blooming flowers and succulent shrubs. One open wall was covered with an array of more pots, secured in wrought-iron rings driven into the walls, exploding with color—purple, white, red, blue, searing pink—dripping with green vines trailing down over the pale severe stone. A second wall boasted an espaliered apricot tree, grown immense across it, twining with an equally ancient almond, both in bloom. At the far end of the court, an arcade of harmonious stone pillars held up a balcony. A delicately carved staircase descended like a white alabaster waterfall into the court.
A tall young woman, her face glowing with joy, fairly flew down the stairs. Black hair was braided up from her temples, framing her rose-tinted ivory features, but was freed to ripple like flowing silk over her shoulders. Light linens graced her slim body, and a pale green silk robe with wide gilt-edged sleeves fluttered about her, billowing like a sail as she descended. Arhys jumped from his dappled horse and flung his reins to a groom barely in time to open his arms to the impact of her frantic, fragrant embrace. “My lord, my lord! Five gods be praised, you are come back safe!”
The young soldier had appeared at Ista’s horse’s head and stood ready to help her dismount, but his head turned to mark this play with open, if tolerantly amused, envy in his eyes.
“What an incredibly lovely young woman,” Ista said. “I did not realize Lord Arhys had a daughter.”
He managed to look back around to her, and hurried to hold her stirrup. “Oh, my lord’s daughter does not live here, Royina…”
She came about from her dismount, upright on her feet, as Arhys strode up to her, the young woman clinging to his arm.
“Royina Ista,” said Arhys, breathless with pride and a long kiss. “May I have the pleasure and honor of presenting to you my wife, Cattilara dy Lutez, Marchess of Porifors.”
The black-haired young woman dipped in a curtsey of surpassing gracefulness. “Dowager Royina. My household is honored beyond all deserving by your presence here. I hope I may do everything possible to make your sojourn with my lord and myself a memorable delight.”
“Five gods give you a good day, Lady of Porifors,” Ista choked. “I’m sure you shall.”
CHAPTER TEN
FLANKED BY TWO SMILING LADIES-IN-WAITING, THE YOUNG marchess led Ista through a cool, dim archway under the balcony and into an inner court. Ferda and Ista’s medical acolyte followed less certainly, until gestured forward by Lord Arhys. The courtyard was graced by a small marble pool in the shape of a star, its water bright, and more pots of succulents and flowers. Lady Cattilara darted up the stairway to the second-floor gallery and paused to wait, staring in concern as the acolyte helped Ista labor upward on her sore legs. Ferda hurried to lend his arm. Ista grimaced in mingled gratitude and annoyance.
Their footsteps echoed on the boards toward a corner where a short tower loomed, until Lord Arhys stopped abruptly. “Catti, no! Not these chambers, surely!”
Lady Cattilara paused outside the carved double doors her woman had been about to open, and smiled back at Arhys in uncertainty. “My lord? They are the best rooms of the house—we cannot offer the dowager royina less!”
Arhys strode to her side, lowered his voice, and said through his teeth, “Have some sense!”
“But they are swept and garnished for her—”
“No, Catti!”
She stared up at him in dismay. “I—I’m sorry, my lord. I’ll… I’ll think of something. Else.”
“Five gods, please you do,” he snapped back, exasperation leaking into face and voice. With an effort, he recovered an expression of bland welcome.
Lady Cattilara turned, smiling stiffly. “Royina Ista. Won’t you…come to my rooms to rest and refresh yourself before dinner? Just this way…”
She eased back past them, and they all reversed direction toward a similar set of doors on the opposite end of the gallery. Ista found herself, briefly, next to Arhys.
“What is the problem with the chambers?” she asked.
“The roof leaks,” he growled after a moment.
Ista cast a look at the bright blue, cloudless sky. “Oh.”
The men were excluded at these new doors.
“Shall I bring your things here, then, Royina?” asked Ferda.
Ista glanced apprehensively at Arhys.
“Yes, for now,” he answered, apparently finding this other, if temporary, lodging more acceptable. “Come, dy Gura, I’ll show you and your men to your quarters. You will wish to see to your horses, of course.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Ferda gave Ista a parting salute and followed Arhys back down the stairs.
Ista entered the chamber past the lady-in-waiting, who had paused to hold the door open for her. The woman smiled and bobbed a curtsey.
Ista felt an immediate sense of ease from having come at last to what were obviously a woman’s private quarters. A softened light filtered through elaborate lattices at the narrow windows on the far wall. Wall hangings, and vases of cut flowers, brightened the austere whitewashed angles. A door, closed, gave interior access to some adjoining chamber, and Ista wondered if it was Arhys’s. The walls were crowded with chests, variously carved, inlaid, or ironbound; Cattilara’s women whisked away piles of clothing and other evidences of disorder, and set a feather-stuffed cushion on one such trunk for Ista to rest upon. Ista glanced through the lattices, which gave a view onto the roof of another inner court, and settled her aching body down gingerly.
“What a pleasant room,” Ista remarked, to allay Lady Cattilara’s obvious awkwardness at having her refuge so suddenly invaded.
Cattilara smiled in gratitude. “My household is anxious to honor you at our table, but I thought perhaps you would wish to wash and rest, first.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Ista fervently.
The acolyte ducked a curtsey at the castle’s chatelaine, and said firmly, “And it please you, lady, the royina should have her dressings changed as well.”
Cattilara blinked. “You are injured? My lord did not say, in his letter…”
“Some minor scrapes. But yes, wash and rest, before all.” Ista had no intention of neglecting her hurts. Her son Teidez had died, it was said, of an unattended injury upon his leg scarcely worse than a scratch, which had taken a febrile infection. Ista suspected complicating factors beyond the natural; prayers the boy had certainly had poured upon him, but they had gone unanswered.
Lady Cattilara cast off her moment of discomfort in a flurry of activity, ordering her ladies and her maids to these practicalities. Tea and dried fruit and bread were offered, basins and a hip bath trundled in, and water carried up; the acolyte and Cattilara’s women tended not only Ista’s body but washed her hair as well. By the time these welcome ablutions were concluded, and Ista rewrapped in borrowed robes, her hostess was quite cheerful again.
Under her direction, the ladies carried in armloads of garments for Ista’s inspection, and Cattilara opened her jewel cases.
“My lord said you had lost all your belongings to the Jokonans,” Cattilara said breathlessly. “I beg you to accept whatever of mine may please you.”
“As my journey was intended as a pilgrimage, I actually carried but little, and so it was but little loss,” said Ista. “The gods spared me my men; all else may be repaired.”
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“It sounded a terrible ordeal,” said Cattilara. She had gasped in consternation when the acolyte had uncovered the admittedly ugly lesions on Ista’s knees.
“The Jokonans had it worse, in the end, thanks to your lord and his men.”
Cattilara glowed with pleasure at this oblique commendation of the march. “Is he not fine? I fell madly in love with him from the first moment I saw him, riding into the gates of Oby with my father one autumn day. My father is the march of Oby—the greatest fortress in Caribastos, bar the provincar’s own seat.”
Ista’s lips quirked. “I grant you, Lord Arhys on horseback makes a most striking first impression.”
Cattilara burbled on, “He looked so splendid, but so sad. His first wife had died in childbed, oh, years before, when his little daughter Liviana was born, and it was said he did not look at other women after her. I was but fourteen. My father said I was too young, and it was only a girl’s infatuation, but I proved him wrong. Three years did I campaign with my father for my lord’s favor, and I won such a prize!”
Indeed. “Have you been wedded long?”
“Almost four years, now.” She smiled in pride.
“Children?”
Her face fell, and the volume of her voice. “Not yet.”
“Well,” said Ista, in an effort to bridge this unexpected chasm of secret woe that flashed so plainly in the girl’s face, “you are indeed young…let us see these garments.”
Ista’s heart sank, contemplating Cattilara’s offerings. The marchess’s tastes ran to bright, airy, fluttering confections that doubtless flattered her tall slenderness exceedingly well. Ista suspected they would make her own short body look like a dwarf dragging a curtain. Her mouth sought less blunt excuses. “I am still in mourning for the recent death of my lady mother, alas. And my pilgrimage, though most rudely interrupted by those Jokonan raiders, is far from concluded. Perhaps something in the colors proper to my grief…?”