“I should be perfectly content to retain officer-dedicat, Royina,” Foix put in hastily, sounding slightly alarmed, then narrowing his eyes in suspicion at her primly pursed lips.
“I shall find you the work first, and the title later, then,” she said. “You’ll need something to swagger with, when we visit other courts, to keep up the expected royal hauteur on my behalf.”
A grin flitted over his mouth. “As you command, Royina.”
They turned into the stone court and mounted to the gallery; Ista controlled a shiver, passing up the steps on which she’d once faced a god. From the open door of her double chamber, a familiar but unexpected voice floated.
“She doesn’t want you,” Lady dy Hueltar said severely. “She doesn’t need you. I am here now, and I assure you, I am far better acquainted with all her requirements than you will ever be. So just you run along back to the stables, or wherever you came from. Out, out!”
“Madam, it cannot be so,” said Liss in a puzzled tone.
Foix’s brows climbed, then drew back down, darkly. Ista motioned him to patience and shouldered within, the men following.
“What is this argument?” Ista inquired.
Colored spots flared on Lady dy Hueltar’s cheeks; she hesitated, then drew in her breath. “I was just explaining to this rude girl here that now you are done with that rash pilgrimage, dear Ista, you will be requiring a more befitting lady-in-waiting again. Not a girl groom.”
“On the contrary, I need Liss very much.”
“She isn’t suited to be lady-in-waiting to a royina. She’s not even a lady!”
Liss scratched her head. “Well, that’s true enough. I’m not much good at waiting, either. I’m better at riding very fast.”
Ista smiled. “Indeed.” Her smile tightened a little, as she considered the scene she’d interrupted. Had Lady dy Hueltar actually imagined she might trick or drive Liss off, send her away believing herself dismissed?
Lady dy Hueltar made a little nervous gesture, under Ista’s cool gaze. “Now that you are calmer, Lady Ista, surely it is time we began to think of returning safely to Valenda. Your good brother here will lend us a more adequate escort for the return journey, I’m sure.”
“I’m not going back to Valenda. I’m going to follow the army into Jokona to hunt demons for the Bastard,” said Ista. “Safety has little to do with the god’s chores.” Her lips curved up, but it was scarcely a smile anymore. “Has no one explained anything to you yet, dear Lady dy Hueltar?”
“I did,” said Liss. “Several times.” She lowered her voice to Ista. “It’s all right. I had a great-aunt who grew very confused in her age like this, poor thing.”
“I am not,” Lady dy Hueltar began in rising tones, then stopped. She started again. “It’s much too dangerous. I beg you to reconsider, dear Ista. My lord dy Baocia—as the head of the family now, it’s your place to insist she be more sensible!”
“Actually,” Ista noted, “he’s been head of the family for a decade and a half.”
Dy Baocia snorted, and muttered under his breath, “Aye—anyplace in Baocia but Valenda…”
Ista took Lady dy Hueltar’s hand and set it firmly on her brother’s arm. “I’m sure you’re very tired, dear lady, to have ridden so far, so fast, for so little need. But my brother will see you safely on your way back home tomorrow—or possibly tonight.”
“I have already moved my things here—”
Ista cast an eye at the piles of luggage. “The servants will move them back. I will speak with you more later, dy Baocia.” With a few more not terribly gentle hints, Ista maneuvered them both out the door. Her last hope of support from dy Baocia failing, Lady dy Hueltar moved off with him in a cloud of mutual exasperation, looking very crushed.
“Where did that woman come from?” Foix asked, shaking his head in wonder.
“I inherited her.”
“My condolences.”
“She’ll be all right. My brother will find some other corner of the family to tuck her into; it won’t please her as well as a higher household, but perhaps she’ll get some satisfaction out of parading her former glories. She doesn’t batten, you know; in certain narrow ways, she makes herself quite useful. It is sad, though, that she herself destroys the gratitude that ought to be her reward.”
Foix glanced at Liss, whose face was a trifle set. He said, “I find my gratitude quite limited, I’m afraid.”
Liss tossed her braid. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Was she trying to convince you that I’d dismissed you?” asked Ista.
“Oh, yes. It made her quite cross when I played the fool and failed to take her hints.” Liss’s mouth twitched up, then down. “It’s true, though. I’m not a proper highborn lady.”
Ista smiled. “I expect we shall rendezvous with Iselle and Bergon’s court before the year is up—in Visping, if not sooner. At which point, by my request and your valiancy, a lady you shall be made in fact—Sera Annaliss dy…what was the name of that sheep-infested village, again?”
Liss breathed, “Teneret, Royina.”
“Sera Annaliss dy Teneret, lady-in-waiting to the Dowager Royina Ista. Sounds very dignified, don’t you think, Foix?”
He grinned. “Aye—I think m’mother will like it quite well. Well, Bastard knows I’ve got to offer something, now, to make it up to her for, er, the Bastard.”
“Ah, you aspire to some social climbing, do you? Well, it’s not impossible; this year will offer young officers many opportunities for advancement, I suspect.”
Foix swept Liss a courtier’s bow. “May I aspire, lady?”
Liss eyed him with smiling speculation, and drifted across the chamber to start putting Ista’s things in order. “Ask again in Visping, dedicat.”
“I shall.”
ISTA HAD DY CABON BRING GORAM TO HER IN THE STONE COURT. SHE sat in the colonnade’s shade on the bench where they had first spoken, and studied the differences.
Goram dy Hixar’s clothing was still that of the groom, his figure still short, his legs still bowed, his beard still grizzled. But he had lost the turtle hunch; he moved now with a swordsman’s balance. And tension. His polite bow was supple enough for any provincial court.
“Learned dy Cabon has told you, I think, of my need for a master of horse, yes?” Ista began.
“Yes, Royina.” Dy Hixar cleared his throat, uncomfortably, and swallowed his spit in her presence. Goram, she thought, would have let the gobbet fly.
“Can you undertake the task?”
He grimaced. “The work, aye. But Royina… I’m not sure if you understand who I was. Am. Why I was not ransomed.”
She shrugged. “Captain of horse, swordsman, bravo, quondam murderer, destroyer of lives—not just of enemies’, but friends’—shall I go on? The sort of fellow whose funeral’s orations are all on the theme of Well, that’s a relief.”
He winced. “I see I need not confess to you.”
“No. I saw.”
He looked away. “All my sins delivered…it’s a strange, strange thing, Royina. The lifting of one’s sins is usually considered a miracle of the gods. But your god has brought all mine back to me. Goram the groom…was a hundred times better a man than Goram dy Hixar will ever be. I was a blank slate, brought—saved, for no merit of mine—to live for three years with the two best men in Caribastos. Not just best swordsmen—best men, you understand?”
She nodded.
“I scarcely knew such lives were possible, before. Nor wanted to know. I would have mocked their virtues, and laughed. Lord Illvin thought I was overwhelmed with joy when I fell to my knees before you in the forecourt. It wasn’t joy that knocked me down. It was shame.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be…who I am. I was happier before, Royina. But everyone thinks I should be praying my thanks.”
She returned him an ironic smile. “Be sure, I am not one of them. But—your soul is your own, now, to make of what you will. We are all of us, ever
y one, our own works; we present our souls to our Patrons at the ends of our lives as an artisan presents the works of his hands.”
“If it is so, I am too marred, Royina.”
“You are unfinished. They are discerning Patrons, but not, I think, impossible to please. The Bastard said to me, from His own lips—”
Dy Cabon’s breath drew in.
“—that the gods did not desire flawless souls, but great ones. I think that very darkness is where the greatness grows from, as flowers from the soil. I am not sure, in fact, if greatness can bloom without it. You have been as god-touched as any here; do not despair of yourself, for I think the gods have not.”
The dim gray eyes reddened, edged with water’s gleam. “I am too old to start over.”
“You have more years ahead of you now than Pejar, half your age, whom we buried outside these walls these two days past. Stand before his grave and use your gift of breath to complain of your limited time. If you dare.”
He jerked a little at the steel in her voice.
“I offer you an honorable new beginning. I do not guarantee its ending. Attempts fail, but not as certainly as tasks never attempted.”
He vented a long exhalation. “Then…that being so, and knowing what you know of me—which is, I think, more than ever I confessed to anyone, living or dead—I am your man if you will have me, Royina.”
“Thank you, Captain: I shall. As my master of horse, you will take your instructions from my seneschal. I think you will find him a tolerable commander.”
Goram smiled a little at that, and saluted her farewell.
Dy Cabon stood by her a moment, watching him exit the court. His face was troubled.
“Well, Learned? How do you feel about your witnessing now?”
He sighed. “You know, this god-touched business wasn’t as much…um…as much pleasure as I thought it would be, back in Valenda when we started. I was terribly excited, in secret, to be picked out to do the god’s work.”
“I did try to tell you, back in Casilchas.”
“Yes. I think I understand better, now.”
“My court is going to need a divine, too, you know. As I am to become a lay dedicat of the Bastard’s Order, of a sort, I think you might suit me very well. We will likely be riding into the Five Princedoms. If you truly aspire to martyrdom, as your early sermons to me implied, you may still have a chance.”
He blushed deeply. “Five gods, but those were stupid sermons.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll be glad to forgo the martyr part. As for the rest, though—I will say you yes, Royina, with a glad heart. Even though I’ve had no dreams directing me. Well, especially as I’ve had no dreams directing me. Not so sure I want them, anymore.” He hesitated, and added with a wholly inconsistent longing in his voice, “You did say—you did see Him face-to-face, in your dreams? Your real dreams?”
“Yes.” Ista smiled. “Once, He borrowed your face to speak through. It appears that Someone thinks you not unworthy to wear His colors, Learned, to wear in turn the semblance of your flesh.”
“Oh.” Dy Cabon blinked, taking this in. “Is that so? Really? My goodness.” He blinked some more. When he took his leave of her, his mouth was still tugging up.
IN THE EVENING AFTER SUPPER, WHEN THE SUN HAD SET AND WHITE stars were coming out in the cobalt sky above the stone court, Lord Illvin climbed the stairs and knocked on Ista’s door. Liss admitted him to the outer chamber with a friendly dip of her knees. With a look of extreme bemusement on his face, he held out his hands to Ista.
“Look. I found these growing on the apricot tree in the forecourt, as I was passing through just now.”
Liss peered. “They’re apricots. Makes sense that’s where they’d be…doesn’t it?” She hesitated.
The fruits were large and deeply colored, with a faint red blush upon their dark golden skins. Ista, bending to look, flared her nostrils at their heavy perfume. “They smell lovely.”
“Yes, but…it is not the season. My mother planted that tree when I was born, and the almond for Arhys. I know when they’re supposed to come ripe, I’ve watched them all my life. Not for months yet. There are still a few blossoms that haven’t fallen, though half the leaves are gone. These two were hiding amongst the few that held on—I saw them by chance.”
“How do they taste?”
“I was a little afraid to bite into them.”
Ista smiled. “Out of season they may be, but I think they are not a disaster. I think they may be a gift. It will be all right.” She pushed open the door of her inner chamber with one foot. “Come in. Let us try them.”
“Um,” said Liss. “I can stay in sight, if you leave the door open, but I don’t think I can get out of earshot.”
Ista gave Illvin a tilt of her head, toward the inner door. “Excuse us a moment.”
A little smile turning his mouth, he gave her a courtly nod and passed within. Ista pulled the door shut behind him, briefly, and turned to Liss. “I don’t think I have explained to you yet about the other set of rules for discreet ladies-in-waiting…”
She did so, in clear, succinct, but on the whole polite terms. Liss’s eyes grew bright as the stars outside, as she listened attentively. Ista was relieved, though not surprised, that Liss seemed neither confused nor shocked. Ista hadn’t quite expected enthusiastic, however. She found herself swept within, and the door firmly closed behind her, almost before she’d finished speaking.
“I think I shall go sit on the steps a while, dear Royina,” Liss’s voice called back faintly through the wood. “It’s cooler. I think I shall like to sit out for quite a long time.” Ista heard the outer door close, as well.
Illvin’s eyes were crinkling with silent laughter. He held out one of the fruits to her; she took it, her hand jerking a little when her fingers accidentally brushed his. “Well,” he said, raising his to his lips. “Let us both be brave, then…”
She matched his bite. The apricot tasted as wonderful as it looked and smelled, and despite her attempts at daintiness, she ended with juice dribbling down her chin. She dabbed at it. “Oh, dear…”
“Here,” he said, moving closer, “let me help you…”
The kiss lasted quite a long time, with his apricot-scented fingers winding pleasurably in her hair. When they paused for breath, she remarked, “I always feared it would take divine intervention to find me a lover… I do believe I was right.”
“Tch, tch, look at yourself, bittersweet Ista. Saint, sorceress, dowager royina of all Chalion-Ibra, converses with gods, when not cursing them—a man would have to be maniacally intrepid to even think of you in that rude way… This is good. It will cut down on my rivals.”
She couldn’t help it; she giggled. She heard herself, and laughed, in wonder, in joy, in huge surprise. He tasted her laughter, too, as though it were miraculous apricots.
And I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to do this.
He’d looked tall and splendid, in the long sweep of black tunic and trousers and boots, but he looked even better out of them, she thought, as she pulled him down beside her on her bed. The warm night demanded neither sheets nor blankets. She left a brace of candles burning, the better to see the god’s gifts.
Also by
LOIS MCMASTER BUJOLD
The Spirit Ring
Falling Free
Shards of Honor
Barrayar
The Warrior’s Apprentice
The Vor Game
Cetaganda
Ethan of Athos
Borders of Infinity
Brothers in Arms
Mirror Dance
Memory
Komarr
A Civil Campaign
Diplomatic Immunity
The Curse of Chalion
Paladin of Souls
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coinc
idental.
THE HALLOWED HUNT. Copyright © 2005 by Lois McMaster Bujold. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.
HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department, HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.
FIRST EDITION
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Printed on acid-free paper
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bujold, Lois McMaster.
The hallowed hunt: a novel / Lois McMaster Bujold.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-06-057462-3
1. Kings and rulers—Succession—Fiction. 2 Rites and ceremonies—Fiction. 3. Animal sacrifice—Fiction. 4. Rape victims—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.U397H35 2005
813'.54—dc22
2004061936
* * *
05 06 07 08 09 JTC/QWF 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CHAPTER ONE
THE PRINCE WAS DEAD.
Since the king was not, no unseemly rejoicing dared show in the faces of the men atop the castle gate. Merely, Ingrey thought, a furtive relief. Even that was extinguished as they watched Ingrey’s troop of riders clatter under the gate’s vaulting into the narrow courtyard. They recognized who he was—and, therefore, who must have sent him.
Ingrey’s sweat grew clammy under his leather jerkin in the damp dullness of the autumn morning. The chill seemed cupped within the cobbled yard, funneled down by the whitewashed walls. The lightly armed courier bearing the news had raced from the prince’s hunting seat here at Boar’s Head Castle to the hallow king’s hall at Easthome in just two days. Ingrey and his men, though more heavily equipped, had made the return journey in scarcely more time. As a castle groom scurried to take his horse’s bridle, Ingrey swung down and straightened his scabbard, fingers lingering only briefly on the reassuring coolness of his sword hilt.