The Curse of Chalion   ::   Bujold Lois Mcmaster

I was wrong with my marriage scheme, wrong and determined to be so, because I was afraid. Your way seemed too hard. And yet it came right despite myself, in the end, by the Lady's grace."

She nodded. "I would have done it myself, if I could have. My sacrifice was evidently not deemed acceptable." Bitterness tinged her voice.

"It was not a matter of—that's not the reason," protested Cazaril. "Well, it is but it isn't. It has to do with the shape of your soul, not its worthiness. You have to make a cup of yourself, to receive that pouring out. You are a sword. You were always a sword. Like your mother and your daughter, too—steel spines run in the women of your family. I realize now why I never saw saints, before. The world does not crash upon their wills like waves upon a rock, or part around them like the wake of a ship. Instead they are supple, and swim through the world as silently as fishes."

Her brows rose at him, though whether in agreement, disagreement, or some polite irony he was not sure.

"Where will you go now?" he asked her. "Now that you are better, that is."

She shrugged. "My mother grows frail. I suppose we shall reverse chairs, and I shall attend upon her in the castle of Valenda as she attended upon me. I should prefer to go somewhere that I have never been before. Not Valenda, not Cardegoss. Someplace with no memories."

He could not argue with this. He thought on Umegat, not exactly her spiritual superior, but so experienced in loss and woe as to have recovery down to nearly a routine. Ista had yet another twenty years to find her way to a balance like that. At about the age Ista was now, retrieving the broken body of his friend from whatever episode of horrors had shattered him, perhaps Umegat had railed and wailed as heart-rendingly as she had, or cursed the gods as coldly as her frozen silences. "I shall have to have you meet my friend Umegat," he told Ista. "He was the saint given to preserve Orico. Ex-saint, now, as you and I are, too. I think... I think you and he could have some interesting conversations."

She opened her hand, warily, neither encouraging this idea nor denying its possibility. Cazaril resolved to pursue their introduction, later.

Attempting to turn her thoughts to happier matters, he asked after Iselle's coronation, which Ista and the proud and eager Provincara had arrived in Cardegoss just in time to attend. He'd so far asked some four or five people to describe it to him, but he hadn't grown tired of the accounts yet. She grew animated for a little, her delight in her daughter's victory softening her face and illuminating her eyes. The fate of Teidez lay between them untouched, as if by mutual assent. This was not the day to press those tender wounds, lest they break and bleed anew; some later, stronger hour would be time enough to speak of the lost boy.

At length, he bowed his head and made to bid her good day. Ista, suddenly urgent, leaned forward to touch him, for the first time, upon his hand.

"Bless me, Cazaril, before you go."

He was taken aback. "Lady, I am no more saint now than you are, and surely not a god, to call down blessings at my will." And yet... he wasn't a royesse, either, but he had borne the proxy for one to Ibra, and made binding contract in her name. Lady of Spring, if ever I served You, redeem Your debt to me now. He licked his lips. "But I will try."

He leaned forward, and placed his hand on Ista's white brow. He did not know where the words came from, but they rose to his lips nonetheless.

"This is a true prophecy, as true as yours ever were. When the souls rise up in glory, yours shall not be shunned nor sundered, but shall be the prize of the gods' gardens. Even your darkness shall be treasured then, and all your pain made holy."

He sat back and shut his mouth abruptly, as a surge of terror ran through him. Is it well, is it ill, am I a fool?

Ista's eyes filled with tears that did not fall. Her hand, cupped upward upon her knee, grew still. She ducked her head in clumsy acceptance, as awkwardly as a child taking its first step. In a shaken voice she said, "You do that very well, Cazaril, for a man who claims to be an amateur."

He swallowed, nodded back, smiled, took his leave, and fled into the street. As he turned up the hill, his stride lengthened despite the slope. His ladies would be waiting.