Lady Betriz brought him a glass of watered wine, nodding at his grateful thanks. Cazaril felt he could guess who had taken the thought to have the hot water and servants and food and clothes waiting ready for him. Her fresh skin glowed golden in the candlelight, smooth and youthful, but her somber dress and pulled-back hair lent her an unexpectedly mature elegance. An ardent energy, on the verge of moving into power and wisdom . . .
“How did you leave things in Valenda, do you think?” Cazaril asked her.
Her smile sobered. “Tense. But we hope with Iselle drawn out, it will grow less so. Surely dy Jironal will not dare offer violence to the widow and mother-in-law of Roya Ias?”
“Mm, not as his first move. In desperation, anything becomes possible.”
“That’s true. Or at least, people stop arguing with you about what’s possible and what’s not.”
Cazaril considered the young women’s wild night ride that had flipped their tactical situation so abruptly topside-to. “How did you get away?”
“Well, dy Jironal had apparently expected us all to cower in the castle, intimidated by his show of arms. You can imagine how that sat with the old Provincara. His women spies watched Iselle all the time, but not me. I took Nan and we went about the town, doing little domestic errands for the household, and observing. His men’s defenses all faced outward, prepared to repel would-be rescuers. And no one could keep us from going to the temple, where Lord dy Palliar stayed, to pray for Orico’s health.” Her smile dimpled. “We became very pious, for a time.” The dimple faded. “Then the Provincara got word, I don’t know through what source, that the chancellor had dispatched his younger son with a troop of his House cavalry to secure Iselle and bring her in haste back to Cardegoss, because Orico was dying. Which may be true, for all we know, but all the better reason not to place herself in dy Jironal’s hands. So escape became urgent, and it was done.”
Palli had drifted over to listen; dy Baocia strolled up to join them.
Cazaril gave dy Baocia a nod. “Your lady mother wrote me of promises of support from your fellow provincars. Have you gained any more assurances?”
Dy Baocia rattled off a list of names of men he had written to, or heard from. It was not as long as Cazaril would have liked.
“Thus words. What of troops?”
Dy Baocia shrugged. “Two of my neighbors have promised more material support to Iselle, at need. They don’t relish the sight of the chancellor’s personal troops occupying one of my towns any more than I do. The third—well, he’s married to one of dy Jironal’s daughters. He sits tight for the moment, saying as little as possible to anyone.”
“Understandable. Where is dy Jironal now, does anyone know?”
“In Cardegoss, we think,” said Palli. “The Daughter’s military order still remains without a holy general. Dy Jironal feared to absent himself for long from Orico’s side lest dy Yarrin get in and persuade Orico to his party. Orico himself is hanging by a thread, dy Yarrin reports secretly to me. Sick, but not, I think, witless; the roya seems to be using his own illness to delay decision, trying to offend no one.”
“Sounds very like him.” Cazaril fingered his beard and glanced up at dy Baocia. “Speaking of the Temple’s soldiers, how large a force of the Brother’s Order is stationed in Taryoon?”
“Just a company, about two hundred men,” the provincar answered. “We are not garrisoned heavily like Guarida or other of the provinces bordering the Roknari princedoms.”
That was two hundred men inside Taryoon’s walls, Cazaril reflected.
Dy Baocia read his look. “The archdivine will have speech with their commander later tonight. I think the marriage treaty will do much to persuade him that the new Heiress is loyal to, ah, the future of Chalion.”
“Still, they do have their oaths of obedience,” murmured Palli. “It would be preferable not to strain them to breaking.”
Cazaril considered riding times and distances. “Word of Iselle’s flight from Valenda will surely have reached Cardegoss by now. News of Bergon’s arrival must follow on its heels. At that point dy Jironal will see the regency he counted upon slipping through his fingers.”
Dy Baocia smiled in elation. “At that point, it will be over. Events are moving much faster than he—or indeed, anyone—could have anticipated.” The sidelong look he cast Cazaril tinged respect with awe.
“Better that way,” said Cazaril. “He must not be pricked into making moves he cannot later back away from.” If two sides, both cursed, struck against each other in civil war, it was perfectly possible for both sides to lose. It would be the perfect culmination of the Golden General’s death gift for all of Chalion to collapse in upon itself in such agony. Winning consisted of finessing the struggle so as to avert bloodshed. Although when Bergon moved Iselle out of the shadow, it would presumably leave poor Orico still in it, and dy Jironal sharing his nominal master’s fate . . . And what of Ista, then? “Bluntly, much depends upon when the roya dies. He could linger, you know.” The curse would surely twist Orico toward whatever fate was most ghastly. This would seem a more reliable guide if there were not so very many ways disasters could play out. Umegat’s menagerie had been averting, Cazaril realized, a deal more evil than just ill health. “Looking ahead, we must consider what sops to offer to Chancellor dy Jironal’s pride—both before Iselle’s ascent to the royacy, and after.”
“I don’t think he’ll be content with sops, Caz,” Palli objected. “He’s been roya of Chalion in all but name for over a decade.”
“Then surely he must be getting tired,” sighed Cazaril. “Some plums to his sons would soften him. Family loyalty is his weakness, his blind side.” Or so the curse suggested, which deformed all virtue to an obverse vice. “Ease him out, but show favor to his clan . . . pull his teeth slowly and gently, and it’s done.” He glanced up at Betriz, listening intently; yes, she could be counted on to report this debate to Iselle, later.
In the other chamber, Iselle and Bergon rose. She laid her hand on his proffered arm, and they both stole shy glances at their partner; two persons looking more pleased with each other, Cazaril was hard put to imagine. Although when Iselle entered the reception room with her fiancé and glanced around triumphantly at the assembled company, she looked quite as pleased with herself. Bergon’s pride had a slightly more dazzled air, though he spared Cazaril, scrambling up from his seat, a reassuringly determined nod.
“The Heiress of Chalion,” said Iselle, and paused.
“And the Heir of Ibra,” Bergon put in.
“Are pleased to announce that we will take our marriage oaths,” Iselle continued, “before the gods, our noble Ibran guests, and the people of this town . . .”
“In the temple of Taryoon at noon upon the day after tomorrow,” Bergon finished.
The little crowd broke into cheers and congratulations. And, Cazaril had no doubt, calculations of the speed at which a column of enemy troops might ride; to which the answer worked out, Not that fast. United and mutually strengthened, the two young leaders could move at need thereafter in close coordination. Once Iselle was married out from under the curse, time was on their side. Every day would gain them more support. Unstrung by the most profound relief, Cazaril sank back into his chair, grinning with the pain of the anguished cramp in his gut.
Chapter 25
In a palace frantic with preparations, Cazaril found himself the next day the only man with nothing to do. Iselle had arrived in Taryoon with little more than the clothes she rode in; all of Cazaril’s correspondence and books of her chambers were still in Cardegoss. When he attempted to wait upon her and inquire what duties she desired of him, he found her rooms crammed with mildly hysterical tire-women being directed by her Aunt dy Baocia, all charging in and out with piles of garments in their arms.