Iselle fought her head out through a swaddling of silks to gasp, “You’ve just ridden over eight hundred miles on my behalf. Go rest, Cazaril.” She held her arm out obediently while a woman tried a sleeve upon it. “No, better—compose two letters for my uncle’s clerk to copy out, one to all the provincars of Chalion, and one to every Temple archdivine, announcing my marriage. Something they can read out to the people. That should be a nice, quiet task. When you have all seventeen—no, sixteen—”
“Seventeen,” put in her aunt, from the vicinity of her hem. “Your uncle will want one for his chancellery records. Stand straight.”
“When all are made ready, set them aside for me and Bergon to sign tomorrow after the wedding, and then see that they are sent out.” She nodded firmly, to the annoyance of the tire-woman trying to adjust her neckline.
Cazaril bowed himself out before he was stuck with a pin, and leaned a moment over the gallery railing.
The day was exquisitely fair, promising spring. The sky was a pale-washed blue, and mild sunlight flooded the newly paved courtyard, where gardeners were carting in orange trees in full flower in tubs, rolling them out to stand around the now-bubbling fountain. He diverted a passing servant and had a writing table brought out and set in the sun for himself. And a chair with a thick, soft cushion, because while a lot of those eight hundred miles were now a blur in his mind, his backside seemed to remember them all. He leaned back with the warm light falling on his face, and his eyes closed, composing his periods, then bent forward to scribble. Dy Baocia’s clerk carried off the results for copying out in a much fairer hand than Cazaril’s soon enough, and then he just leaned back with his eyes closed, period.
He didn’t even open them for the approaching footsteps, till a clank on his table surprised him. He looked up to find a servant, directed by Lady Betriz, setting down a tray with tea, a jug of milk, a dish of dried fruit, and bread glazed with nuts and honey. She dismissed the servant and poured the tea herself, and pressed the bread upon him, sitting on the edge of the fountain to watch him eat it.
“Your face looks very gaunt again. Haven’t you been eating properly?” she inquired severely.
“I have no idea. What lovely sunshine this is! I hope it holds through tomorrow.”
“Lady dy Baocia thinks it will, though she said we might have rain again by the Daughter’s Day.”
The scent of the orange blossoms pooled in the shelter of the court, seeming to mix with the honey in his mouth. He swallowed tea to chase the bread and observed in idle wonder, “In three days’ time it will be exactly a year since I walked into the castle of Valenda. I wanted to be a scullion.”
Her dimple flashed. “I remember. It was last Daughter’s Day eve that we first met each other, at the Provincara’s table.”
“Oh, I saw you before that. Riding into the courtyard with Iselle and . . . and Teidez.” And poor dy Sanda.
She looked stricken. “You did? Where were you? I didn’t see you.”
“Sitting on the bench by the wall. You were too busy being scolded by your father for galloping to notice me.”
“Oh.” She sighed, and trailed her hand through the fountain’s little pool, then shook off the cold drops with a frown. The Daughter of Spring might have breathed out today’s air, but it was still Old Winter’s water. “It seems a hundred years ago, not just one.”
“To me, it seems an eye blink. Time . . . outruns me now. Which explains why I wheeze so, no doubt.” He added quietly after a moment, “Has Iselle confided to her uncle about the curse we seek to break tomorrow?”
“No, of course not.” At his raised brows, she added, “Iselle is Ista’s daughter. She cannot speak of it, lest men say she is mad, too. And use it as an excuse to seize . . . everything. Dy Jironal thought of it. At Teidez’s interment, he never missed a chance to pass some little comment on Iselle to any lord or provincar in earshot. If she wept, wasn’t it too extravagant; if she laughed, how odd that she should do so at her brother’s funeral; if she spoke, he whispered that she was frenetic; if she fell silent, wasn’t she grown strangely gloomy? And you could just watch men begin to see what he told them they were seeing, whether it was there or not. Toward the end of his visit there, he even said such things in her hearing, to see if he could frighten and enrage her, and then accuse her of becoming an unbalanced virago. And he circulated outright lies, as well. But I and Nan and the Provincara were onto his little game by then, and we warned Iselle, and she kept her temper in his company.”
“Ah. Excellent girl.”
She nodded. “But as soon as we heard the chancellor’s men were coming to fetch her back to Cardegoss, Iselle was frantic to escape Valenda. Because once he’d got her close-confined, he could put about any story he pleased of her behavior, and who would there be to deny it? He might get the provincars of Chalion to approve the extension of his regency for the poor mad girl for as long as he pleased, without ever having to raise a sword.” She took a breath. “And so she dares not mention the curse.”
“I see. She is wise to be wary. Well, the gods willing it will soon be over.”
“The gods and the Castillar dy Cazaril.”
He made a little warding gesture and took another sip of tea. “When did dy Jironal learn I was gone to Ibra?”
“I don’t think he guessed anything till after the cortege reached Valenda, and you weren’t to be found there. The old Provincara said he received some reports from his Ibran spies—I think that’s partly why, anxious as he was to get back and block dy Yarrin from Orico, he would not leave Valenda till he had his own household troops installed there.”
“He sent assassins to intercept me at the border. I wonder if he thought I would just be returning alone, with the next round of negotiations? I don’t think he expected Royse Bergon so soon.”
“No one did. Except Iselle.” She rubbed her fingers across the fine black wool of her vest-cloak lying over her knee. Her next glance up at him was uncomfortably penetrating. “While you have spent yourself trying to save Iselle . . . have you discovered how to save yourself?”
He was silent a moment, then said simply, “No.”
“It’s . . . it’s not right.”
He glanced vaguely around the deliciously sunny court, avoiding her eyes. “I like this nice new building. It has no ghosts in it at all, do you know?”
“You’re changing the subject.” Her frown deepened. “You do that a lot when you don’t want to talk about something. I just realized.”
“Betriz . . .” He softened his voice. “Our feet were set on different paths from the night I called down death upon Dondo. I can’t go back. You are going to be living, and I am not. We can’t go on together, even if . . . well, we just can’t.”
“You don’t know how much time you’re given. It could be weeks. Months. But if an hour is all the gift the gods give us, all the more insult to the gods to scorn it.”
“It’s not the shortage of time.” He shifted miserably. “It’s the abundance of company. Think of us alone together—you, me, Dondo, the death demon . . . am I not a horror to you?” His tone grew almost pleading. “I assure you I’m a horror to me!”
She glanced at his gut, then stared off across the courtyard, her jaw set mulishly. “I do not believe that being haunted is catching. Do you think I lack the courage?”