The storm in the Provincara’s face didn’t break till the whole family party had returned to the castle for the afternoon feast.
Cazaril found himself leading her horse, as her castle warder dy Ferrej had taken a firm and prudent grip on the lead line of Iselle’s white mule. Cazaril’s plan to quietly absent himself was thwarted when, helped down off her chestnut mare by her servants, the Provincara demanded shortly, “Castillar, give me your arm.” Her grip around it was tight and trembling. Through thinned lips, she added, “Iselle, Betriz, dy Ferrej, in here.” She jerked her head toward the plank doors of the ancestors’ hall, just off the castle courtyard.
Iselle had left her festal garments at the temple when the ceremonies had concluded, and was merely a young woman in pretty blue and white once more. No, Cazaril decided, watching her decided chin come up again; merely a royesse once more. Beneath that apprehensive surface glowed an alarming determination. Cazaril held the door as they all filed past, including Lady dy Hueltar. When he’d been a young page, Cazaril thought ruefully, his instinct for danger spilling down from on high would have sped him off at this point. But dy Ferrej stopped and waited for him, and he followed.
The hall was quiet, empty now, though warmly lit by the ranks of candles on the altar that would be allowed to burn all day today until entirely consumed. The wooden benches were polished to a subdued gleam in the candlelight by many pious—or restive—prior occupants. The Provincara stepped to the front of the room, and turned on the two girls, who drew together under her stern eye.
“All right. Which of you had that idea?”
Iselle took a half step forward, and gave a tiny curtsey. “It was mine, Grandmama,” she said in almost, but not quite, as clear a voice as in the temple courtyard. She offered after another moment under that dour gaze, “Though Betriz thought of asking the first flame for confirmation.”
Dy Ferrej wheeled on his daughter. “You knew this was coming up? And you didn’t tell me?”
Betriz gave him a curtsey that was an echo of Iselle’s, right down to the unbent backbone. “I had understood I was assigned to be the royesse’s handmaiden, Papa. Not anybody’s spy. If my first loyalty was to be to anyone but Iselle, no one ever told me. Guard her honor with your life, you said.” After a moment she added more cautiously, undercutting this fine speech a trifle, “Besides, I couldn’t know it was going to happen till after she had struck the first flame.”
Dy Ferrej abandoned the young sophist and made a helpless gesture to the Provincara.
“You are older, Betriz,” said the Provincara to her. “We thought you’d be a calming influence. Teach Iselle the duties of a pious maiden.” Her lips twisted. “As when Beetim the huntsman couples the young hounds to the older ones. Alas that I did not give your upbringing over to him, instead of to these useless governesses.”
Betriz blinked, and offered another curtsey. “Yes, my lady.”
The Provincara eyed her, suspicious of concealed humor. Cazaril bit his lip.
Iselle took a deep breath. “If tolerating injustice and turning a blind eye to men’s tragic and unnecessary damnations are among the first duties of a pious maiden, then the divines never taught it to me!”
“No, of course not,” the Provincara snapped. For the first time, her harsh voice softened with a shade of persuasion. “But justice is not your task, heart.”
“The men whose task it was appear to have neglected it. I am not a milkmaid. If I have a greater privilege in Chalion, surely I have a greater duty to Chalion as well. The divine and the good dedicat have both told me so!” She shot a defying look at the hovering Lady dy Hueltar.
“I was talking about you attending to your studies, Iselle,” Lady dy Hueltar protested.
“When the divines talked of your pious duties, Iselle,” dy Ferrej added, “they didn’t mean . . . they didn’t mean . . .”
“They didn’t mean me to take them seriously?” she inquired sweetly.
Dy Ferrej sputtered. Cazaril sympathized. An innocent with the moral advantage, and as feckless and ignorant of her dangers as the new pup the Provincara had compared her to—Cazaril was profoundly thankful that he had no part in this.
The Provincara’s nostrils flared. “For now, you may both go to your chambers and stay there. I’d set you both to read scriptures for a penance, but . . . ! I will decide later if you will be permitted to come to the feast. Good Dedicat, follow after and make sure they arrive. Go!” She gestured imperiously. As Cazaril made to follow, her sweeping arm stopped in midair, and she pointed firmly downward. “Castillar, dy Ferrej, attend a moment.” Lady Betriz shot a curious glance over her shoulder as she was ushered out. Iselle marched head high, and didn’t look back.
“Well,” said dy Ferrej wearily after a moment, “we did hope they would become friends.”
Her young audience removed, the Provincara permitted herself a rueful smile. “Alas, yes.”
“How old is the Lady Betriz?” Cazaril asked curiously, staring after the closing door.
“Nineteen,” answered her father with a sigh.
Well, her age was not quite so disparate from his as Cazaril had thought, though her experience surely was.
“I really did think Betriz would be a good influence,” dy Ferrej added. “It seems to have worked the other way around.”
“Are you accusing my granddaughter of corrupting your daughter?” the Provincara inquired wryly.
“Say, inspiring, rather,” dy Ferrej said, with a glum shrug. “Terrifying, that. I wonder . . . I wonder if we should part them?”
“There would follow much howling.” Wearily, the Provincara seated herself on a bench, gesturing the men to do likewise: “Don’t want a crick in my neck.” Cazaril clasped his hands between his knees and waited her pleasure, whatever it was to be. She must have dragged him along in here for something. She stared thoughtfully at him for a long moment.
“You have a fresh eye, Cazaril,” she said at last. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Cazaril’s brows climbed. “I’ve had the training of young soldiers, lady. Never of young maidens. I’m quite out of my depth, here.” He hesitated, then spoke almost despite himself. “It looks to me to be a trifle too late to teach Iselle to be a coward. But you might draw her attention to how little firsthand evidence she jumped from. How could she be so sure the judge was as guilty as rumor would have him? Hearsay, gossip? Even some apparent evidence can lie.” Cazaril thought ruefully of the bath man’s assumptions about the witness of his back. “It won’t help for today’s incident, but it might slow her down in future.” He added in a drier voice, “And you might look to be more careful what gossip you discuss in front of her.”
Dy Ferrej winced.
“In front of either one of them,” said the Provincara. “Four ears, one mind—or one conspiracy.” She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. “Cazaril . . . you speak and write Darthacan, do you not?”
Cazaril blinked at this sidewise jink in the conversation. “Yes, my lady . . . ?”
“And Roknari?”
“My, ah, court Roknari is a little rusty at present. Granted, my vile Roknari is quite fluent.”
“And geography? You know the geography of Chalion, of Ibra, of the Roknari princedoms?”
“Five gods, that I do, my lady. What I haven’t ridden over, I’ve walked, what I haven’t walked, I’ve been dragged across. Or through. I’ve had geography ground into my skin. And I’ve rowed round half the Archipelago at least.”
“And you write, you cipher, you keep books—you’ve done letters, reports, treaties, logistical orders . . .”