Any word of advice from the newly employed Cazaril was not likely to be well received by dy Sanda, as matters stood between them at present. But it seemed to Cazaril that if dy Sanda was looking to guard his future influence over the royse when he came to a man’s estate with its full power and privilege of a high lord—at the very least—of Chalion, he was going about it exactly backward. Teidez was more likely to shed him at the first opportunity.
Still, dy Sanda was a conscientious man, Cazaril had to grant. A viler man of like ambition might well be pandering to Teidez’s appetites instead of attempting to control them, winning not loyalty but addiction. Cazaril had met a noble scion or two so corrupted by his attendants . . . but not in dy Baocia’s household. While the Provincara was in charge, Teidez was unlikely to encounter such parasites. On that comforting reflection, Cazaril pushed off the block and climbed to his feet.
Chapter 5
The Royesse Iselle’s sixteenth birthday fell at the midpoint of spring, some six weeks after Cazaril had come to Valenda. The birthday present sent down this year from the capital at Cardegoss by her brother Orico was a fine dappled gray mare, an inspiration either well calculated or very lucky, for Iselle flew into transports over the shimmering beast. Cazaril had to concede it was a royal gift. And he was able to avoid the problem of his damaged handwriting a little longer, as it was no trouble at all to persuade Iselle to make her thank-you in her own hand, to send with the royal courier’s return.
But Cazaril found himself subjected in the days following to the most minute and careful, not to say embarrassing, inquiries from Iselle and Betriz after his health. Little gifts of the best fruit or viands were sent down the table to tempt his appetite; he was encouraged to go early to bed, and drink a little wine, but not too much; both ladies persuaded him out to frequent short walks in the garden. It wasn’t till dy Ferrej let fall a casual joke to the Provincara in his hearing that Cazaril caught on that Iselle and her handmaiden had been constrained to temper their gallops out of consideration for the new secretary’s supposedly frail health. Cazaril’s wits overtook his indignation just barely in time to confirm this canard with a straight face and a convincingly stiff gait. Their feminine attentions, however blatantly self-interested, were too lovely to scorn. And . . . it wasn’t that much of an act.
Both the improving weather and, truth to tell, his improving condition baited him into relenting. After all, soon enough the summer heat would be upon them, and slow life down again. After watching both girls stick to their horses over logs and down the twisting trails by the river, flashing along in ripples of gold and green from the half shade of the new leaves overhead, his concern for their safety eased. It was his horse, shying sideways after startling a doe out of a thicket, that dumped him violently into a mess of rocks and tree roots, knocking his wind out and popping an adhesion in his back. He lay wheezing, the woods blurred with tears of pain, till two frightened female faces wavered into his view against the lace of leaves and sky.
It took the pair of them and the help of a fallen tree to get him loaded back up on his recaptured horse. The return trip up the hill to the castle was as demure and ladylike, not to mention guilty, a walk as ever the governesses could have wished. The world had stopped twisting around his head in odd little jerks by the time they rode through the arched gate, but the torn adhesion was a burning agony marked by a lump the size of an egg beneath his tunic. It would likely darken to black and take weeks to subside. Arriving safe at last in the courtyard, he had no attention for anything but the mounting block, the groom, and again getting off the damned horse alive. Secure on the ground he stood for a moment, head bent against the saddlebow, grimacing with pain.
“Caz!”
The familiar voice smote his ears out of nowhere. His head came up; he blinked around. Striding toward him, his arms held out, was a tall, athletic man with dark hair, dressed in an elegant red brocade tunic and high riding boots. “Five gods,” whispered Cazaril, and then, “Palli?”
“Caz, Caz! I kiss your hands! I kiss your feet!” The tall man seized him, nearly knocking him over, made the first half of his greeting literal, but traded the second for an embrace instead. “Caz, man! I’d thought you were dead!”
“No, no . . . Palli . . .” His pain three-fourths forgotten, he grabbed the dark-haired man’s hands in turn, and turned to Iselle and Betriz, who’d abandoned their horses to the grooms and drifted up in open curiosity. “Royesse Iselle, Lady Betriz, permit me to introduce the Ser dy Palliar—he was my good right arm at Gotorget—five gods, Palli, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same, with more reason!” Palli replied, and made his bow to the ladies, who eyed him with increasing approval. The two years and more since Gotorget had done much to improve his already-pleasant looks, not that they hadn’t all looked like depraved scarecrows at the end of the siege. “Royesse, my lady, an honor—but it’s the March dy Palliar now, Caz.”
“Oh,” said Cazaril, and gave him an immediate, apologetic nod. “My condolences. Is it a recent loss?”
Palli returned an understanding duck of his chin. “Almost two years gone, now. The old man had suffered an apoplectic stroke while we were still closed up in Gotorget, but he hung on till just after I made it home, thanks be to the Father of Winter. He knew me, I was able to see him at the last, tell him of the campaign—he offered up a blessing for you, you know, on his last day, though we both thought we were praying for the lost dead. Caz, man, where did you go?”
“I . . . wasn’t ransomed.”
“Not ransomed? How, not ransomed? How could you not be ransomed?”
“It was an error. My name was left off the list.”
“Dy Jironal said the Roknari reported you died of a sudden fever.”
Cazaril’s smile grew tight. “No. I was sold to the galleys.”
Palli’s head jerked back. “Some error! No, wait, that makes no sense—”
Cazaril’s grimace, and his hand pressed palm down before his chest, stopped Palli’s protest on his lips, though it didn’t quench the startled look in his eyes. Palli always could take a hint, if you clouted him with it hard enough. The twist of his mouth said, Very well, but I will have this out of you later—! By the time he turned to Ser dy Ferrej, coming up to observe this reunion with an interested expression, his cheerful smile was back in place.
“My lord dy Palliar is taking wine with the Provincara in the garden,” the castle warder explained. “Do join us, Cazaril.”
“Thank you.”
Palli took his arm, and they turned to follow dy Ferrej out of the courtyard and half-around the keep, to the little plot where the Provincara’s gardener grew flowers. In good weather she made it her favorite bower for sitting outdoors. Three strides, and Cazaril was trailing; Palli shortened his step abruptly at Cazaril’s stumble, and eyed him sidelong. The Provincara waited their return with a patient smile, enthroned under an arching trellis of climbing roses not yet in bloom. She waved them to the chairs the servants had brought out. Cazaril lowered himself onto a cushion with a wince and an awkward grunt.
“Bastard’s demons,” said Palli under his breath, “did the Roknari cripple you?”
“Only half. Lady Iselle—oof!—seems bent on completing the task.” Gingerly, he eased himself back. “And that fool horse.”
The Provincara frowned at the two young ladies, who had tagged along uninvited. “Iselle, were you galloping?” she inquired dangerously.