The Curse Of Chalion Part 15

12.

Cazaril's eyes pulled open against the glue that rimmed their lids. He stared up without comprehension at a ragged gray rift in the sky, framed in black. He licked crusted lips, and swallowed. He lay on his back on hard boards-the bracing frame inside Fonsa's Tower. Recollection of the night came rus.h.i.+ng back to him. the glue that rimmed their lids. He stared up without comprehension at a ragged gray rift in the sky, framed in black. He licked crusted lips, and swallowed. He lay on his back on hard boards-the bracing frame inside Fonsa's Tower. Recollection of the night came rus.h.i.+ng back to him.

I live.

Therefore, I have failed.

His right hand, reaching blindly about him, encountered an inert little mound of cold feathers, and recoiled. He lay panting in remembered terror. A cramp gnawed his gut, a dull ache. He was s.h.i.+vering, damp, chilled through, as cold as any corpse. But not a corpse. He breathed. And so, likewise, must Dondo dy Jironal, on...was this his wedding morning?

As his eyes slowly adjusted, he saw he was not alone. Lined up along the crude rail that bounded the workmen's platform, a dozen or more crows perched in the shadows, utterly silent, nearly still. They all seemed to be staring down at him.

Cazaril touched his face, but no wounds bled there-no bird had tried an experimental peck yet. "No," he whispered shakily. "I am not your breakfast. I'm sorry." One rustled its wings uneasily, but none of them flapped away at the sound of his voice. Even when he sat up, they s.h.i.+fted about but did not take to the air.

All was not drowned blackness since the night before-fragments of a dream coursed through his memory. He had dreamed that he was Dondo dy Jironal, roistering with his friends and their wh.o.r.es in some torchlit and candle-gilded hall, the board gleaming with silver goblets, his thick hands glittering with rings. He had toasted the blood-sacrifice of Iselle's maidenhood with obscene jests, and drunk deeply...then he'd been taken with a cough, a scratching in his throat that needled rapidly to pain. His throat had swelled, closing shut, choking him, cutting off his air, as if he were being strangled from the inside out. The flushed faces of his companions had whirled about him, their laughter and derision turning to panic as it was forced upon them by his purpling livid features that he was not clowning. Cries, wine cups knocked over, shocked fearful hisses of Poison! Poison! No last words squeezed through that inward-strangled throat, past that thickening tongue. Just silent convulsions, laboring heart racing, viselike pain in the chest and head, black clouds shot with red boiling up in his darkening vision... No last words squeezed through that inward-strangled throat, past that thickening tongue. Just silent convulsions, laboring heart racing, viselike pain in the chest and head, black clouds shot with red boiling up in his darkening vision...

It was only a dream. If I live, so does he.

Cazaril lay back down upon the hard boards, curled around his bellyache, for half the turning of a gla.s.s, exhausted, despairing. The row of crows kept watch over him in unnerving silence. It gradually came to him that he would have to go back. And he hadn't planned a return route.

He might climb down the bracing frames...but that would leave him standing in the bottom of a bricked-up tower atop a years-long acc.u.mulation of guano and detritus, crying to be let out. Could anyone even hear him through the thick stone? Would they take his m.u.f.fled voice for an echo of the crows' caws, or the howling of a ghost?

Up, then? Back the way he'd come in?

He stood at last, pulling himself up by the rail-even now, the crows did not fly away-and stretched his cramped and aching muscles. He had to physically shove a couple of crows from the railing to clear a place to stand; they flapped off indignantly, but still with that uncanny silence. He rucked up the brown gown, tucked hem in belt. When he balanced on the rail, it was a short reach to the tower's rim. He grasped, heaved. His arms were strong, and his body was lean. One hideous moment of consciousness of the air below his bare kicking legs, and he was up over the stones and out onto the slates. The fog was so thick, he could barely see down into the courtyard below. Dawn, or just after dawn, he guessed; the lesser denizens of the castle would already be awake, this tag-end-of-autumn morning. The crows followed him solemnly, flapping up one by one through the gap in the roof to find perches on stone or slate. Their heads turned to track his progress.

He had a vision of them, mobbing him to spoil his next leap from the tower up to the main block, revenging their comrade. And then another vision, as his feet scrambled and his arms shook, of letting go, letting it all go, and falling to his welcome death on the stones below. A wrenching cramp coiled in his gut, driving out his breath in a gasp.

He would have let go then, except for the sudden terror that he might survive the fall, leg-smashed and crippled. Only that drove him up over the eaves to the slates of the main block's roof. His muscles cracked as he lifted himself. His hands were sc.r.a.ped raw by their frantic gripping.

He was not sure, in this paling fog, which of the dozen dormer windows erupting out of the slates he'd emerged from last night. Suppose someone had come along and closed and locked it, since? He inched slowly along, trying each one. The crows followed, stalking along the gutters, flapping up in brief hops, their clawed feet slipping on the slates, too, at times. The mist beaded, glistening, on their feathers, and in his beard and hair, silver sequins on his black vest-cloak. The fourth cas.e.m.e.nt window swung open to his scrabbling fingers. It was was the unused lumber room. He slid through, and slammed it upon his black-liveried escort just in time to stop a couple of the birds from flying in after him. One bounced off the gla.s.s with a thud. the unused lumber room. He slid through, and slammed it upon his black-liveried escort just in time to stop a couple of the birds from flying in after him. One bounced off the gla.s.s with a thud.

He crept down the stairs to his floor without encountering any early servants, stumbled into his chamber, and closed the door behind him. Tight-bladdered and cramping, he used his chamber pot; his bowels voided frightening blood clots. His hands trembled as he washed them in his basin. When he went to fling the bloodied wash water out into the ravine, the opening window dislodged two silent, sentinel crows from the stone sill. He closed it tight again and locked the latch.

He weaved to his bed like a man drunk on his feet, fell into it, and wrapped his coverlet around himself. As his s.h.i.+vering continued, he could hear the sounds of the castle's servants carrying water or linens or pots, feet plodding up stairs and down corridors, an occasional low-voiced call or order.

Was Iselle being waked now, on the floor above, to be washed and attired, bound in ropes of pearls, chained in jewels, for her dreadful appointment with Dondo? Had she even slept? Or wept all night, prayed to G.o.ds gone deaf? He should go up, to offer what comfort he could. Had Betriz found another knife? I cannot bear to face them. I cannot bear to face them. He curled tighter and shut his eyes in agony. He curled tighter and shut his eyes in agony.

He was still lying in bed, gasping in breaths perilously close to sobs, when booted steps sounded in the corridor, and his door banged open. Chancellor dy Jironal's voice snarled, "I know it's him. It has to be him!"

The steps stalked across his floorboards, and his coverlet was s.n.a.t.c.hed from him. He rolled over and stared up in surprise at dy Jironal's steel-bearded, panting face glaring down at him in astonishment.

"You're alive!" cried dy Jironal. His voice was indignant.

Half a dozen courtiers, a couple of whom Cazaril recognized as Dondo's bravos, crowded dy Jironal's shoulder to gape at him. They had their hands upon their swords, as if prepared to correct this mistaken animation of Cazaril's at dy Jironal's word. Roya Orico, clad in a nightgown, a shabby old cloak clutched about his neck by his fat fingers, stood at the back of the mob. Orico looked...strange. Cazaril blinked, and rubbed his eyes. A kind of aura surrounded the roya, not of light, but of darkness. Cazaril could see him perfectly clearly, so he could not call it a cloud or a fog, for it obscured nothing. And yet it was there, moving as the man moved, like a trailing garment.

Dy Jironal bit his lip, his eyes boring into Cazaril's face. "If not you-who, then? It has to be someone...it has to be someone close to...that girl! The foul little murderess!" He spun around and stormed out, curtly motioning his men to follow him.

"What's afoot?" Cazaril demanded of Orico, who had turned to waddle after them.

Orico looked back over his shoulder, and spread his hands in a wide, bewildered shrug. "Wedding's off. Dondo dy Jironal was murdered around midnight last night-by death magic."

Cazaril's mouth opened; nothing came out but a weak, "Oh." He sank back, dazed, as Orico shuffled out after his chancellor.

I don't understand.

If Dondo is slain, and yet I live...I cannot have been granted a death miracle. And yet Dondo is is slain. How? slain. How?

How else but that someone had beaten Cazaril to the deed?

Belatedly, his wits caught up with dy Jironal's.

Betriz?

No, oh no...!

He surged out of bed, fell heavily to the floor, scrambled to his feet, and staggered after the crowd of enraged and baffled courtiers.

He arrived at his invaded office antechamber to hear dy Jironal bellowing, "Then bring her out, that I may see!" to a disheveled and frightened-looking Nan dy Vrit, who nevertheless blocked the doorway to the inner rooms with her body as though ready to defend a drawbridge. Cazaril nearly fainted with relief when Betriz, frowning fiercely, came up behind Nan's shoulder. Nan was in her nightdress, but Betriz, rumpled and weary-looking, was still wearing the same green wool gown she'd had on last night. Had she she slept? slept? But she lives, she lives! But she lives, she lives!

"Why do you make this uncouth roaring here, my lord?" Betriz demanded coldly. "It is unseemly and untimely."

Dy Jironal's lips parted in his beard; he was clearly taken aback. After a moment, his teeth snapped closed. "Where is the royesse, then? I must see the royesse."

"She is sleeping a little, for the first time in days. I'll not have her disturbed. She'll have to exchange dreams for nightmare soon enough." Betriz's nostrils flared with open hostility.

Dy Jironal's back straightened; his breath hissed in. "Wake her? Can Can you wake her?" you wake her?"

Dear G.o.ds. Might Iselle have...? But before this new panic closed down Cazaril's throat, Iselle herself appeared, pushed between her ladies, and walked coolly forward into the antechamber to face dy Jironal. But before this new panic closed down Cazaril's throat, Iselle herself appeared, pushed between her ladies, and walked coolly forward into the antechamber to face dy Jironal.

"I do not sleep. What do you want, my lord?" Her eyes pa.s.sed over her brother Orico, hovering at the edge of the mob, and dismissed him with contempt, returning to dy Jironal. Her brows tensed in wariness. No question but that she understood whose power forced her to her unwelcome wedding.

Dy Jironal stared from woman to woman, all indisputably alive before him. He wheeled around and stared again at Cazaril, who was blinking at Iselle. Aura flared around her, too, just like Orico, but hers was more disturbed, a churning of deep darkness and luminous pale blue, like the aurora he'd once seen in the far southern night sky.

"Whoever," grated dy Jironal. "Wherever. I'll find the filthy coward's corpse if I have to search all of Chalion."

"And then what?" inquired Orico, rubbing his unshaven jowls. "Hang it?" He returned a raised-brow look of irony for dy Jironal's driven glare; dy Jironal whirled and stamped back out. Cazaril stepped aside to let the entourage pa.s.s, his gaze flicking covertly from Orico to Iselle, comparing the two...hallucinations? No one else here pulsed like that. Maybe I'm sick. Maybe I'm mad. Maybe I'm sick. Maybe I'm mad.

"Cazaril," said Iselle in urgent bewilderment as soon as the men had cleared the outer door-Nan hurried to shut it behind the invaders-"what has happened?"

"Someone killed Dondo dy Jironal last night. By death magic."

Her lips parted, and her hands clasped together like a child just promised its heart's desire. "Oh! Oh! Oh, this is welcome welcome news! Oh, thank the Lady, oh, news! Oh, thank the Lady, oh, thank thank the b.a.s.t.a.r.d-I will send such gifts to his altar-oh, Cazaril, who-?" the b.a.s.t.a.r.d-I will send such gifts to his altar-oh, Cazaril, who-?"

At Betriz's look of wild surmise in his direction, Cazaril grimaced. "Not me. Obviously." Though not for want of trying. Though not for want of trying.

"Did you-" Betriz began, then pressed her lips closed. Cazaril's grimace tilted in appreciation of her delicacy in not inquiring, out loud before two witnesses, if he'd plotted a capital crime. He hardly needed to speak; her eyes blazed with speculation.

Iselle paced back and forth, almost bouncing with relief. "I think I felt it," she said in a voice of great wonder. "In any case, I felt something...midnight, around midnight, you said?" No one had said so here. "An easing of my heart, as if something in me knew my prayers were heard. But I never expected this this. I'd asked the Lady for my my death..." She paused, and touched her hand to her broad white forehead. "Or what She willed." Her voice slowed. "Cazaril...did I...could I have done this? Did the G.o.ddess answer me so?" death..." She paused, and touched her hand to her broad white forehead. "Or what She willed." Her voice slowed. "Cazaril...did I...could I have done this? Did the G.o.ddess answer me so?"

"I...I don't see how, Royesse. You prayed to the Lady of Spring, did you not?"

"Yes, and to Her Mother of Summer, both. But mostly to Spring herself."

"The Great Ladies grant miracles of life, and healing. Not death." Normally. And all miracles were rare and capricious. G.o.ds. Who knew their limits, their purposes?

"It didn't feel like death," Iselle confessed. "And yet I was eased. I took a little food and didn't throw it up, and I slept for a time."

Nan dy Vrit nodded confirmation. "And glad I was of it, my lady."

Cazaril took a deep breath. "Well, dy Jironal will solve the mystery for us, I'm sure. He'll hunt down every person to die last night in Cardegoss-in all of Chalion, I have no doubt--until he finds out his brother's murderer."

"Bless the poor soul who put his vile plans in such disarray." Formally, Iselle touched forehead, lip, navel, groin, and heart, spreading her fingers wide. "And at such a cost. May the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's demons grant him what mercy ever they can."

"Amen," said Cazaril. "Let's just hope dy Jironal finds no close comrades or family to wreak his vengeance upon." He wrapped his arms around his belly, which was cramping again.

Betriz came near him and stared him in the face, her hand going out but then falling back hesitantly. "Lord Caz, you look dreadful. Your skin is the color of cold porridge."

"I'm...ill. Something I ate." He took a breath. "So we prepare today not for grievous wedding but joyous funeral. I trust you ladies will contain your glee in public?"

Nan dy Vrit snorted. Iselle motioned her to silence, and said firmly, "Solemn piety, I promise you. And if it is thanksgiving and not sorrow in my heart, only the G.o.ds shall know."

Cazaril nodded, and rubbed his aching neck. "Usually, a victim of death magic is burned before nightfall, to deny the body, the divines say, to uncanny things that might want to move in. Apparently, such a death invites them. It will be a terribly hurried funeral for such a high lord. They'll have to a.s.semble all before dark." Iselle's coruscating aura was making him almost nauseated. He swallowed, and looked away from her.

"Then, Cazaril," said Betriz, "for pity's sake go lie down till then. We're safe, all unexpectedly. You need do no more." She took him by his cold hands, clasped them briefly, and smiled in wry concern. He managed a wan return smile, and retreated.

HE CRAWLED BACK INTO HIS BED. HE HAD LAIN THERE perhaps an hour, bewildered and still s.h.i.+vering, when his door swung open and Betriz tiptoed in to stare down at him. She laid a hand across his clammy forehead. perhaps an hour, bewildered and still s.h.i.+vering, when his door swung open and Betriz tiptoed in to stare down at him. She laid a hand across his clammy forehead.

"I was afraid you'd taken a fever," she said, "but you're chilled."

"I was, um...chilled, yes. Must have thrown off my blankets in the night."

She touched his shoulder. "Your clothes are damp through." Her eyes narrowed. "When was the last time you ate?"

He could not remember. "Yesterday morning. I think."

"I see." She frowned at him a moment longer, then whirled and went out.

Ten minutes later, a maid arrived with a warming pan full of hot coals and a feather quilt; a few minutes after that, a manservant with a can of hot water and firm instructions to see him washed and put back to bed in dry nightclothes. This, in a castle gone mad with the disruption of every courtier and lady at once trying to prepare themselves for an unscheduled public appearance of utmost formality. Cazaril questioned nothing. The servant had just finished tucking him into the hot dry envelope of his sheets when Betriz reappeared with a crockery bowl on a tray. She propped his door open and seated herself on the edge of his bed.

"Eat this."

It was bread soaked in steaming milk, laced with honey. He accepted the first spoonful in bemused surprise, then struggled up on his pillows. "I'm not that that sick." Attempting to regain his dignity, he took the bowl from her; she made no objection, as long as he continued to eat. He discovered he was ravenous. By the time he'd finished, he'd stopped s.h.i.+vering. sick." Attempting to regain his dignity, he took the bowl from her; she made no objection, as long as he continued to eat. He discovered he was ravenous. By the time he'd finished, he'd stopped s.h.i.+vering.

She smiled in satisfaction. "Your color's much less ghastly now. Good."

"How fares the royesse?"

"Vastly better. She's...I want to say, collapsed, but I don't mean overcome. The blessed release that comes when an unbearable pressure is suddenly removed. It's a joy to look upon her."

"Yes. I understand."

Betriz nodded. "She's resting now, till time to dress." She took the empty bowl from him, set it aside, and lowered her voice. "Cazaril, what did you do do last night?" last night?"

"Nothing. Evidently."

Her lips thinned in exasperation. But what use was it to lay the burden of his secret upon her now? Confession might relieve his soul, but it would put hers in danger in any subsequent investigation that demanded oath-sworn testimony from her.

"Lord dy Rinal had it that you paid a page to catch you a rat last night. It was that news that sent Chancellor dy Jironal pelting up to your bedchamber, dy Rinal told me. The page said you'd claimed you wanted it to eat."

"Well, so. It's no crime for a man to eat a rat. It was a little memorial feast, for the siege of Gotorget."

"Oh? You just said you'd eaten nothing since yesterday morning." She hesitated, her eyes anxious. "The chambermaid also said there was blood in your pot that she emptied this morning."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d's demons!" Cazaril, who had slid down into his covers, struggled up again. "Is nothing nothing sacred to castle gossip? Can't a man even call his chamber pot his own here?" sacred to castle gossip? Can't a man even call his chamber pot his own here?"

She held out a hand. "Lord Caz, don't joke. How sick are you?"

"I had a bellyache. It's eased off now. A pa.s.sing thing. So to speak." He grimaced, and decided not to mention the hallucinations. "Obviously, the blood in the pot was from butchering the rat. And the bellyache just what I deserved, for eating such a disgusting creature. Eh?"

She said slowly, "It's a good story. It all hangs together."

"So, there."

"But Caz-people will think you're strange strange."

"I can add them to the collection along with the ones who think I rape girls. I suppose I need a third perversion, to balance me properly." Well, there was being suspected of attempting death magic. That could balance him over a gallows.

She sat back, frowning deeply. "All right. I won't press you. But I was wondering..." She wrapped her arms around herself, and regarded him intently. "If two-theoretical-persons were to attempt death magic on the same victim at the same time, might they each end up...half-dead?"

Cazaril stared back-no, she she didn't look sick-and shook his head. "I don't think so. Given all the various vain attempts that people have made to compel the G.o.ds with death magic, if it could happen that way, it surely would have before now. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's death demon is always portrayed in the Temple carvings with a yoke over his shoulders and two identical buckets, one for each soul. I don't think the demon can choose differently." Umegat's words came back to him, didn't look sick-and shook his head. "I don't think so. Given all the various vain attempts that people have made to compel the G.o.ds with death magic, if it could happen that way, it surely would have before now. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's death demon is always portrayed in the Temple carvings with a yoke over his shoulders and two identical buckets, one for each soul. I don't think the demon can choose differently." Umegat's words came back to him, I'm afraid that's just the way it works. I'm afraid that's just the way it works. "I'm not even sure the G.o.d can choose differently." "I'm not even sure the G.o.d can choose differently."

Her eyes narrowed further. "You said, if you weren't back this morning, not to worry for you, or look for you. said, if you weren't back this morning, not to worry for you, or look for you. You You said you'd be all right. You said you'd be all right. You also also said, if the bodies are not burned properly, terrible uncanny things happen to them." said, if the bodies are not burned properly, terrible uncanny things happen to them."

He s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably. "I made provision." Of sorts. Of sorts.

"What provision? You sneaked away, leaving none who cared for you to know where to look or even whether to pray!"

He cleared his throat. "Fonsa's crows. I climbed over the roof to Fonsa's Tower to, ah, say my prayers last night. If, if things had, ah, come out differently, I figured they'd clear up the mess, just as their brethren clean up a battlefield, or a stray sheep lost over a cliff."

"Cazaril!" she cried in indignation, then hastily lowered her voice to a near whisper. "Caz, that's, that's...you mean to tell me you crawled off all alone, to die in despair, expecting to leave your body to be eaten by...that's horrid horrid!"

He was startled to see tears welling in her eyes. "Hey, now! It's not so bad. Right soldierly, I I thought." His hand began to reach for the drops on her cheeks, then hesitated and fell back to his coverlet. thought." His hand began to reach for the drops on her cheeks, then hesitated and fell back to his coverlet.