Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [107]
Lord Bastard, guide me as You will. Or, in Your case, whim.
She willed the rope to shorten, running back through her palm like spun wool. More than just sight had been included in the Bastard’s gift, it seemed, for the manipulation seemed effortless. At first she mimed drawing it in hand over hand, but soon discovered she could simply bid it to flow. She kept her eye on the arcade opposite, where the passage came through from the next court.
Lord Arhys strode through onto the sun-splashed stones.
He wore light clothing suited to the hot afternoon, his gray linen vest-cloak with the gold trim swinging about his calves. He was clean, his beard new-trimmed. He yawned hugely, glanced up in concern at the corner room, saw her leaning on the balustrade, and gave her a courtier’s bow.
Just wake from a nap, did you? And I know exactly how late you were up last night.
With difficulty, Ista tore her gaze from his elegant surface.
His soul was gray, strangely pale, off center, as if it lagged a little after him and left a trail of smoke.
Ah. Yes. Now I see. Ista stood up straight and moved toward the stairs, to meet him climbing up.
They came face-to-face, with her standing two steps above the tread upon which his booted feet paused. Arhys waited politely, smiling at her in puzzlement. “Royina?”
She took that strong chin in her hand, shivering at the tactile brush of his beard on her palm, leaned forward, and kissed him on the mouth.
His eyes widened, and he made a surprised muffled noise, but he did not retreat. She tasted his mouth: cool as water, and as flavorless. She drew back, sadly. So. That didn’t work either.
His lips twisted up in a confused, enchantingly crooked grin, and he cocked his eyebrows at her as if to say, What is this, lady? As if women kissed him spontaneously on staircases every day, and he considered it uncivil to dodge.
“Lord Arhys,” said Ista. “How long have you been dead?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A RHYS’S SMILE GREW FIXED AND WARY. HE REGARDED ISTA WITH startled concern, as if he feared the mad royina was having a relapse right in front of him, and, as her inadvertent host, he would be held responsible. “Madam—you jest . . . ?” An invitation to recant. A clear suggestion, Please, don’t do this. . . . “My kisses are not usually so scorned!”
“I have seldom felt further from jest in my life.”
He laughed uneasily. “I admit, my fevers have been a trouble to me this season, but I assure you, I am far from the grave.”
“You have no fever. You don’t even sweat. Your skin is the same temperature as the air. If it were not so beastly hot in this climate, more people would have noticed by now.”
He continued to stare at her with the same perplexed expression.
Five gods. He really does not know. Her heart sagged.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that you need to talk with your brother.”
He grimaced in pain. “Would that I could. I pray for it daily. But he does not wake from his poisoned wound.”
“Yes, he does. Each noon, when you have your little nap. Your only sleep of the day. Has your wife not told you this? She goes almost every day to oversee his care.” And sometimes at night, as well. Although it’s not exactly his care that concerns her then, I expect.
“Royina, I assure you it is not so.”
“I just spoke with him. Come with me.”
The disbelieving tilt of his mouth did not change, but when she turned and mounted the stairs again, he followed.
They entered Illvin’s well-kept chamber. Goram, sitting watching his charge, saw Lord Arhys and shot to his feet, offering him his jerky, awkward bow, and a servile mutter that might have been, “M’lord.”
Arhys’s gaze swept down the still form in the bed. His lips thinned in disappointment. “It is all the same.”
Ista said, “Lord Arhys, sit down.”
“I shall stand, Royina.” His frown upon her was growing less and less amused.
“Suit yourself.”
The rope of white fire between the two was short and