Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [116]
Ista temporized. “But no, it need not be today, in hasty disarray. There is a little time yet. Enough to put his affairs in order while he can still command his wits, if he does not tarry, enough to write or speak his farewells. Not much more than that, I think.” She considered Illvin’s dangerously emaciated fragility. This tangle is far worse than I first guessed. And even second sight does not yet see a way out.
Arhys shoved himself upright. “You speak sense, madam. I should call the temple’s notary to me—review my will—”
“It’s not fair!” Cattilara lashed out again. “Illvin slew you, and now he’ll gain all your possessions!”
Illvin’s head jerked back. “I am not destitute. I do not desire the dy Lutez properties. To avoid that taint, I would gladly give up any expectations. Will them to my niece, or to the Temple—or to her, even.” A twist of his lips indicated his brother’s wife. He hesitated. “Except for Porifors.”
Arhys smiled, staring down at his boots. “Good boy. We do not yield Porifors. Hold to that, and you shall serve me still, even when my grave has swallowed all vows.”
Cattilara burst into tears.
Ista levered her exhausted body upright from her stool. She felt as though she had been beaten with sticks. “Lord Illvin, your brother must borrow of you for a little longer. Are you ready?”
“Eh,” he grunted, without enthusiasm. “Do what you must.” He glanced up at her and added with suppressed urgency, “You will come again, yes?”
“Yes.” She moved her hand, released her ligature.
Illvin sank back. Arhys rolled to his feet, a picture of strength again. “Ah!”
He enfolded the weeping Cattilara in his arms and led her out, murmuring comforting endearments.
Yes, Ista thought bitterly. You caught her—I’ll bet you didn’t even try to dodge—you deal with her . . . And he would, she felt sure. What less would one expect from a man with soap in his saddlebags . . . ? Her temples were throbbing.
“Liss, I’m going to go lie down now. I have a headache.”
“Oh.” Liss came promptly to her side, offering her arm in support. As a lady-in-waiting she had her limits, but Ista had to allow, she was one of the best courtiers she’d ever encountered. “Would you like me to bathe your forehead in lavender water? I saw a lady do that, once.”
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
She glanced back at Lord Illvin, lying silently, emptied of life and wit again. “Take care of him, Goram.”
He bobbed a bow, gave her a look of inarticulate frustration, and abruptly dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of her skirt. “Bles’t One,” he mumbled. “Free him. Free us all.”
Ista swallowed aggravation, produced an unfelt smile for him, extracted her skirt from his grip, and let Liss usher her out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A PALL WAS CAST OVER PORIFORS THAT EVENING. THE CASTLE’S master and mistress withdrew into private conclave, and all the planned entertainments were abruptly canceled. Ista could only be relieved to be left in her chambers. Toward sunset, Liss reported, a few of Arhys’s key officers were called to him, and exited much later looking very grim. Ista hoped the march had mustered the wit to leave the original story of Umerue’s death intact and devise some other tale to cover his impending—or was that retroactive?—lethal illness. But given that the truth implicated the marchess for the Jokonan princess’s murder, Ista couldn’t picture Cattilara rushing to, nor Arhys permitting, public confession.
Ista’s dreams were untroubled that night by gods or visions, although made unpleasant enough by murky, erratic nightmares involving either disastrous travel on broken-down or dying horses, or confused wandering through crumbling, architecturally bizarre castles for the repair of which she was somehow responsible. She woke poorly rested, and waited impatiently for noon.
She sent Liss to help Goram and warn him of her visit, then watched for the meal tray to be brought up. It was handed in at Lord Illvin