Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [122]
“Royina,” she said breathlessly. “Something is happening. Lord Arhys has ridden out with a party of armed men—I’m going to the north tower to try to see what I can.”
Ista rose so hastily she nearly knocked over her chair. “I’ll go with you.”
They climbed the winding stone staircase to this vantage behind a hastening crossbowman in Porifors’s gray-and-gold tabard. All three went to the northeast edge and peered over the crenellations.
On this side of the castle, opposite the drop to the river, the land rolled away more level with the ridge. A road, pale with dry dust, wound east through the arid, sunny countryside.
“That’s the road from Oby,” panted Liss.
A pair of horsemen were galloping down it, details blurred by the distance. But even from here, Ista could see that one rider was thick, and the other much thicker. The thicker one wore some brown garment over flashes of white. The stiff gait of a horse attempting to canter under Learned dy Cabon’s jouncing weight was distinctive, at least to Ista’s experienced eye.
A little way beyond them galloped a dozen other men. An escort . . . ? No. Green tabards of Jokona, here, under the frowning brow of Porifors itself? Ista gasped. The pursuing soldiers were closing on the lead pair.
With a scuff of slippers and a flutter of silks, Lady Cattilara emerged onto the tower top and ran to look over. She stood on tiptoe and leaned, her pale bosom heaving. “Arhys . . . five gods, oh, the Father of Winter protect you . . .”
Ista followed her gaze. Below Porifors, Arhys on his dappled gray led a troop of mounted men headlong up the road. The lesser horses were hard pressed to keep up with the gray’s reaching strides, and Liss muttered approval of its ground-eating action.
Cattilara’s lips parted on her panting, and her eyes grew wide and anxious. She vented a little moan.
“What,” murmured Ista to her. “You can’t be afraid of his being killed, after all.”
Cattilara shot her a sulky look, hunched one shoulder, and returned her stare to the road.
Dy Cabon’s overburdened horse was laboring, falling behind. The other horseman—yes, it was certainly Foix dy Gura—pulled up his own mount and motioned the divine onward. Foix’s horse capered on the road, fighting his reins. Foix held the beast short with his left hand, grasped his sword hilt, and rose in his stirrups to glare at his pursuers.
No, Foix! Ista thought helplessly. Foix was a strong swordsman, but unsubtle, without Lord Arhys’s brilliant speed; he might do for one or two of his enemies, maybe three, who would not rise again, but then the rest would overwhelm him. He had not yet seen the rescue riders approaching, out of his sight in a long hollow. He would throw himself away to save the divine, without need . . .
His right hand rose again from his hilt, fingers clenching and stretching. His arm went out, tensely. A faint violet light seemed to flicker from his palm, and Cattilara’s breath drew in sharply in astonishment. Liss did not react; was oblivious to this light, Ista realized.
The first horse in the approaching pack stumbled and fell headlong, spilling its rider. Two others fell atop it before they could pull up. Several horses reared, or shied and tried to bolt to the sides. Foix jerked his mount around and began galloping after dy Cabon.
So. Foix still has his pet bear. And it seems he’s taught it to dance. Ista’s lips pursed in worry at the implications.
But other worries were more immediate. Past the rise and dip in the road, dy Cabon met Arhys. The divine’s lathered brown horse staggered to a halt and stood spread-legged; the dappled gray reared beside it. Gesticulations, pointings. Arhys flung his hand in the air, and his troop reined up around him. More hand-waving, and quietly called orders blurred by the breeze to unintelligibility at Ista’s apprehensive height and distance. Swords were drawn, bows cocked, lances leveled, and the troop