Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [128]
“And yours,” muttered dy Cabon.
“And followed on to Porifors,” Foix raised his voice over this, “on a road that the march of Oby told us was perfectly safe and impossible to miss. The second part of his assurance proved true. Daughter’s tears, I thought the Jokonans had come back for a rematch, and we were going to lose the race this time, within sight of our refuge.”
Dy Cabon rubbed his forehead in a weary, worried gesture. Ista wondered if his morning’s dangerous parching had left him with a lingering headache.
“I am very concerned about Foix’s demon,” said Ista.
“I, as well,” said dy Cabon. “I thought the Temple could treat him, but it is not to be. The Bastard’s Order has lost the saint of Rauma.”
“Who?” said Ista.
“The divine of the god in Rauma—it is a town in Ibra, not far from the border mountains—she was the living agent of the god for the miracle of—do you remember that ferret, Royina? And what I told you about it?”
“Yes.”
“For weak elementals that have taken up residence in animals, to force the demon into the dying divine who will return it to the god, it is sufficient to slay the animal in his or her presence.”
“Thus the end of that ferret,” said Ista.
“Poor thing,” said Liss.
“It is so,” dy Cabon admitted. “Hard on the innocent beast, but what will you? The occurrences are normally quite rare.” He took a breath. “The Quadrenes use a related system to rid themselves of sorcerers. A cure worse than the disease. But, once in a great while, a saint may come along who is gifted by the god with the trick of it.”
“The trick of what?” said Ista, with a patience she did not feel.
“The trick of extracting the demon from a human mount and returning it to the god, and yet leaving the person alive. And with the soul and wits intact, or nearly so, if it goes well.”
“And . . . what is the trick of it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Ista’s voice grew edged. “Did you sleep through all your classes in that seminary back in Casilchas, dy Cabon? You are supposed to be my spiritual conductor! I swear you could not conduct a quill from one side of a page to the other!”
“It’s not a trick,” he said, harried. “It’s a miracle. You cannot pull miracles out of a book, by rote.”
Ista clenched her teeth, both infuriated and ashamed. “Yes,” she said lowly. “I know.” She sat back. “So . . . what happened to the saint?”
“Murdered. By that same troop of Jokonan raiders who overtook us on the road in Tolnoxo.”
“Ah,” breathed Ista. “That divine. I heard of her. The march of Rauma’s bastard half sister, I was told by one of the women captives.” Raped, tortured, and burned alive in the rubble of the Bastard’s Tower. Thus do the gods reward Their servants.
“Is she?” said dy Cabon in a tone of interest. “I mean . . . was she.”
Liss put in indignantly, “What blasphemy, to slay a saint! Lord Arhys said that of the three hundred men who left Jokona, no more than three returned alive. Now we see why!”
“What waste.” The divine signed himself. “But if it is so, she was surely avenged.”
“I would be considerably more impressed with your god, dy Cabon,” said Ista through her teeth, “if He could have arranged one life’s worth of simple protection in advance, rather than three hundred lives’ worth of gaudy vengeance afterward.” She drew a long, difficult breath. “My second sight has returned.”
His head swiveled, and his arrested gaze flashed to her face. “How did this come about? And when?”
Ista snorted. “You were there, or nearly so. I doubt you have forgot that dream.”
His overheated pink flushed redder, then paled. Whatever he was trying to say, he could not get it out. He choked and tried again. “That was real?”
Ista touched her forehead. “He kissed me on the brow, here, as once His Mother