Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [130]
“I see.” He forced a grimace into an unfelt smile. He paused a moment as if considering what to say for himself—apologize for being dead, perhaps?—then, apparently defeated by the quandary, passed on to more immediate affairs. “My scouts are dispatched, but not yet returned. Our prisoners were not very cooperative, but it appears their patrol was the screen of some larger force, given the task of cutting communications on the road between Porifors and Oby. And that the attack on dy Gura and the divine was premature in some fashion that we were unable to extract from them, for all the howls we squeezed out. We are taking precautions—topping our cisterns, warning the town, sending riders to alert outlying areas to be on guard. I have heard nothing of such a Jokonan force from my own men along the border, but . . . I have been much distracted from my duties these past few days.”
Ista pursed her lips on a worried exhalation. “An attack from Jokona? Why now?”
He shrugged. “A delayed reprisal for the death of their princess? We had expected one before this. Or . . . a much-less-delayed attempt to regain a great prize, lately lost.” His gaze on her was grave.
Despite the heat, Ista shivered. “I would not chose to bring down such trouble on any host, least of all you. Perhaps . . . I should remove to Oby.” Run away? A beguilingly sensible cowardice, that. Leave this castle, leave this tangle, leave these anguished and benighted souls to sink under the accumulating weight of their misjudgments, misery, and love . . . she could run away. She could.
“Perhaps.” He gave her an ambiguous nod. “But only if we can be sure we have secured the road, or else we would just be delivering you into Jokonan hands, a gift already unwrapped. I must ride out this afternoon—I can’t stop now. You must see that,” he added with peculiar earnestness. “You must not stop me now.”
“Since I know not how,” she sighed, “you are safe from that chance for the moment. Other chances, I cannot speak for.”
“I shall be forced to take my rest, shortly—”
“Illvin must be allowed to eat, especially now,” she said, alarmed.
“I do not wish otherwise. But I would see his new wound, first.”
“Ah. That would be wise, I think.”
As he seemed to expect her company, she rose and followed him up the stairs, her people trailing in unconcealed curiosity. The entry of so many persons alarmed Goram, whom Ista tried to reassure with a few soft words; he seemed more consoled by Liss’s kindly pat on his shoulder. At the march’s direction, he unwrapped Illvin’s new bandage. Arhys’s inspection was brief, experienced, and grim. Foix and dy Cabon peered with diffident interest at the bloody tear in Arhys’s tunic as he bent over his silent brother. When the march turned away, they crowded up to the bedside to get a whispered account from Liss.
Arhys’s hand clenched and unclenched on his sword hilt. He murmured to Ista, standing with him a little apart, “I confess, I was not altogether sorry to find those Jokonan soldiers out on my road this morning. I think some part of me was starting to hope for a better death. Less . . . ignominious, than the first, less shameful to my father’s honor. I see there is a problem with this plan.”
“Yes,” said Ista.
“I feel as though I am lost in some dark and evil maze, and cannot find my way out.”
“Yes,” said Ista. “But . . . no longer alone in the labyrinth, at least.”
His smile flickered; he squeezed her hand. “Indeed. My good company grows apace since the gods guided you here. That is a greater comfort than I had expected.”
The meal tray arrived. Lord Arhys excused himself; Ista trusted he would find the safe harbor of his bed before his midday collapse overtook him. She ushered her own people out again, to give Goram time to do his necessary work, but she directed dy Cabon to stay, assist, and observe.
Leaning on the gallery railing, she watched Lord