Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [135]
Ista said, “A man I know who had a mystic vision, under the most extraordinary circumstances, once told me he saw the dying souls rising up like flowers in the goddess’s garden. But he was a devotee of the Lady of Spring. I think each god may have some different metaphor—fine animals for the Son of Autumn, I have heard, strong men and beautiful women for the Father and the Mother. For the Bastard—what?”
“He takes us as we are. I hope.”
“Hm.”
“But no,” dy Cabon continued, “there were no special tricks or even prayers. The divine said she did not need them. As she was the one doing the dying, I didn’t argue. I asked her what it was like, dying. She gave me such a look out of the corner of her eye, and told me, pretty tartly, that when she found out she’d be sure to let me know. The archdivine signed me to cut the ferret’s throat then, which I did, into a basin. The old woman sighed, and snorted, as if at some other foolish remark like mine, which we could not hear. And then she stopped. It took her only a moment to pass from life to death, but it was unmistakable. Not a sleep. An emptying out. And that was that. Except for the cleaning up after.”
“That . . . is not especially helpful,” sighed Ista.
“It was what I saw. I suspect she saw more. But I can scarcely imagine what.”
“In my dream—the dream you entered into—the god kissed me twice. The first time on the brow”—she touched the spot—“as His Mother once did, and so I recognized it as the gift of second sight, of seeing the world of spirit directly as the gods do, for I had received it so before. But then he kissed me a second time, on—in—my mouth. More deeply and disturbingly. Learned, tell me, what was the meaning of that second kiss? You must know—you were right there.”
He gulped and blushed. “Royina, I cannot guess. The mouth is the Bastard’s own theological sign and signifier upon our bodies, as the thumbs are upon our hands. Did He give you no other clues but me?”
She shook her head. “The next day, Goram, with some very confused notion about a royina—even if only a dowager royina—being able to undo what a princess had done, invited me in to kiss his master. And for an elated moment, I thought I’d solved the riddle—that it was to be a kiss of life, as in the children’s story. But it didn’t work. Nor on Lord Arhys, when I attempted him, later. I did not take the trial further afield, fortunately for my reputation in this castle. The kiss was clearly something else, some other gift or burden.”
Ista drew breath. “I face a three-way knot. Two parts may be loosed together; if I could find some way to banish Cattilara’s demon, Illvin would be freed, and the marchess saved. But what hope may be found for Arhys? I saw his soul, Learned. He is surely sundered, or my inner eyes are blind. It would be bad enough to complete his death, and lose him to his god. It would be worse to secure his damnation, and lose him to nothingness.”
“I . . . um . . . know that some souls, suffering especially disrupted deaths, have lingered for a few days, to be helped on their way by the prayers and ceremonies of their funerals. Slipped through the doors of their deaths before they quite shut.”
“Might the rites of the Temple help him find his way to his god, then?” It was a bizarre image; would Arhys walk to his own funeral, lie down on his bier?
He grimaced. “Three months seems very late. Choice is the trial of all who are trapped in time; and that choice is the last one time imposes. If his moment for decision still lingered, through some habit of the body, could your second sight tell?”
“Yes,” said Ista lowly. “It can. But I want another answer. I do not like this one. I had hopes of