Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [145]
They made the long climb up the valley’s steeper side and stopped to water the horses at the village with the olive grove, some five miles out from Porifors. This shade was mercifully free of bloodsucking insects. Pejar went off to inquire of the villagers for word of the wagon they pursued. Ista found herself standing and stretching next to Foix in the shadow of a huge olive bole as the sweaty horses gulped from the stream.
“Still playing with flies?” she inquired softly. “I saw that trick. No more, please, or I shall report you to the divine.”
He blushed. “It was a good deed. Besides, I wanted to please Liss.”
“Hm.” She hesitated. “Take my advice, and do not use magic to court her. Most especially, do not yield to the temptation to use it directly to induce her favor.”
By his embarrassed grin, he knew precisely what she implied—and this wasn’t the first time the notion of some sort of aphrodisiac spell had crossed his mind. “Mm.”
Ista’s voice dropped further. “For if you do, and she finds out, it will destroy her trust not only in you, but in her own mind. She would never again be sure if a thought or a feeling were truly her own. She would be constantly halting, second-guessing, turning about inside her head. Madness lies down that road. It would be less crippling and more loving if you should take a war hammer and break both her legs.”
His smile had grown fixed. “As you command. Royina.”
“I do not speak as your royina. I do not even speak as one god-touched. I speak as a woman, who has walked to the end of that road and returns to report the hazards. If you still possess half the wits you started with—and if it is indeed love you seek and not just your gratification—you will listen as a man.”
His little bow, this time, was visibly more thoughtful, his smirk wiped clean.
Pejar came back with the news that a wagon and team had indeed stopped at the grove earlier, lingering in the shade long enough to unhitch and water both pairs of horses; the wagon had left again not half an hour before. Foix grimaced satisfaction and cut their own rest short.
Another four miles of trotting brought them to the top of a long rise. They at last saw their quarry rumbling down the road, small in the distance, the wagon’s canvas top, painted with the sigil of Porifors’s garrison, bright in the sunlight. Foix waved his troop onward. They had largely closed the gap before someone from the wagon spotted them. The invisible driver whipped up the team, but the lumbering dray horses, burdened by the load they towed, were no match for the pursuers’ faster mounts.
Men of Foix’s company galloped up on either side of the noisily bouncing vehicle to lean over and seize the lead pair’s reins. As she in turn urged her horse up and around, Ista could hear Cattilara’s voice crying out in protest. The wagon slowed to a halt.
Cattilara, dressed in an elegant traveling costume of gray and gold, was crouched on the driver’s box berating a terrified Goram, who hunched down with his eyes nearly shut, clutching his team’s reins in clenched and shaking hands. Ista narrowed her eyes against the light of the world and tried to extend her inner vision to its fullest sensitivity, to directly perceive not spirits hidden in matter, but spirits alone. Was this how the gods saw the world? Cattilara’s demon was not, to Ista’s relief, expanded and dominant, but curled in on itself within her again. Another male servant, one of Cattilara’s younger ladies, and Arhys’s page cowered together in the wagon’s back.
Two nearly extinguished forms lay side by side within. With the blockage of Ista’s corporeal vision by the canvas and wood, it became almost easier to see what she was actually looking for. A wispy line of white fire, sluggishly drifting from one body to another; at a level of