Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [157]
“What happened up there on the road?” he asked. “What struck you to the ground? Sorcery, truly?”
“Truly. Sordso the Sot is now Sordso the Sorcerer, it seems. How he came by his demon, I know not. But I agree with you—his dead sister’s old demon must know. If we must face Sordso in battle . . . does demon magic have a range, do you know? Never mind, I’ll ask dy Cabon. I wonder if Foix knows by experiment? I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Three sorcerers, Foix reported. At least,” said Illvin. “Or so he thought he perceived, among the Jokonan officers.”
“What?” Ista’s eyes widened. She thought of the tangle of strange lines emanating like a nest of snakes from Dowager Princess Joen’s belly. One had held its jaws clamped into Sordso, no question. “Then there may be more than three.” A dozen? Twenty?
“You saw more sorcerers?”
“I saw something. Something very uncanny.”
He twisted again to look over his shoulder.
“What do you see now?” Ista asked.
“Not Arhys, yet. Blast the man. He always has to be the last one out ali—the last one out. I’ve told him such bravado has no place in a responsible commander. It works on the boys, though, I admit it does. Bastard’s hell, it works on me, and I know better . . . ah.” He turned again, a grim smile of temporary relief tweaking up one corner of his bleeding mouth. He let his mount slow to a walk, and frowned; the horse was distinctly limping, now. But Castle Porifors loomed up almost overhead. A few last stragglers were streaming into the town gates from the country round about. The refugees’ shouting sounded strained, but not panicked.
Arhys trotted up beside them on a Jokonan horse, presumably obtained by Illvin from the same convenient store as his sword collection. His white-faced page sat up behind, bravely not crying. Ista’s inner eye checked the line of pale soul-fire pouring into the march’s heart; clearly, Catti still lived, wherever she was. The flow was reduced from its earlier terrifying rush, but still very heavy.
Goram, Ista was glad to see, clung on behind another soldier, and Cattilara’s distraught young woman behind a third. Of the barefoot manservant, she saw no sign. Arhys saluted his brother with a casual wave, as casually returned; his eyes upon Ista were grave and worried.
“Time to go in,” said Illvin suggestively.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” returned Arhys.
“Good.”
Their tired horses clambered up the switchback road to the castle gate and into the forecourt.
Liss bounded to receive Ista as Illvin lowered her to the ground; Foix followed, to offer her his arm. She leaned on it thankfully, as the alternative was to fall down in a heap.
“Royina, let us take you to your chamber—” he began.
“Where did you take Lady Cattilara?”
“Laid down in her bedchamber, with her women to take care of her.”
“Good. Foix, find dy Cabon and attend upon me there. Now.”
“I must look to our defenses,” said Arhys. “I’ll join you as soon as I can. If I can. Illvin . . . ?”
Illvin looked up from instructing a groom in the care of his injured horse.
Arhys’s gaze flicked briefly toward the inner court, where his and his wife’s chambers lay. “Do what you must.”
“Oh, aye.” Illvin grimaced, and turned to follow Ista. The wild excitement that had sustained him through the clash on the road was passing off. He limped like his horse, stiff and weary, as they passed under the archway to the fountain court.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CATTILARA’S CHAMBER HAD MUCH THE SAME AIR OF FEMININE refuge as when Ista had entered it on her first day at Porifors. Now, however, the marchess’s women were upset rather than welcoming: either anxious and outraged or frightened and guilty, depending on whether they had been privy to the escape plan. They stared at the royina’s present bloody, breathless,