Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [161]
The demon’s lips curved up in an unpleasant smile. “Exactly the reverse. For Joen, the purpose was binding, not separation. When we’d fed enough, she pulled us out, tearing the souls apart. Taking what she desired for us, leaving the rest as waste. A process equally painful to both parties, we can assure you, though it helped keep us off-balance and servile, we suppose.”
Ista was uncertain why the demon had suddenly grown so forthcoming, but she determined to press on while its mood lasted. “The old demon,” she repeated. “What is this?”
“Ah. Joen’s legacy,” said the demon. It spoke now, Ista thought, in the scholar’s voice, precise and dry, its Ibran of a pure native accent from somewhere in central Chalion, not at all like Cattilara’s softer northern speech. Nor did the young marchess speak in quite such rounded periods. “Shall we tell you all the tale of it? The enemies of our enemy are no friends to us. And yet, why not? We know what awaits us, why shouldn’t you? Fools.” This last was delivered in an oddly dispassionate tone.
It waited for the body to supply it with breath again, and continued, “In the days of the Golden General’s glory, men swarmed in from the Archipelago, seeking advancement in his court and spoils on his battlefields. Among them was an old, old sorcerer, who had long plied his demon magic in the islands among the Quadrenes, passing among them subtly and uncaught. His demon was older still, dozens of lives old. The chaos and disorder of the promised war attracted them like perfume. It was a vast mistake, for the Lion of Roknar was beloved of the Father Himself, and possessed many god-gifts, among them the inner sight.
“The old sorcerer was perceived, accused, convicted, and burned. In its immense accumulated craft, the ancient demon jumped from its dying mount and evaded the Quadrene divines’ precautions. Yet it could not jump so far as to reach safety, so it chose for its new mount a person whom the Golden General would not burn—his three-year-old daughter, Joen.”
“Princess Joen has been a sorceress all these years?” cried dy Cabon in astonishment.
“Not quite.” The demon smiled briefly, bitterly, with Cattilara’s lips. “The Golden General was wild with rage and grief. He turned to his god in prayer, and yet another gift was granted to him. The Father gave it to him to encapsulate the demon, to put it to sleep within the little girl. It was the Lion’s intention, then, when Chalion was conquered, to secretly seize and bring back a saint of the Bastard, if any such could be found, to excise the demon safely from his daughter according to the forbidden Quintarian rites. And then he rode off to his war.
“But by Roya Fonsa’s great work of sacrifice, the Lion of Roknar died before he could accomplish his aims, or return. The disunited princedoms settled into another generation of border war with the Quintarian royacies. And the sealed demon waited for its mount’s death, that it might be released again into the world of men. For fifty years, it waited.
“Then, some three years past, something happened. The capsule broke open, releasing the demon into Joen. But not into the malleable child the demon had chosen. Into the harsh, determined, embittered, and embattled woman.”
“How?” asked dy Cabon.
“Yes,” said Illvin. “Why hold fifty years, then fail? Unless it was set so . . .”
“I know how,” said Ista, her mind burning with cold satisfaction. “I believe I could name the very day and hour. I will tell you in a moment. But hush, let it go on. Then what?”
The demon’s eyes narrowed at her in something like respect. “Joen was in a desperate quandary, then. She was co-regent for Prince Sordso with her two closest enemies, the general of Jokona and her late husband’s brother. Sordso was a surly young sot who hated them all. The general and his uncle were conspiring to seize Sordso and put his uncle on the throne of