Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [163]
Illvin met dy Cabon’s eyes; the divine gave a reflective nod.
Ista mused, “I wonder, if Arvol and Ias and I had succeeded in breaking the curse twenty years ago, would Joen have been granted her demon two decades sooner? And which of them would have been ascendant then?”
Dy Cabon stared down at Cattilara with an expression of arrested theological curiosity. “I wonder if the actions of this same Roknari master sorcerer would account for the outbreak of elementals that Chalion suffered in Fonsa’s day . . . ?” He shook off the distractions of historical theory, as it perhaps occurred to him that the outbreak they faced now was suddenly all too present and practical.
Why is the creature telling us all this? Ista wondered. To create fear and disorder among her little company? To spread its own distress? She glanced around at Foix’s stolidity, dy Cabon’s thoughtfulness, Illvin’s shrewd concentration. If that was the plan, it wasn’t working. Maybe it had simply stolen enough humanity by now to enjoy complaining to an attentive audience. Maybe, with all hope of flight lost, at some last gasp and despite its preferred solitary nature, it sought allies.
The door opened; startled, Ista snapped around. Lord Arhys entered and gave her a respectful nod. She was glad to see he was mail-clad again. He, at least, would not be overheated by his armor. He was followed by maids with trays, a welcome sight, and Goram, considerably recovered, with a pile of Illvin’s clothing and war gear.
Ista’s party seized on the contents of the trays without ceremony. Arhys strode to the bedside and stared down at his wife, his face bleak. The demon looked back, but said nothing. Ista hoped that wasn’t Cattilara’s longing leaking into in its eyes. Then she wondered if her own eyes had looked like that, resting on him.
“Is she awake?” Arhys flexed his hand in puzzlement. “How then do I . . . ?”
“Cattilara sleeps,” Ista told him. “We gave her demon access to her mouth, that it might speak. Which it has.”
“What’s arrived out there, Arhys?” demanded Illvin. He alternated downing bites of meat wrapped in bread and swallowing gulps of cold tea with being dressed by his groom.
“About fifteen hundred Jokonan soldiers, my scouts estimate. Five hundred in each column. My two scouts who made it back, that is. Since the ring of besiegers is now closed around Porifors, I despair of the other dozen. I have never lost so many scouts before.”
“Siege engines?” Illvin asked around a mouthful of bread, thrusting a leg into a boot of his own held by the kneeling Goram. The lost manservant’s boots were tossed aside. Dead man’s shoes? No telling now.
“None reported. Supply wagons, yes, but no more.”
“Huh.”
Arhys glanced at Ista. She did not know what expression was on her face, but he attempted reassurance. “Porifors has withstood sieges before, Royina. The town walls are secured as well—I have two hundred men of my own down there, and half the townsmen are former garrison soldiers. There are tunnels between us to shift reinforcements. What was it, Illvin, fifteen years ago that the Fox of Ibra sent up an assault of three thousands? We held them for half a month, till dy Caribastos and dy Tolnoxo—the present provincar’s father—relieved us.”
“I don’t think it’s siege engines that Jokona sends against us now,” said Illvin. “I think it’s sorcerers.” He supplied his brother with a blunt synopsis of the demon’s testimony. As he spoke, Goram, pale but resolute, expertly combed back his hair and bound it in a tight knot at his nape, then shook out his mail coat ready to don.
“If this madwoman Joen truly drags a dozen or more sorcerers on leashes,” Illvin concluded, ducking into his mail, “you may be sure shemeans to let them slip against us. If not for revenge for her lost daughter, then for a blow against Chalion to turn the whole line of attack that Marshal dy Palliar plans against Borasnen. An early strike, and hard; and if successful, to be followed by a sweep into north-central Chalion before Iselle and Bergon’s forces are properly mustered . . . that’s the way I