Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [183]
“Yes,” said Ista. “But he’s gone, now. Safe and gone.” In the grove below, the fear-crazed Jokonans, she somehow knew, were hacking Arhys’s body to bits, pulling it apart, terrified that it might yet reassemble and rise once more against them. She did not see any merit in mentioning this to Illvin just now.
Cattilara lay on her side, curled up. She cried in quiet, stuttering sobs, almost unable to breathe, clutching the sponge that had stanched her stomach so hard that the blood bubbled through her fingers. The sewing woman patted her clumsily and uselessly on the shoulder.
The world darkened around Ista, as if dawn, appalled by the scene, retreated again over the horizon. Strolling into in her mind like some casual wayfarer, a Voice spoke: familiar, ironic, and immense.
My Word. Spacious in here all of a sudden, is it not?
“What are You doing here now? I thought this was become your Step-father’s battlefield.”
You invited Me. Come, come, you can’t deny it: I heard you whispering over in that corner.
She was not sure she had any emotions left for this. Not rage, in any case. Her disembodied quietude might be either serenity or shock. But the Bastard was surely a god to be approached with caution. “Why do you not appear in front of me?”
Because I am behind you, now. The Voice grew warm and amused. The press of an enormous belly seemed to heat her back, along with an obscene implication of loins against her buttocks, and a pressure of wide hands upon her shoulders.
“You have a vile sense of humor,” she said weakly.
Yes, and you catch every one of My jokes, too. I love a woman with a keen ear. He seemed to breathe into hers. You should have a keen tongue to go with them, I vow.
Her mouth filled with fire.
“Why am I here?”
To complete Arhys’s victory. If you can.
The Voice was gone. The darkness faded into a streaked pale dawnlight. She found herself fallen on her knees on the tower platform, leaning into Illvin’s alarmed grip.
“Ista? Ista!” he was saying into her ear. “Royina, dear, don’t frighten a poor naked cavalier. Speak to me, yes?”
She blinked open blurry eyes. He was only a nearly naked cavalier, she discovered to her disappointment. The bloodstained rags of his linen trousers were still rucked up around his loins. He was a most magnificent mess otherwise, true, dark matted hair falling in a wild tangle over his face and shoulders, sweaty and soot-smeared and smelly and striped with red. But all his scars were old ones, healed and pale. He huffed with relief when he saw her looking back at him and bent his neck to kiss her. She fended off his lips with her palm. “Wait, not yet.”
“What was that?” he asked.
“Did you hear anything? Or see anyone?”
“No, but I’ll swear you did.”
“What, would you not swear instead that I am mad?”
“No.”
“And yet you see no god lights, hear no voices. How do you know?”
“I saw my brother’s face when you blessed him. And yours when he blessed you. If that is madness, I would run down the road after it dressed as I am, and barefoot.”
“I will walk slowly.”
“. . . Good.”
He helped her to her feet.
Liss said anxiously, “Royina, what of Foix?”
Ista sighed. “Foix went down beneath many soldiers and sorcerers. I did not see his soul arise, nor his demon flee. I fear he is taken, perhaps wounded as well.”
“That’s . . . not good,” said dy Cabon, still kneeling by Illvin’s pallet. His teeth grated in a little, nervous gesture. “Do you think . . . do you think Joen can bind him into her array?”
“I think yes, given time. What I do not know is how long he can resist her.” Five gods, I do not wish to lose another boy.
“Not good at all,” Illvin agreed.
He had barely exhaled, steadying himself upright, when a shout rang out, Goram