Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [199]
“Right,” said Foix. “Don’t do anything that looks too exciting, though. I’d rather not attempt anything gaudier, and there are limits to mild misdirection.”
“Indeed,” murmured Illvin.
They trod on for a few more steps.
“Well,” said Foix, stopping before the lines, “have you a preference, horse-master?”
“Anything already saddled and bridled.”
One choice was made for them. At the end of the line, a tall, ugly chestnut stallion suddenly lifted its head and nickered in excitement. It began shifting its haunches from side to side, disturbing the horses tied not-too-closely to it. Ears pricked, it practically danced as they neared, and raised and lowered its head, snorting.
“Bastard’s eyes, Royina, can you shut that stupid monster up?” Foix muttered. “Men are starting to stare.”
“Me?”
“It’s you it wants.”
“Set me down, then.”
Illvin did so, letting her slide through his arms to her feet, gazing into her face with a searching look that was, for an instant, as good as a kiss, and holding her upright on his arm. She was very glad for the arm.
She approached the possessed animal, who lowered its head again and laid its face flat to her bloody bodice in what might be submission, love, or dementia. She looked it over in fascination. It still wore the bridle with the deep curb bit. A dozen cuts scored its body, but they were already starting to heal with unnatural speed. “Yes, yes,” she murmured soothingly. “It’s all right. Where he went, you could not follow. You did what you could. It’s all right now.” She tried to shake off her dreamy lassitude, saying to Illvin, “I believe I had better ride this one. If you don’t want it following after us whinnying its heart out.” She stood on tiptoe and glanced along the serrated ridge of its backbone. “Find a saddle, though,” she added.
Foix filched a saddle from a pile farther down the line, and Illvin tightened the girths while Foix picked out two more horses.
“What is he called?” she asked Illvin as he cupped his hands to give her a leg up. It seemed a very long way to the ground, typical of his mounts. She disposed her skirts awkwardly in the military saddle, and let Illvin’s warm hands guide her ankles to the stirrups. His fingers lingered unhappily over the bruises and cuts on her feet.
Illvin cleared his throat. “I’d really rather not say. It’s, um . . . crude. He was never a lady’s mount. Actually, he was never any sane person’s mount.”
“Oh? You rode him.” She patted the snaky neck; the horse turned its head around and nuzzled her bare foot. “Well, if he is to be a lady’s mount from now on, he’d probably better have another name, then. Demon will do.”
Illvin cocked his brows up at her, and a little grin flashed across his tense mouth. “Nicely.”
He turned to take his own horse in hand, hesitating briefly in order to gather his strength before swinging himself up into the saddle. He settled himself with a betraying grunt of exhaustion. By mutual, unspoken assent, they started off across the bordering field together at a staid walk. Somewhere back in the grove, something had caught fire; Ista could hear the muted roar of flames and men’s cries for water. How much pent-up chaos, both natural and unnatural, had been released upon the Jokonans by Joen’s death? She did not look back.
“Turn left,” Illvin told Foix.
“Don’t we want to circle out of sight over that rise to the north?”
“Eventually. There’s a gully along here that will hide us sooner. Go slowly, though, it’s likely to be patrolled. That’s where I’d put men, anyway.”
The counterfeit calm held. The sharpening noise of the camp fell behind them, and the empty countryside began to feign the air of some other quiet, drowsy, overwarm afternoon, one not given over to war, sorcery, gods, and madness.
“At the earliest chance,” Ista told Illvin, “you must bring Goram to me.”
“Whatever you desire, Royina.” Illvin looked over the ground they traversed, turning in his saddle.
“Shall we attempt to circle back to Porifors?” asked Foix, following his gaze back over the treetops to the distant