Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [201]
“All dark, you were,” Foix said. “Makes sense. The Jokonan sorcerers would hardly have towed you into Joen’s presence looking like some holy fire ship. They weren’t that stupid. But when you lit up . . .” He fell silent. Foix was not, Ista thought, an inarticulate man; but she began to see why Lord dy Cazaril said only poetry could come to grips with the gods. Foix finally managed, “I have never seen anything like it. I’m glad that I did. But if I never see anything like it again, that will be all right.”
“I could not see it,” said Illvin, in a tone of deep regret. “But I could see when things begin to happen, well enough.”
“I am glad you were there,” said Ista.
“I did little enough,” he sighed.
“You bore witness. That means the world to me. And there was that kiss. It did not seem such a small thing.”
He blushed. “My apologies, Royina. I was distraught. I thought to draw you back from death, as you once seemed to do for me.”
“Illvin?”
“Yes, Royina?”
“You did draw me back.”
“Oh.” He rode along very quietly for a time. But a strange smile crept across his face, and would not go away again.
At length he looked up and rose in his stirrups, summoning some unimaginable reserve of energy. “Hah,” he whispered. Ista followed his glance. It took her a moment to discern the faint clear smokes of careful fires, marking a camp concealed in the watercourse that opened below them. The fires were not few. They followed the ridge around a slight bend, and yet more of the camp came into view. Hundreds of men and horses, more than hundreds—she could not count their numbers, half-hidden as they were.
“Oby,” said Illvin in satisfaction. “He made excellent time. Though I thank the gods he was no faster.”
“Good,” breathed Ista in relief. “I’m done.”
“Indeed, and we do thank you for your work, without which we would all be dead in some hideous and uncanny fashion by now. I, on the other hand, still have fifteen hundred ordinary Jokonans to remove from around Porifors. I don’t know if Oby meant to wait for dawn, but if we struck more quickly . . .” His eyes glazed over in a familiar fashion, alternating shrewd glances summing the men below with staring off at nothing; Ista forbore to interrupt.
A patrol galloped up to them. “Ser dy Arbanos!” cried its astonished officer, waving wildly at Illvin. “Five gods, you’re alive!” The riders formed around them in excited escort and swept them into the part of the camp, marked by tents in the shade, where their commanders had no doubt set up their headquarters.
A voice rang from the trees, and a familiar form shot from the green shadows. “Foix! Foix! The Daughter be thanked!” Ferda ran toward them; Foix swung from his saddle to embrace his eager brother.
“What are these men?” Illvin inquired of dy Oby’s officer, nodding toward an unfamiliar company of horsemen in black and green. The riders opened out to reveal a crowd of people approaching on foot, some running, some lumbering, some proceeding more slowly and decorously, all calling out to Ista.
Ista stared, torn between joy and dismay. “Bastard spare me, it is my brother dy Baocia,” she said in a stunned voice. “And dy Ferrej, and Lady dy Hueltar, and Divine Tovia, and all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LORD DY BAOCIA AND SER DY FERREJ LED THE RUSH TO ISTA’S side. The red stallion laid his ears back, squealed, and snapped his teeth, and both men recoiled several feet.
“Five gods, Ista,” dy Baocia cried, temporarily diverted, “that horse! Who was mad enough to put you up on such a beast?”
Ista patted Demon’s neck. “He suits me very well. He belongs to Lord Illvin, in part, but I suspect he may become a permanent loan.”
“From both his masters, it seems,” murmured Illvin. He glanced across the camp. “Royina—Ista—love, I must report first to March dy Oby.” His expression grew grim. “His daughter is still trapped