Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [206]
A RELAY OF DY OBY’S MEN WERE HAULING OUT RUBBLE FROM THE gates of Porifors as Ista’s party rode in. Ista watched them work with glad approval. The rebuilding would be a longer project, but with so many hands, at least the clearing and cleaning would be swiftly accomplished.
The forecourt was already swept out. The limp flowers in the two or three pots left intact on the wall even seemed to be lifting their heads again; Ista was obscurely grateful, in all the noisy confusion, that someone had spared a bit of water for them, and she wondered whose hand it had been. The apricot and the almond trees, though half-denuded, had also stopped dropping leaves. She hoped they would recover.
We can do better than hope, she realized, and thought to them, Live. By the Bastard’s blessing, I command you. If this lent the trees any special vigor, it was not instantly apparent; she trusted the ultimate results would not prove peculiar.
Ista’s heart lifted to see Lord Illvin striding through the archway. He was cleaned up, hair rebraided, freshly dressed as an officer of Porifors; it even seemed possible that he might have snatched a few hours of sleep. The shorter, stouter Lord dy Baocia pattered by his side, puffing to keep pace. At dy Baocia’s other shoulder Learned dy Cabon trod, waving eagerly at her. To her relief, a tired-looking Goram trailed immediately after them.
Cautiously, Goram took her horse’s head, eyeing the beast’s new docility askance. Ista slipped from her saddle into Illvin’s upreaching arms, returning his secret embrace on her way to the ground.
“Greetings, Ista,” said Lord dy Baocia. “Are you, um, all right now?” He bore a slightly dazed expression, as might any commander touring the inside of Castle Porifors this morning. His smile upon her was not nearly so vague as Ista was used to; in fact, she suspected she had all his attention. It felt very odd.
“Thank you, brother, I am well; a little tired, but doubtless less fatigued than many here.” She glanced at dy Cabon. “How do the sick men fare?”
“We’ve had no more deaths since yesterday noon, five gods be thanked.” He signed himself in heartfelt gratitude. “A few are even back on their feet, though I judge the rest will be as long recovering as from less uncanny illnesses. Most have been moved down to town, into the care of the temple or their relatives.”
“That is good to hear.”
“Foix and Lord Illvin have told us of the great deeds and miracles you performed yesterday in the Jokonans’ tents, by the grace of the Bastard. Is it true you died?”
“I . . . am not sure.”
“I am,” muttered Illvin. His hand had somehow neglected to release hers; they both tightened.
“I did have a very odd vision, which I promise I will recount to you at some less hurried moment, Learned.” Well, parts of it, anyway.
“For all my terror, how I wish I, too, could have been there to bear witness, Royina! I should have counted myself blessed above all in my order.”
“Oh? Well, stay a moment, then. I have another task, which presses on me. Liss, please take my horse. Goram, come here.”
Looking puzzled and wary, Goram obeyed, trudging up to her and giving her a daunted bob of his head. “Royina.” His hands clenched each other nervously, and he shot a look of supplication at his master. Illvin’s eyes narrowed in concern, and his glance at Ista sharpened.
Ista stared one last time at the hollow gaps in Goram’s soul, placed her palms upon his forehead, and poured a sudden flood of white fire out of her spirit hands into those dark and empty reservoirs. The fire splashed wildly in its new confines, then slowly settled, as if seeking its proper level. She breathed relief as the unpleasant pressure in her head vanished.
Goram thumped down cross-legged on the cobbles, his mouth open. He buried his face in his hands. After a moment, his shoulders began to shake. “Oh,” he said in a faraway voice. He started to weep—in shock, Ista supposed, and