Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [35]
Dy Cabon’s brow wrinkled. “But . . . was not this posthumous slander of Lord dy Lutez by your husband equally a slander of you, lady?”
Ista faltered at this unconsidered view. “Ias knew the truth. What other opinion mattered? That the world should think me, falsely, an adulteress, seemed far less hideous than that it should know me truly a murderess. But Ias died of grief thereafter, deserting me, leaving me to wail in the ashes of the disaster, mind-fogged and accursed still.”
“How old were you?” asked dy Cabon.
“Nineteen when it began. Twenty-two when it ended.” She frowned. When had that begun to seem so . . .
“You were very young for so great a burden,” he offered, voicing almost her own thought.
Her lips thinned in denial. “Officers like Ferda and Foix are sent to fight and die at no greater age. I was older then than Iselle is now, who bears the whole of the royacy of Chalion upon her slim shoulders, not just the woman’s half.”
“But not alone. She has great courtiers, and Royse-Consort Bergon.”
“Ias had dy Lutez.”
“Whom did you have, lady?”
Ista fell silent. She could not remember. Had she truly been so alone? She shook her head, drew breath. “Another generation brought another man, humbler and greater than dy Lutez, of deeper mind, more equal to the task. The curse was broken, but not by me. Yet not before my son Teidez died of it as well—of the curse, of my failure to lift it when he was a child, of betrayal by and of those who should have protected and guided him. Three years ago, by the labor and sacrifice of others, I was released from my long bondage. Into the silence of my life in Valenda. Unbearable silence. I am not old—”
Dy Cabon waved his plump hands in protest. “Indeed, no, my lady! You are quite lovely still!”
She made a sharp gesture, cutting off his misconstrual. “My mother was forty when I was born, her last child. I am forty now, in this ill-made spring of her death. One-half my life lies behind me, and half of that stolen from me by Fonsa’s great curse. One-half lies before. Shall it hold only a long, slow decay?”
“Surely not, lady!”
She shrugged. “I have made this confession twice now. Perhaps some third occasion will release me.”
“The gods . . . the gods may forgive much, to a truly penitent heart.”
Her smile grew bitter as desert brine. “The gods may forgive Ista all day long. But if Ista does not forgive Ista, the gods may go hang themselves.”
His “Oh” was very small. But, earnest faithful creature, he had to try again. “But to turn away so—dare I say it, Royina—you betray your gifts!”
She leaned forward, lowered her voice to a husky growl. “No, Learned. You daren’t.”
He sat back and was very quiet for several moments after that. At length, his face screwed up again. “Then what of your pilgrimage, Royina?”
She grimaced, waved a hand. “Pick a route to the best-laid tables, if you wish. Let us go anywhere, so long as it does not return to Valenda.” So long as it does not return to Ista dy Chalion.
“You must go home eventually.”
“I would throw myself off a precipice first, except that I would land in the arms of the gods, Whom I do not wish to see again. That escape is blocked. I must go on living. And living. And living . . .” She cut off her rising tones. “The world is ashes and the gods are a horror. Tell me, Learned, what other place is there for me to go?”
He shook his head, eyes very wide. Now she’d terrorized him, and she was sorry for it. She patted his hand contritely. “In truth, these few days of travel have brought me more ease than