Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [46]
Lord dy Cazaril claimed that the world of the spirit and the world of matter existed side by side, like two sides of a coin, or a wall; the gods were not far away in some other space, but in this very one, continuously, just around some strange corner of perception. A presence as pervasive and invisible as sunlight on skin, as though one stood naked and blindfolded in an unimaginable noon.
Demons as well, though they were more like thieves putting a hand through a window. What occupied Foix’s space, now? If both brothers came up behind her, would she know which was which without looking?
She closed her eyes, to test her perceptions. The creak of her saddle, the plodding of the other mounts, the faint crack as a hoof struck a stone; the smell of her horse, of her sweat, of the cool breath of pines . . . nothing more, now.
And then she wondered what the demon saw when it looked at Ista.
THEY MADE CAMP BY ANOTHER CLEAR STREAM WHEN THERE WAS barely enough light left to find firewood. The men gathered plenty; Ista suspected she was not the only one worried about wildlife. They also built her and Liss a little bower, of sorts, with logs and branches, floored with a hay of hastily cut yellow grasses. It did not look especially bear-proof to her.
Foix rejected being treated as an invalid and insisted on gathering wood as well. Ista watched him discreetly, and so, she noticed, did dy Cabon. Foix heaved over one good-sized log only to find it rotten, crawling with grubs. He stared down at his find with a very odd look on his face.
“Learned,” he said quietly.
“Yes, Foix?”
“Will I turn into a bear? Or into a madman who thinks he’s a bear?”
“No. Neither,” said dy Cabon firmly. Though whether truly, Ista suspected even he did not know. “That will wear off.”
Dy Cabon spoke to reassure, but did not seem to partake of the comfort himself. Because if the demon became less bearlike, it could only be because it was growing more Foix-like?
“Good,” sighed Foix. His face screwed up. “Because those look delicious.” He kicked the log back over again with rather more force than was necessary and went to look for a drier deadfall.
Dy Cabon lingered by Ista. “Lady . . .”
Five gods, his plaintive tone of voice was just like Foix’s, a moment ago. She barely turned her soothing Yes, dy Cabon? into a sharper, “What?” lest he take her for mocking him.
“About your dreams. The god-touched ones you had, so long ago.”
Not long ago enough. “What about them?”
“Well . . . how do you know when dreams are real? How do you tell good prophecy from, say, bad fish?”
“There is nothing good about prophecy. All I can tell you is, they are unmistakable. As if more real than memory, not less.” Her voice went harsh in sudden suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
He tapped his fingers nervously against the side of one broad hip. “I thought you might instruct me.”
“What, the conductor conducted?” She tried to turn this off lightly, though her stomach chilled. “The Temple would disapprove.”
“I think not so, lady. What apprentice would not seek advice from a master, if he could? If he found himself with a commission far beyond his skills?”
Her eyes narrowed. Five gods—and never had the oath seemed more apropos—what dreams had come to him? Did a lean man lie in a sleep like death, on a bed in a dark chamber . . . she would not even hint of that secret vision. “What dreams have you been having?”
“I dreamed of you.”
“Well, so. People do dream of those they know.”
“Yes, but this was before. Once, before I ever saw you that first day out riding on the road near Valenda.”
“Perhaps . . . were you ever in Cardegoss as a child, or elsewhere, when Ias and I made a progress? Your father, or someone, might have put you on his shoulder to see