Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [67]
Arhys dy Lutez had grown still as stone, beneath her. “Royina?” he echoed. “This is Dowager Royina Ista?”
Ferda looked up, grinning. “Aye, sir? If you are her rescuer, I shall kiss your hands and feet! We were in agony when we counted the women captives and found her gone.”
The march stared at Ista as though she had transmuted into some startling creature of myth before his eyes. Perhaps I have. Which of the several versions of the death of his father at Roya Ias’s hands had he heard? Which lie did he believe true?
“My apologies, March,” said Ista, with a crispness she did not feel. “The Sera dy Ajelo was my chosen incognito, for humility’s sake on my pilgrimage, but for safety’s sake thereafter.” Not that it had worked. “But now I am delivered by your bravery, I can dare to be Ista dy Chalion once more.”
“Well,” he said after a moment. “Dy Tolnoxo wasn’t wrong about everything after all. What a surprise.”
She glanced up through her lashes. The mask was back, now, tied tight. The march let her down very carefully into Ferda’s upreaching arms.
CHAPTER NINE
I STA CLUNG TO FERDA’S ELBOW AS HE ESCORTED HER ACROSS THE trampled greensward and poured out an excited account of the dawn’s battle as witnessed from somewhat farther forward in the column. She did not follow one sentence in three, though she gathered he was greatly enamored of Arhys dy Lutez’s warcraft. The meadow wavered before her gaze. Her head seemed poorly attached, and not always the same size. Her eyes throbbed, and as for her legs . . .
“Ferda,” she interrupted gently.
“Yes, Royina?”
“I want . . . a piece of bread and a bedroll.”
“This rough camp is no place for your repose—”
“Any bread. Any bedroll.”
“There may be some women I can find for your attendants, but they are not what you are used to—”
“Your bedroll would do.”
“Royina, I—”
“If you do not give me a bedroll at once, I am going to sit down on the ground right here and start to cry. Now.”
This threat, delivered in a dead-level tone, seemed to get through at last; at least, he stopped worrying about all the things he thought she ought to have, that weren’t here, and provided what she asked for, which was. He led her to the officers’ tents by the trees, picked one apparently at random, poked his head inside, and ushered her within. It was stuffy and warm, and smelled of mildew, strange men, leather, horses, and oil for blades and mail. There was a bedroll. She lay down on it, boots, bloody skirts, and all.
Ferda returned in a few minutes with a piece of brown bread. She held up one hand and gave a vague wave; he pressed the morsel into it. She gnawed it sleepily. When the tent’s owner returned . . . someone else could deal with him. Foix could have convinced him that this blatant theft was an honor to be devoutly treasured, she had no doubt. Ferda might do almost as well. She was worried about Foix and dy Cabon. Were they still afoot in the wilderness? Liss had clearly escaped and reached Maradi, but what had she done after that? Had they found each other yet? And . . . and . . .
SHE PULLED OPEN GLUEY EYES AND STARED UPWARD. POINTS OF light leaked through the tent fabric’s rough weave, winking as a faint breeze moved the leaves overhead. Her body felt beaten, and her head ached. A half-chewed morsel of bread lay where it had fallen from her hand. Afternoon? By the evidence of the light and her bladder, no later.
An apprehensive female voice whispered, “Lady? Are you awake?”
She groaned and rolled over to find that Ferda, or someone, had found attendants for her after all. Two rough-looking camp followers and a clean woman in the Mother’s green of a medical acolyte awaited her wakening. The acolyte, it transpired, had been conscripted from the nearest town by one of the march’s couriers. They shortly proved to have more practical skills among them than the whole troop of highborn ladies back in Valenda who had