Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [71]
She sought better control of her tone. She desperately wanted him to know that she had not been his father’s lover. And why? What did it matter, at this late hour? His beliefs about dy Lutez, the father who, as far as she could tell, had ignored him utterly, were noble and romantic, and why should she take that heart’s lone legacy from him now?
She studied his tall, easy power from the corner of her eye. Well, that question answered itself, didn’t it?
It was pointless to replace his bright lie with some other lie. But to explain the truth, in all its dark complexity—and complicity—could hardly advance any secret romantic dream of hers.
Perhaps, when she knew him better, she might dare to tell all. What, that his father was drowned by my word? How well will I have to know him for that?
She took a long breath. “Your father was not a traitor, in bed or out of it. He was as courageous and noble a man as ever served Chalion. It took a task beyond all human fortitude to break him.” Failure, at the sticking point. Failure wasn’t treason, even if the rubble it left in its wake was every bit as dire.
“Lady, you bewilder me.”
Her nerve broke. Even as dy Lutez’s did, aye? “It is a state secret, and Ias died before ever releasing me from my sworn silence. I promised I would never tell a living soul. I can say no more, except to assure you that you need bear your father’s name with no shame.”
“Oh,” he echoed, his brows drawing down. “A state secret. Oh.”
And the poor man accepted that, dear gods. She wanted to shriek. Gods, why have you brought me here? Have I not been punished enough? Does this amuse you?
She spoke with a lightness she did not feel. “But enough of the dead past. Tell me of the breathing now. Tell me more about yourself.” A conversational gambit that should serve for the rest of their ride; she would not have to bestir herself for more than an occasional noise of interest, if he was like most courtiers she had known.
He shrugged. “There’s not that much to tell. I was born in this province, and have lived here all my life. I have ridden in its defense since boyhood. My mother died when we—when I was about twelve. I was raised by her faithful—by other relatives, and brought up to a soldier’s trade by need. Porifors actually came to me through my mother, confirmed to me by the provincar when I grew old enough to hold it. My father’s great possessions went mostly to his elder family, though a few estates here in Caribastos came to me by the sheer logic of it—I believe there was some trading among the executors, but it was all over my head at the time.” He fell silent.
Finished, apparently. His father, brilliant raconteur as he had been, could have held a table enthralled for an evening with no more encouragement than that.
He stared around, squinting into the sharp-edged northern light, and added one codicil. “I love this land. I would know every mile of it in the dark.”
She followed his eye around the horizon. The mountains had dwindled away altogether, into a wide, rolling country, open to the bright sky. It was warm enough for olive groves, shining silver-green largesse scattered here and there across the long slopes. A few walled villages sat like light-gilded toys at the edges of sight. In this peaceful day, yokes of oxen plowed far valleys. A tall wheel groaned in a watercourse, its voice softened by distance, lifting moisture to irrigate the garden plots and rows of vines embroidered upon the lower and more fertile ground. Along the heights, the gray bones of the world poked through the thinner soil, soaking in the sun like old men on a plaza bench.
I think you left some hard turns out of your tale, too. But that last remark had the weight and density of a truth too large to be denied. How like a man, to change from mask to mask like a player, concealing all intention, yet leave his heart out on the table, carelessly, unregarded, for all to behold.
A scout rode up and greeted his commander with a deferential salute. Arhys rode aside for a moment to confer with him, then