Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [77]
Indeed. “Have you been wedded long?”
“Almost four years, now.” She smiled in pride.
“Children?”
Her face fell, and the volume of her voice. “Not yet.”
“Well,” said Ista, in an effort to bridge this unexpected chasm of secret woe that flashed so plainly in the girl’s face, “you are indeed young . . . let us see these garments.”
Ista’s heart sank, contemplating Cattilara’s offerings. The marchess’s tastes ran to bright, airy, fluttering confections that doubtless flattered her tall slenderness exceedingly well. Ista suspected they would make her own short body look like a dwarf dragging a curtain. Her mouth sought less blunt excuses. “I am still in mourning for the recent death of my lady mother, alas. And my pilgrimage, though most rudely interrupted by those Jokonan raiders, is far from concluded. Perhaps something in the colors proper to my grief . . . ?”
The elder of Cattilara’s ladies glanced at Ista and at the bright silks, and seemed to correctly interpret this. Much rummaging in chests and some trips to other storage places produced at length some dresses and robes of sterner cut and much-less-trailing hemlines, in suitable black and lilac. Ista smiled and shook her head at the jewel case. Cattilara contemplated the choices therein, and suddenly curtseyed and excused herself.
Ista heard her steps outside on the gallery turn in again almost at once; then through the wall, a reverberation of voices, Cattilara’s and a man’s. Lord Arhys had returned, evidently. His timbre and cadences were distinctive. The light steps dashed back, then slowed to a lady’s dignity. Cattilara entered, her lips curled up with satisfaction, and held out her hand.
In it lay a rich silver mourning brooch set with amethysts and pearls.
“My lord has not very many pieces inherited from his great father,” she said shyly, “but this is one of them. He’d be honored if you would choose to have it, for those past times’ sake.”
Ista, surprised by the sight, vented a huff of a laugh. “Indeed. I know the piece. Lord dy Lutez used to wear it in his hat, upon occasion.” Roya Ias had given it to him—one of the least of his many gifts, which had run to half his royacy before it all had come crashing down.
Cattilara gazed at her with eyes shining, Ista would swear, in a muted romantic glow. The marchess, presumably, shared her husband’s heroic theories about his father’s fall. Ista was still not sure if Arhys had believed her denial of a sexual involvement with a man whose reputation as a lover had been scarcely less famous than his reputation as a soldier, or if he’d merely acceded to her story for courtesy’s sake. Did he imagine her still in mourning for dy Lutez? For Ias? For lost love of whatever object? The brooch was an ambiguous message, if message it was.
Arhys’s flesh beneath her hand, as she had touched that misplaced wound, had been stiff and cool as wax. And yet he had risen, walked and rode, talked, kissed his wife, laughed or growled as grumpily as any breathing husband might. Ista might have convinced herself by now that she’d had a hallucination, or a dream, but for Ferda’s witness to the material reality of the blood on her palm.
Ista wrapped her hand around the mystery of his intentions, and said, “Thank you, and thank your lord for me.”
Cattilara looked immensely pleased with herself.
Ista was laid down upon Lady Cattilara’s bed with her still-damp hair spread out on a linen towel, under the guard of the acolyte on a stool across the chamber. Cattilara swept her ladies out before her and left her honored guest to rest until the evening meal was served. Probably, Ista thought, to dash off and oversee its preparation. In the quiet of the dim chamber, exhaustion and the immense relief of clean skin and clothing lent Ista a sensation—illusion?—of having come to sanctuary at last. Her headache could just be a touch of fever from her sores and her nightmare ride . . . despite the lingering hum of tension on the edge of her nerves, her eyelids drooped.
At a cool breath on her cheek, they opened again in irritation.