Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [78]
“Royina?” the acolyte’s voice came in a dozy murmur.
“Nothing,” said Ista. “I dream.”
No dream, that, but her inner vision grown clear again. Undesired, unwelcomed, resented. And yet . . . she was come to a very murky place, in this bright afternoon. Perhaps she was going to need such clarity.
The gods give no gifts without hooks embedded.
Remembering her vivid, disturbing dream from earlier, Ista hardly dared allow herself to drop off again. She half dozed for the turning of a glass, until Cattilara and her ladies came to collect her again.
The senior lady-in-waiting dressed Ista’s hair in what was obviously an accustomed style, braided back from her face and falling loose behind. On Cattilara, the fall made fascinating ripples; Ista suspected her own dun mop, snarling at her nape, had more the effect of a mat of scouring weed. But a lavender linen shift, with a black silk overrobe pinned together beneath her breasts by the mourning brooch, made a suitably dignified display. Display, she was fairly certain, would be her next task.
Summer’s heat came early to this northern province. The tables had been set up in the court, and the meal timed for when the westering sun dropped below the roofline, the advancing shadow sparing the diners the light’s hammering. The head table, at the court’s far end, faced the star fountain, and two other longer ones ran perpendicular to it.
Ista found herself set at Lord Arhys’s right hand, with Lady Cattilara on her other side. If Arhys had been stunning in mail and leather, splashed with blood, he was devastating in a courtier’s garb of gray touched with gold, and splashed with verbena. He smiled warmly. Ista’s heart turned over; she gathered the shreds of her reserve and returned cooler greetings, then forced herself to look away from him.
Ferda was given an honored place beyond the marchess. An elderly gentleman in the robes of a Temple divine was seated one space over from Lord Arhys’s left hand. One of Arhys’s senior officers began to approach them, but halted at the two fingers Lord Arhys held up above the empty seat, nodded understanding, and went to take a place at one of the lesser tables.
Lady Cattilara, watching this, leaned behind Ista to murmur to her husband, “My lord. With these honored guests, surely tonight we should use the place.”
Arhys’s eyes darkened. “Tonight least of all, then.” His brows bent at her in a scowl; one finger touched his lips. In warning?
Cattilara settled back, her mouth taut. She twitched it back into a smile for Ista’s sake, and addressed a polite triviality to Ferda. Ista was pleased to see the remainder of Ferda’s company, refreshed and washed and lent clean clothes, scattered along the other tables. Arhys’s officers and Cattilara’s women and a few habitués in Temple dress made up the rest. Important citizens from the town at the castle’s feet would doubtless be paraded before Ista at ensuing meals.
The elderly divine shuffled to his feet and quavered the prayers: of thanksgiving for the previous day’s victory and marvelous rescue of the royina, of supplication for the healing of the wounded, of blessing upon the meal about to be served. He continued with some special if slightly vague reference to the steadfastness of Ferda and his men, in this the Daughter’s Season, which Ista could see gratified the officer-dedicat. “And as ever, we especially beg the Mother, with Her Season impending, for the recovery