The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [100]
Umegat held the creatures in his arms and whispered to them, and approached Dondo’s body. A long moment, while the rats, though quiescent, made no move to claim Dondo for their god. At last Umegat backed away, and shook his head apologetically to the archdivine, and gave up the rats to their anxious young woman.
Mendenal prostrated himself between the hearth and the bier for a moment of abject prayer, but rose again soon. Dedicats were bringing out tapers to light the wall lanterns around the darkening courtyard. The archdivine called forth the pallbearers to take up the bier to Dondo’s waiting pyre, and the singers filed out in procession.
Iselle returned to Betriz and Cazaril. She rubbed the back of her hand across eyes rimmed with dark circles. “I don’t think I can bear any more of this. Dy Jironal can see to his brother’s roasting. Take me home, Lord Caz.”
The royesse’s little party split off from the main body of mourners, not the only wearied persons to do so, and exited through the front portico into the damp dusk of the autumn day.
The groom Umegat, waiting with his shoulders propped against a pillar, shoved himself upright, came toward them, and bowed. “My lord dy Cazaril. Might I have a brief word?”
It almost surprised Cazaril that the aura did not reflect off the wet pavement at his feet. He gave Iselle an apologetic salute and went aside with the Roknari. The three women waited at the edge of the portico, Iselle leaning on Betriz’s arm.
“My lord, at your earliest convenience, I beg that I might have some private audience with you.”
“I’ll come to you at the menagerie as soon as I have Iselle settled.” Cazaril hesitated. “Do you know that you are lit like a burning torch?”
The groom inclined his head. “So I have been told, my lord, by the few with eyes to see. One can never see oneself, alas. No mundane mirror reflects this. Only the eyes of a soul.”
“There was a woman inside who glowed like a green candle.”
“Mother Clara? Yes, she just spoke to me of you. She is a most excellent midwife.”
“What is that, that anti-light, then?” Cazaril glanced toward where the women lingered.
Umegat touched his lips. “Not here, if you please, my lord.”
Cazaril’s mouth formed a silent Oh. He nodded.
The Roknari swept him a lower bow. As he turned to pad quietly into the gathering gloom, he added over his shoulder, “You are lit like a burning city.”
13
The royesse was so drained by the ordeal of Lord Dondo’s odd funeral that she was stumbling by the time they had climbed to the castle again. Cazaril left Nan and Betriz making sensible plans to put Iselle straight to bed and have the servants bring a plain dinner to their chambers. He made his way back out of the main block to the Zangre’s gates. Pausing, he glanced out over the city to see if a column of smoke was still rising from the temple. He fancied he saw a faint orange reflection on the lowering clouds, but it was too dark by now to make out anything more.
His heart leapt in shock at the sudden flapping around him as he crossed the stable yard, but it was only Fonsa’s crows, mobbing him again. He fended off two that attempted to land on his shoulder, and tried to wave them away, hissing and stamping. They hopped back out of reach, but would not leave, following him, conspicuously, all the way to the menagerie.
One of Umegat’s undergrooms was waiting by the wall lanterns bracketing the aisle door. He was a little, elderly, thumbless man, who gave Cazaril a wide smile that showed a truncated tongue, accounting for a welcome that was a kind of mouthed hum, the meaning made clear by his friendly gestures. He slid the broad door back just enough to admit Cazaril before him, and shooed away the crows who tried to follow, scooping the most persistent one back out the gap with a flip of his foot before