The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [145]
After a little silence, sitting stiff and still, Iselle said only, “That makes a sort of sense.”
Betriz was eyeing him sideways. By the testimony of his belt, his tumor was not grown more gross than before, but her gaze made him feel monstrous. He bent a little over his belly and managed a weak, unfelt grin in her direction.
“But how do you get rid of this…haunting?” Betriz asked slowly.
“Um…as I understand it, if I am killed, my soul will lose its anchor in my body, and the death demon will be released to finish its job. I think. I’m a little afraid the demon will try to trick or betray me to my death, if it can; it seems a trifle single-minded. It wants to go home. Or, if the Lady’s hand opens, the demon will be released, and wrench my soul from my body, and off we all go together again the same.” He decided not to burden her with Rojeras’s other theory.
“No, Lord Caz, you don’t understand. I want to know how you can get rid of it without dying.”
“I’d like to know that, too,” Cazaril sighed. With an effort, he straightened his spine and managed a better smile. “It doesn’t matter. I traded my life for Dondo’s death of my own free will, and I’ve received my due. Payment of my debt is merely delayed, not rescinded. The Lady apparently keeps me alive for some service I have yet to perform. Or else I would slay myself in disgust and end it.”
Iselle, eyes narrowing at this, sat up and said sharply, “Well, I do not release you from my service! Do you hear me, Cazaril?”
His smile grew more genuine, for an instant. “Ah.”
“Yes,” said Betriz, “and you can’t expect us to get all squeamish just because you’re…inhabited. I mean…we’re expected to share our bodies someday. Doesn’t make us horrible, does it?” She hesitated at where this metaphor was taking her.
Cazaril, whose mind had been shying from just that parallel for some time, said mildly, “Yes, but with Dondo? You both drew the line at Dondo.” In truth, every man he’d ever killed had traveled back up the shock of his sword arm into his memory, and rode with him still, in a sense. And so we bear our sins.
Iselle put her hand to her lips in sudden alarm. “Cazaril—he can’t get out, can he?”
“I pray to the Lady he may not. The idea of him seeping into my mind is…is the worst of all. Worse even than…never mind. Oh. That reminds me, I should warn you about the ghosts.” Briefly, he repeated what the archdivine had told him about making sure his body was burned, and why. It afforded him an odd relief, to have that out. They were dismayed, but attentive; he thought he might trust them to have the courage for the task. And then was ashamed to have not trusted their courage earlier.
“But listen, Royesse,” he went on. “The Golden General’s curse has followed Fonsa’s get, but Sara is shadowed, too. Umegat and I both think she married into it.”
“Her life has certainly been made miserable enough by it,” agreed Iselle.
“It therefore follows logically, that you might marry out of it. It is a hope, anyway, a great hope. I think we should turn our minds to the matter—I would have you out of Cardegoss, out of the curse, out of Chalion altogether, as soon as may be arranged.”
“With the court in this uproar, marriage arrangements