The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [179]
Oh.
Then.
One starving, cold, desperate night at Gotorget, he’d walked his commander’s rounds upon the battlements. On the highest tower, he’d dismissed the famished, fainting boy on guard to go below for a time and get what refreshment he could, and stood the watch himself. He’d stared out at the enemy’s campfires, glowing mockingly in the ruined village, in the valley, on the ridges all around, speaking of abundant warmth, and cooking food, and confidence, and all the things his company lacked within the walls. And thought of how he’d schemed, and temporized, and exhorted his men to faithfulness, plugged holes fought sorties scraped for unclean food bloodied his sword at the scaling ladders and above all, prayed. Till he’d come to the end of prayers.
In his youth at Cazaril, he’d followed the common path of most highborn young men, and become a lay dedicat of the Brother’s Order, with its military promises and aspirations. He’d sent up his prayers, when he’d bothered to pray at all, by rote to the god assigned to him by his sex, his age, and his rank. On the tower in the dark, it seemed to him that following that unquestioned path had brought him, step by step, into this impossible snare, abandoned by his own side and his god both.
He’d worn his Brother’s medal inside his shirt since the ceremony of his dedication at age thirteen, just before he’d left Cazaril to be apprenticed as a page in the old provincar’s household. That night on the tower, tears of fatigue and despair—and yes, rage—running down his face, he’d torn it off and flung it over the battlement, denying the god who’d denied him. The spinning slip of gold had disappeared into the darkness without a sound. And he’d flung himself prone on the stones, as he lay now, and sworn that any other god could pick him up who willed, or none, so long as the men who had trusted him were let out of this trap. As for himself, he was done. Done.
Nothing, of course, happened.
Well, eventually it started to rain.
In time, he’d picked himself back up off the pavement, ashamed of his tantrum, grateful that none of his men had witnessed the performance. The next watch came on, and he’d gone down in silence. Where nothing more happened for some weeks, till the arrival of that well-fed courier with the news that it had all been in vain, and all their blood and sacrifice was to be sold for gold to go into dy Jironal’s coffers.
And his men were marched to safety.
And his feet alone went down another road…
What was it that Ista had said? The gods’ most savage curses come to us as answers to our own prayers. Prayer is a dangerous business.
So, in choosing to share one’s will with the gods, was it enough to choose once, like signing up to a military company with an oath? Or did one have to choose and choose and choose again, every day? Or was it both? Could he step off this road anytime, get on a horse, and ride to, say, Darthaca, to a new name, a new life? Just like Umegat’s postulated hundred other Cazarils, who’d not even shown up for duty. Abandoning, of course, all who’d trusted him, Iselle and Ista and the Provincara, Palli and Betriz…
But not, alas, Dondo.
He squirmed a little on the mat, uncomfortably aware of the pressure in his belly, trying to convince himself it was just the Fox’s banquet, and not his tumor creeping to hideous new growth. Racing to some grotesque completion, waiting only for the Lady’s hand to falter. Maybe the gods had learned from Ista’s mistake, from dy Lutez’s failure of nerve, as well? Maybe they were making sure their mule couldn’t desert in the middle like dy Lutez this time…?
Except into death. That door was always ajar. What waited him on the other side? The Bastard’s hell? Ghostly dissolution? Peace?
Bah.
On the other side of the Temple plaza, in the Daughter’s house, what waited him was a nice soft bed. That his brain had reached this