The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [214]
“I’m here, Lord Caz.” Iselle’s voice came off to his side.
She moved around in front of him, staring at him in extreme dismay. She had shed her heavily embroidered outer robes in her flight, and still seemed a trifle breathless. She had also shed the black cloak of the curse…had she not? Yes, he decided. His inner vision was darkening, but he did not mistake this.
“Bergon is with my uncle,” she continued, “helping to clear dy Jironal’s remaining men from the area.” Her voice was firm in its disregard of the tears running down her face.
“The black shadow is lifted,” he told her, “from you and Bergon. From everyone.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you all about it, if I live.”
“Cazaril!”
He grinned briefly at the familiar, exasperated cadences around his name.
“You live, then!” Her voice wavered. “I—I command you!”
Dy Tagille knelt in front of Cazaril.
Cazaril gave him a short nod. “Draw it.”
“Very straight and smoothly, Lord dy Tagille,” Iselle instructed tensely, “so as not to cut him any worse.”
“Aye, my lady.” Dy Tagille licked his lips in apprehension and grasped the sword’s hilt.
“Carefully,” gasped Cazaril, “but not quite so slowly, please …”
The blade left him; a warm gush of liquid spurted from the mouth of his wound after it. Cazaril had hoped to pass out, but he only swayed as pads were clapped to him and held hard fore and aft. He stared down expecting to see his lap awash in blood, but no flood of red met his sight; it was a clear liquid, merely tinged with pink. Sword must have lanced my tumor. Which was not, it appeared, and the Bastard fry Rojeras for inflicting that nightmare upon him, stuffed with some grotesque demon fetus after all. He tried not to think, At least not anymore. A murmur of astonishment passed among the ring of watchers as the scent of celestial flowers from this exudation filled the air.
He let himself fall, boneless and unresisting, into his eager helpers’ arms. He did manage to surreptitiously scoop up his pebble before the willing hands bore him off up the stairs to his bedchamber. They were excited and frightened, but he was growing delightfully relaxed. It seemed he was to be fussed over, lovely. When Betriz held his hand, as he was eased into his bed, he gripped hers and did not let go.
28
A tapping and low voices at his chamber door drew Cazaril from his doze. The room was dim. A single candle flame pushing back a deep dark told him night was fallen. He heard the physician, who had been sitting with him, murmuring, “He is sleeping, Roy—Royina…”
“No, I’m not,” Cazaril called eagerly. “Come in.” He tensed his arms to push himself upright, then thought better of it. He added, “Make more light. A deal more light. I want to see you.”
A great party of persons shuffled into his chamber, attempting to make themselves quiet and gentle, like a parade gone suddenly shy. Iselle and Bergon, with Betriz and Palli attendant upon them; the archdivine of Taryoon, with the little judge of the Father staring around in his wake. They quite filled the room. Cazaril smiled up amiably at them from his horizontal paradise of clean linens and stillness as candle was held to candle and the flames multiplied.
Bergon looked down at him in apprehension and whispered hoarsely to the physician, “How is he?”
“He passed a deal of blood in his water earlier, but less tonight. He has no fever yet. I daren’t let him have more than a few sips of tea, till we know how his gut wound progresses. I don’t know how much pain he bears.”
Cazaril decided he preferred to speak for himself. “I hurt, no doubt of that.” He made another feeble attempt to roll up, and winced. “I would sit up a little. I cannot talk looking up all your noses like this.” Palli and Bergon rushed to help gently raise him, plumping pillows behind him.
“Thank you,” said Iselle to the physician, who bowed and, taking the royal hint, stepped out of the way.
Cazaril eased back with a sigh, and said, “What has transpired? Is Taryoon under attack? And don’t talk in those funereal