The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [95]
“I…I don’t see how, Royesse. You prayed to the Lady of Spring, did you not?”
“Yes, and to Her Mother of Summer, both. But mostly to Spring herself.”
“The Great Ladies grant miracles of life, and healing. Not death.” Normally. And all miracles were rare and capricious. Gods. Who knew their limits, their purposes?
“It didn’t feel like death,” Iselle confessed. “And yet I was eased. I took a little food and didn’t throw it up, and I slept for a time.”
Nan dy Vrit nodded confirmation. “And glad I was of it, my lady.”
Cazaril took a deep breath. “Well, dy Jironal will solve the mystery for us, I’m sure. He’ll hunt down every person to die last night in Cardegoss—in all of Chalion, I have no doubt—-until he finds out his brother’s murderer.”
“Bless the poor soul who put his vile plans in such disarray.” Formally, Iselle touched forehead, lip, navel, groin, and heart, spreading her fingers wide. “And at such a cost. May the Bastard’s demons grant him what mercy ever they can.”
“Amen,” said Cazaril. “Let’s just hope dy Jironal finds no close comrades or family to wreak his vengeance upon.” He wrapped his arms around his belly, which was cramping again.
Betriz came near him and stared him in the face, her hand going out but then falling back hesitantly. “Lord Caz, you look dreadful. Your skin is the color of cold porridge.”
“I’m…ill. Something I ate.” He took a breath. “So we prepare today not for grievous wedding but joyous funeral. I trust you ladies will contain your glee in public?”
Nan dy Vrit snorted. Iselle motioned her to silence, and said firmly, “Solemn piety, I promise you. And if it is thanksgiving and not sorrow in my heart, only the gods shall know.”
Cazaril nodded, and rubbed his aching neck. “Usually, a victim of death magic is burned before nightfall, to deny the body, the divines say, to uncanny things that might want to move in. Apparently, such a death invites them. It will be a terribly hurried funeral for such a high lord. They’ll have to assemble all before dark.” Iselle’s coruscating aura was making him almost nauseated. He swallowed, and looked away from her.
“Then, Cazaril,” said Betriz, “for pity’s sake go lie down till then. We’re safe, all unexpectedly. You need do no more.” She took him by his cold hands, clasped them briefly, and smiled in wry concern. He managed a wan return smile, and retreated.
HE CRAWLED BACK INTO HIS BED. HE HAD LAIN THERE perhaps an hour, bewildered and still shivering, when his door swung open and Betriz tiptoed in to stare down at him. She laid a hand across his clammy forehead.
“I was afraid you’d taken a fever,” she said, “but you’re chilled.”
“I was, um…chilled, yes. Must have thrown off my blankets in the night.”
She touched his shoulder. “Your clothes are damp through.” Her eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you ate?”
He could not remember. “Yesterday morning. I think.”
“I see.” She frowned at him a moment longer, then whirled and went out.
Ten minutes later, a maid arrived with a warming pan full of hot coals and a feather quilt; a few minutes after that, a manservant with a can of hot water and firm instructions to see him washed and put back to bed in dry nightclothes. This, in a castle gone mad with the disruption of every courtier and lady at once trying to prepare themselves for an unscheduled public appearance of utmost formality. Cazaril questioned nothing. The servant had just finished tucking him into the hot dry envelope of his sheets when Betriz reappeared with a crockery bowl on a tray. She propped his door open and seated herself on the edge of his bed.
“Eat this.”
It was bread soaked in steaming milk, laced with honey. He accepted the first spoonful in bemused surprise, then struggled up on his pillows. “I’m not that sick.” Attempting to regain his dignity, he took the bowl from her; she made no objection, as long as he continued to eat. He discovered he was ravenous. By the time he’d finished, he’d stopped shivering.