Iselle turned her head and stared at him, her eyes widening. “Really . . . ! How old is Bergon, again? Fifteen, was he not?”
“He must be rising sixteen now, Royesse.”
“Better than fifty-seven!” Her fingers walked lightly up the coast of Ibra along the string of maritime cities to the great port of Zagosur, where they stopped, resting upon a certain pin with a carved mother-of-pearl head. “What do you know of Royse Bergon, Cazaril? Is he well-favored? Did you ever see him when you were in Ibra?”
“Not with my own eyes. They say he’s a handsome boy.”
Iselle shrugged impatiently. “All royses are always described as handsome, unless they’re absolutely grotesque. Then it’s said they have character.”
“I believe Bergon to be reasonably athletic, which argues for at least a pleasantly healthy appearance. They say he has been trained at seamanship.” Cazaril saw the glow of youthful enthusiasm starting in her eyes, and felt constrained to add, “But your brother Orico has been at this half war with the roya of Ibra for the past seven years. The Fox has no love for Chalion.”
Iselle pressed her hands together. “But what better way to end a war than with a marriage treaty?”
“Chancellor dy Jironal is bound to oppose it. Quite aside from wanting you for his own family connection, he wants Teidez to have no ally, now or in the future, stronger than himself.”
“By that reasoning, he must oppose any good match I can suggest.” Iselle leaned over the map again, her hand sweeping in a long arc encompassing Chalion and Ibra both—two-thirds of the lands between the seas. “But if I could bring Teidez and Bergon together . . .” Her palm pressed flat and slowly slid along the north coast across the five Roknari princedoms; pins popped from the paper and scattered. “Yes,” she breathed. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw tightened. When she again looked up at Cazaril, her eyes were blazing. “I shall put it to my brother Orico at once, before dy Jironal returns. If I can get his word on it, publicly declared, surely even dy Jironal cannot make him take it back?”
“Think it through first, Royesse. Think of all the issues. One drawback is surely the ghastly father-in-law.” Cazaril’s brow wrinkled. “Though I suppose time will remove him. And if anyone is capable of overcoming his emotions in favor of policy, it’s the old Fox.”
She turned from the table to pace hastily back and forth across the chamber, heavy skirts swishing. Her dark aura clung about her.
Royina Sara shared the vilest dregs of Orico’s curse; she must presumably have entered into it upon her marriage to the roya. If Iselle married out of Chalion, would she shed her curse reciprocally, leaving it behind? Was this a way for her to escape the geas? His rising excitement was cut by caution. Or would the Golden General’s old dark destiny follow her across the borders to her new country? He must consult with Umegat, and soon.
Iselle stopped and stared out the window embrasure where she had sat to endure Dondo’s hideous wooing. Her eyes narrowed. At last she said decisively, “I must try. I cannot, will not, leave my fate to drift downstream to another disastrous falls and make no push to steer it. I will petition my royal brother, and at once.”
She wheeled for the door and beckoned sharply, like a general urging on his troops. “Betriz, Cazaril, attend upon me!”
Chapter 15
After some time casting about the Zangre they ran Orico to earth, to Cazaril’s surprise, in Royina Sara’s chambers on the top floor of Ias’s Tower. The roya and royina were seated at a small table by a window, playing at blocks-and-dodges together. The simple game, with its carved board and colored marbles, seemed a pastime for children or convalescents, not for the greatest lord and lady in the land . . . not that Orico could be mistaken for a well man by any experienced eye. The royal couple’s eerie shadows seemed merely a redundant underscore to their weary sadness. They played not for idleness, Cazaril realized, but for distraction, diversion from the fear and woe that hedged them all around.
Cazaril was taken aback by Sara’s garb. Instead of the black-and-lavender court mourning that Orico wore, she was dressed all in white, the festival garb of the Bastard’s Day, that intercalary holiday inserted every two years after Mother’s Midsummer to prevent the calendar’s precessing from its proper seasons. The bleached linens were far too light for this weather, and she huddled into a large puffy white wool shawl to combat the chill. She looked dark and thin and sallow in the pale wrappings. Withal, it was an even more edged insult than the colorful gowns and robes she’d hastily donned for Dondo’s funeral. Cazaril wondered if she meant to wear the Bastard’s whites for the whole period of mourning. And if dy Jironal would dare protest.
Iselle curtseyed to her royal brother and sister-in-law, and stood before Orico with eyes bright, hands clasped before her in an attitude of demure femininity belied by the steel in her spine. Cazaril and Lady Betriz, flanking her, also made their courtesies. Orico, turning from the game table, acknowledged his sister’s greeting. He adjusted his paunch in his lap and eyed her uneasily. On closer view, Cazaril could see where his tailor had added a matched panel of lavender brocade beneath the arms to enlarge his tunic’s girth, and the slight discoloration where the sleeve seams had been picked out and resewn. Royina Sara gathered her shawl and withdrew a little into the window seat.
With the barest preamble, Iselle launched into her plea for the roya to open formal negotiations with Ibra for the hand of the Royse Bergon. She emphasized the opportunity to make a bid for peace, thus repairing the breach created by Orico’s ill-fated support of the late Heir, for surely neither Chalion nor exhausted Ibra were prepared to continue the conflict now. She pointed out how appropriate a match in age and rank Bergon was for her own years and station, and the advantage to Orico—she diplomatically did not add and then Teidez—in future years to have a relative and ally in Ibra’s court. She painted a vivid word-picture of the harassment from lesser lords of Chalion vying for her hand that Orico might neatly sidestep by this ploy, a bit of eloquence that caused the roya to vent a wistful sigh.
Nonetheless, Orico began his expected equivocation by seizing on this last point. “But Iselle, your mourning protects you for a time. Not even Martou—I mean, Martou won’t insult the memory of his brother by marrying off Dondo’s bereaved fiancée over his hot ashes.”
Iselle snorted at the bereaved. “Dondo’s ashes will chill soon enough, and what then? Orico, you will never again force me to a husband without my assent—my prior assent, obtained beforehand. I won’t let you.”
“No, no,” Orico agreed hastily, waving his hands. “That . . . that was a mistake, I see it now. I’m sorry.”
Now, there’s an understatement . . .
“I did not mean to insult you, dear sister, or, or the gods.” Orico glanced around a little vaguely, as though afraid an offended god might pounce upon him out of some astral ambuscade at any moment. “I meant well, for you and for Chalion.”
Belatedly, it dawned upon Cazaril that while no one at court but himself and Umegat knew just whose prayers had hurried Dondo . . . well, not out of the world, but out of his life—all knew that the royesse had been praying for rescue. None, Cazaril thought, suspected or accused her of working death magic—of course, neither did they suspect or accuse him—nevertheless, Iselle was here, and Dondo was gone. Every thinking courtier must be unnerved by Dondo’s mysterious death, and some more than a little.