“Oh, no,” breathed Mendenal.
“Are you sure?” said Cazaril. “It could not be a defect in my—in your second sight?”
She glanced at him, wincing a little. “No. For I can see you plainly enough. I could see you before you came in the door. It is almost painful to be in the same room with you.”
“Does this mean the miracle of the menagerie is broken?” asked Mendenal anxiously, gesturing at the unconscious groom. “We have no dike now against the tide of this black curse?”
She hesitated. “Umegat no longer hosts the miracle. I do not know if the Bastard has transferred it to another’s will.”
Mendenal wheeled to stare hopefully at Cazaril. “His, perhaps?”
She frowned at Cazaril, absently holding her hand to her brow as if to shade her eyes. “If I am a saint, as Learned Umegat has named me, I am only a small domestic one. If Umegat’s tutelage had not sharpened my perceptions over the years, I should merely have thought myself unusually lucky in my profession.”
Luck, Cazaril couldn’t help reflecting, had not been his most salient experience since he’d stumbled into the gods’ maze.
“And yet the Mother only reaches through me from time to time, then passes on. Lord Cazaril . . . blazes. From the day I first saw him at Lord Dondo’s funeral. The white light of the Bastard and the blue clarity of the Lady of Spring, both at once, the constant living presence of two gods, all mixed with some other dark thing I cannot make out. Umegat could see more clearly. If the Bastard has added more to the roil already there, I cannot tell.”
The archdivine touched brow, lips, navel, groin, and heart, fingers spread wide, and stared hungrily at Cazaril. “Two gods, two gods at once, and in this room!”
Cazaril bent forward, hands clenching, hideously reminded by the pressure of his belt of the terrifying distention beneath it. “Did Umegat not make known to you what I did to Lord Dondo? Did you not talk to Rojeras?”
“Yes, yes, and I spoke to Rojeras too, good man, but of course he could not understand—”
“He understood better than you seem to. I bear death and murder in my gut. An abomination, for all I know taking physical and not just psychic form, engendered by a demon and Dondo dy Jironal’s accursed ghost. Which screams at me nightly, by the way, in Dondo’s voice, with all his vilest vocabulary, and Dondo had a mouth like the Cardegoss main sewer. With no way out but to tear me open. It is not holy, it is disgusting!”
Mendenal stepped back, blinking.
Cazaril clutched his head. “I have terrible dreams. And pains in my belly. And rages. And I’m afraid Dondo is leaking.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mendenal faintly. “I had no idea, Lord Cazaril. Umegat said only that you were skittish, and it was best to leave you in his hands.”
“Skittish,” Cazaril repeated hollowly. “And oh, did I mention the ghosts?” It was surely a measure of . . . something, that they seemed the least of his worries.
“Ghosts?”
“All the ghosts of the Zangre follow me about the castle and cluster around my bed at night.”
“Oh,” said Mendenal, looking suddenly worried. “Ah.”
“Ah?”
“Did Umegat warn you about the ghosts?”
“No . . . he said they could do me no harm.”
“Well, yes and no. They can do you no harm while you live. But as Umegat explained it to me, the Lady’s miracle has delayed the working out of the Bastard’s miracle, not reversed it. It follows that, hm, should Her hand open, and the demon fly away with your soul—and Dondo’s, of course—it will leave your husk with a certain, um, dangerous theological emptiness which is not quite like natural death. And the ghosts of the excluded damned will attempt to, er, move in.”
After a short, fraught silence, Cazaril inquired, “Do they ever succeed?”
“Sometimes. I saw a case once, when I was a young divine. The degraded spirits are shambling stupid things, but it’s so very awkward to get them out again once they take possession. They must be burned . . . well, alive is not quite the right term. Very ugly scene, especially if the relatives don’t understand, because, of course, being your body, it screams in your voice. . . . It would not, in the event, be your problem, of course, you would be, um, elsewhere by then, but it might save, hm, others some painful troubles, if you make sure you always have someone by you who would understand the necessity of burning your body before sunset . . .” Mendenal trailed off apologetically.
“Thank you, Your Reverence,” said Cazaril, with awful politeness. “I shall add that to Rojeras’s theory of the demon growing itself a new body in my tumor and gnawing its way out, should I ever again be in danger of getting a night’s sleep. Although I suppose there’s no reason both could not occur. Sequentially.”
Mendenal cleared his throat. “Sorry, my lord. I thought you should know.”
Cazaril sighed. “Yes . . . I suppose I should.” He looked up, remembering last night’s scene with dy Joal. “Is it possible . . . suppose the Lady’s grip loosened just a little. Is it possible for Dondo’s soul to leak into mine?”
Mendenal’s brows rose. “I don’t . . . Umegat would know. Oh, how I wish he would wake up! I suppose it would be a faster way for Dondo’s ghost to get a body than to grow one in a tumor. You would think it would be too small.” He made an uncertain measuring gesture with his hands.
“Not according to Rojeras,” said Cazaril dryly.
Mendenal rubbed his forehead. “Ah, poor Rojeras. He thought I had taken a sudden interest in his specialty when I asked about you, and of course, I did not correct his misapprehension. I thought he was going to talk for half the night. I finally had to promise him a purse for his ward, to escape the tour of his collection.”
“I’d pay money to escape that, too,” Cazaril allowed. After a moment he asked curiously, “Your Reverence . . . why was I not arrested for Dondo’s murder? How did Umegat finesse that?”
“Murder? There was no murder.”
“Excuse me, the man is dead, and by my hand, by death magic, which is a capital crime.”
“Oh. Yes, I see. The ignorant are full of errors about death magic, well, even the name is wrong. It’s a nice theological point, d’you see. Attempting death magic is a crime of intent, of conspiracy. Successful death magic is not death magic at all, but a miracle of justice, and cannot be a crime, because it is the hand of the god that carries off the victim—victims—I mean, it’s not as if the roya can send his officers to arrest the Bastard, eh?”
“Do you think the present chancellor of Chalion will appreciate the distinction?”
“Ah . . . no. Which is why Umegat advised that the Temple prefer a discreet approach to this . . . this very complicated issue.” Mendenal scratched his cheek in new worry. “Not that the supplicant of such justice has ever lived through it, before . . . the distinction was clearer when it was all theoretical. Two miracles. I never thought of two miracles. Unprecedented. The Lady of Spring must love you dearly.”
“As a teamster loves his mule that carries his baggage,” said Cazaril bitterly, “whipping it over the high passes.”
The archdivine looked a little distraught; only Acolyte Clara’s lips twisted in appreciation. Umegat would have snorted, Cazaril thought. He began to understand why the Roknari saint had been so fond of talking shop with him. Only the saints would joke so about the gods, because it was either joke or scream, and they alone knew it was all the same to the gods.
“Yes, but,” said Mendenal. “Umegat concurred—so extraordinary a preservation must surely be for an extraordinary purpose. Have you . . . have you no guess at all?”