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Ista leaned forward between the crenellations atop the gate tower, the stone gritty beneath her pale hands, and watched innumb exhaustion as the final mourning party cleared the castle gatebelow. Their horses' hooves scraped on the old cobblestones, and theirgoodbyes echoed in the portal's vaulting. Her earnest brother, theprovincar of Baocia, and his family and retinue were last of the manyto leave, two full weeks after the divines had completed the funeralrites and ceremonies of the interment.
Dy Baocia was still talking soberly to the castle warder, Ser dy Ferrej,who walked at his stirrup, grave face upturned, listening to thestream, no doubt, of final instructions. Faithful dy Ferrej, who hadserved the late Dowager Provincara for all the last two decades of herlong residence here in Valenda. The keys of the castle and keep glintedfrom the belt at his stout waist. Her mother's keys, which Ista had collectedand held, then turned over to her older brother along with allthe other papers and inventories and instructions that a great lady'sdeath entailed. And that he had handed back for permanent safekeepingnot to his sister, but to good, old, honest dy Ferrej. Keys to lock outall danger ... and, if necessary, Ista in.
It's only habit, you know. I'm not mad anymore, really.
It wasn't as though she wanted her mother's keys, nor her mother's life that went with them. She scarcely knew what she wanted. She knew what she feared -- to be locked up in some dark, narrow place bypeople who loved her. An enemy might drop his guard, weary of histask, turn his back; love would never falter. Her fingers rubbed restlesslyon the stone.
Dy Baocia's cavalcade filed off down the hill through the town andwas soon lost from her view among the crowded red-tiled roofs. DyFerrej, turning back, walked wearily in through the gate and out ofsight.
The chill spring wind lifted a strand of Ista's dun hair and blew itacross her face, catching on her lip; she grimaced and tucked it backinto the careful braiding wreathing her head. Its tightness pinched herscalp.
The weather had warmed these last two weeks, too late to ease anold woman bound to her bed by injury and illness. If her mother hadnot been so old, the broken bones would have healed more swiftly, andthe inflammation of the lungs might not have anchored itself sodeeply in her chest. If she had not been so fragile, perhaps the fall fromthe horse would not have broken her bones in the first place. If she hadnot been so fiercely willful, perhaps she would not have been on thathorse at all at her age ... Ista looked down to find her fingers bleeding,and hid them hastily in her skirt.
In the funeral ceremonies, the gods had signed that the old lady'ssoul had been taken up by the Mother of Summer, as was expected andproper. Even the gods would not dare violate her views on protocol. Istaimagined the old Provincara ordering heaven, and smiled a littlegrimly.
And so I am alone at last.
Ista considered the empty spaces of that solitude, its fearful cost.Husband, father, son, and mother had all filed down to the grave aheadof her in their turn. Her daughter was claimed by the royacy of Chalionin as tight an embrace as any grave, and as little likely to return fromher high place, five gods willing, as the others from their low ones. Surely I am done. The duties that had defined her, all accomplished.Once, she had been her parents' daughter. Then great, unlucky Ias'swife. Her children's mother. At the last, her mother's keeper. Well, I amnone of these things now.
Who am I, when I am not surrounded by the walls of my life? Whenthey have all fallen into dust and rubble?
Well, she was still Lord dy Lutez's murderer. The last of that little,secret company left alive, now. That she had made of herself, and thatshe remained.
She leaned between the crenellations again, the stone abrading thelavender sleeves of her court mourning dress, catching at its silkthreads. Her eye followed the road in the morning light, starting fromthe stones below and flowing downhill, through the town, past theriver ... and where? All roads were one road, they said. A great netacross the land, parting and rejoining. All roads ran two ways. Theysaid. I want a road that does not come back.
A frightened gasp behind her jerked her head around. One of herlady attendants stood on the battlement with her hand to her lips, eyeswide, breathing heavily from her climb. She smiled with false cheer."My lady. I've been seeking you everywhere. Do ... do come away fromthat edge, now ..."
Ista's lips curled in irony. "Content you. I do not yearn to meet thegods face-to-face this day." Or on any other. Never again. "The gods andI are not on speaking terms."
She suffered the woman to take her arm and stroll with her as if casuallyalong the battlement toward the inner stairs, careful, Ista noted,to take the outside place, between Ista and the drop. Content you,woman. I do not desire the stones.
I desire the road.
The realization startled, almost shocked her. It was a new thought.A new thought, me? All her old thoughts seemed as thin and raggedas a piece of knitting made and ripped out and made and ripped out again until all the threads were frayed ...
Paladin of Souls. Copyright © by Lois Bujold. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Paladin of Souls by Lois McMaster Bujold
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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