"Bujold, Lois McMaster - Chalion 2 - Paladin of Souls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bujold Lois McMaster)

In addition to bastards, the occasional artist, and other jetsam of the world, the BastardТs Order was the refuge of those to whom it was not given to conform to the fruitful relations between men and women overseen by the great Four, but to seek their own sex. At this distance in time, space, and sin it was almost amusing to watch dy CabonТs face as he unraveled her polite description.
УThat must have been . . . rather difficult for you, as a young bride.Ф
УThen, yes,Ф she admitted. УNow . . .Ф She held out her hand and opened it, as if letting sand pass through her fingers. УIt is beside the point. Far more difficult was my discovery that since the calamitous death of IasТs father, Roya Fonsa, a great and strange curse had been laid upon the royal house of Chalion. And that I had brought my children into it, unknowing. Not told, not warned.Ф
Dy CabonТs lips made an O.
УI had prophetic dreams. Nightmares. For a time, I thought I was going mad.Ф For a time, Ias and dy Lutez had left her in that terror, alone, uncomforted. It had seemed then, and still seemed now, a greater betrayal than any trivial sweaty graspings under the sheets could ever be. УI prayed and prayed to the gods. And my prayers were answered, dy Cabon. I spoke to the Mother face-to-face, as close as I am to you now.Ф She shivered still in memory of that overwhelming incandescence.
УA great blessing,Ф he breathed in awe.
She shook her head. УA great woe. Upon the instruction of the gods, as given to me, weЧdy Lutez, and Ias, and IЧplanned a perilous ritual to break the curse, to send it back to the gods from whom it had once been spilled. But weЧI, in my anxiety and fear, made a mistake, a great and willful mistake, and dy Lutez died in the midst of it as a direct result. Sorcery, miracle, call it what you will, the ritual failed, the gods withdrew from me . . . Ias in his panic put the treason rumor about, to account for the death. That bright star of his court, his best beloved, murdered, buriedЧthen defamed, which was all but to be murdered again, for dy Lutez had loved his high honor better than his life.Ф
Dy CabonТs brow wrinkled. УBut . . . was not this posthumous slander of Lord dy Lutez by your husband equally a slander of you, lady?Ф
Ista faltered at this unconsidered view. УIas knew the truth. What other opinion mattered? That the world should think me, falsely, an adulteress, seemed far less hideous than that it should know me truly a murderess. But Ias died of grief thereafter, deserting me, leaving me to wail in the ashes of the disaster, mind-fogged and accursed still.Ф
УHow old were you?Ф asked dy Cabon.
УNineteen when it began. Twenty-two when it ended.Ф She frowned. When had that begun to seem so . . .
УYou were very young for so great a burden,Ф he offered, voicing almost her own thought.
Her lips thinned in denial. УOfficers like Ferda and Foix are sent to fight and die at no greater age. I was older then than Iselle is now, who bears the whole of the royacy of Chalion upon her slim shoulders, not just the womanТs half.Ф
УBut not alone. She has great courtiers, and Royse-Consort Bergon.Ф
УIas had dy Lutez.Ф
УWhom did you have, lady?Ф
Ista fell silent. She could not remember. Had she truly been so alone? She shook her head, drew breath. УAnother generation brought another man, humbler and greater than dy Lutez, of deeper mind, more equal to the task. The curse was broken, but not by me. Yet not before my son Teidez died of it as wellЧof the curse, of my failure to lift it when he was a child, of betrayal by and of those who should have protected and guided him. Three years ago, by the labor and sacrifice of others, I was released from my long bondage. Into the silence of my life in Valenda. Unbearable silence. I am not oldЧФ
Dy Cabon waved his plump hands in protest. УIndeed, no, my lady! You are quite lovely still!Ф
She made a sharp gesture, cutting off his misconstrual. УMy mother was forty when I was born, her last child. I am forty now, in this ill-made spring of her death. One-half my life lies behind me, and half of that stolen from me by FonsaТs great curse. One-half lies before. Shall it hold only a long, slow decay?Ф
УSurely not, lady!Ф
She shrugged. УI have made this confession twice now. Perhaps some third occasion will release me.Ф
УThe gods . . . the gods may forgive much, to a truly penitent heart.Ф
Her smile grew bitter as desert brine. УThe gods may forgive Ista all day long. But if Ista does not forgive Ista, the gods may go hang themselves.Ф
His УOhФ was very small. But, earnest faithful creature, he had to try again. УBut to turn away soЧdare I say it, RoyinaЧyou betray your gifts!Ф
She leaned forward, lowered her voice to a husky growl. УNo, Learned. You darenТt.Ф
He sat back and was very quiet for several moments after that. At length, his face screwed up again. УThen what of your pilgrimage, Royina?Ф
She grimaced, waved a hand. УPick a route to the best-laid tables, if you wish. Let us go anywhere, so long as it does not return to Valenda.Ф So long as it does not return to Ista ay Chalion.
УYou must go home eventually.Ф
УI would throw myself off a precipice first, except that I would land in the arms of the gods, Whom I do not wish to see again. That escape is blocked. I must go on living. And living. And living . . .Ф She cut off her rising tones. УThe world is ashes and the gods are a horror. Tell me, Learned, what other place is there for me to go?Ф
He shook his head, eyes very wide. Now sheТd terrorized him, and she was sorry for it. She patted his hand contritely. УIn truth, these few days of travel have brought me more ease than the past three years of idling. My flight from Valenda may have begun as a spasm, as a drowning man strikes upward to the air, but I do believe I start to breathe, Learned. This pilgrimage may be a medicine despite me.Ф
УI . . . I . . . Five gods grant it may be so, lady.Ф He signed himself. She could tell by the way his hand hesitated at each holy point that it was not, this time, a gesture of mere ritual.
She was almost tempted to tell him about her dream. But no, it would just excite him all over again. The poor young man had surely had enough for one day. His jowls were quite pale.
УI will take, um, more thought,Ф he assured her, and scraped his chair back from the table. His bow to her, as he rose, was not that of conductor to charge, nor of courtier to patron. He gave her the deep obeisance of piety to a living saint.
Her hand shot out, grabbed his hand halfway through its gesture of boundless respect. УNo. Not now. Not then. Not ever again.Ф
He swallowed, shakily converted his farewell to a nervous bob, and fled.


CHAPTER FIVE

They lingered two more days in Casilchas, waiting out a slow spring rain, wrapped in a hospitality that Ista found increasingly uncomfortable. She was invited to meals in the seminaryТs refectory not of scholarly austerity, but near banquets in her near honor, with senior divines and local notables of the town discreetly jostling for a place at her table. They still addressed her as Sera dy Ajelo, but she was forced to trade the new ease of her incognito for her old constrained court manners, learned in too stern a school, it seemed, ever to be forgotten. She was gracious; she was attentive to her hosts; she complimented and smiled and gritted her teeth and sent Foix to inform the elusive dy Cabon that he must finish his inquiries, whatever they were, immediately. It was time to travel on.
The days that followed were much better, a pleasant ramble through the blooming countryside from one minor shrine to another, nearly the escape Ista had hoped for from her pilgrimage. Moving steadily northwest, they passed out of Baocia into the neighboring province of Tolnoxo. Long hours in the saddle were interspersed with invigorating tramps about places of historical or theological interestЧwells, ruins, groves, shrines, famous graves, commanding heights, formerly embattled fords. The young men of the party searched the military sites for arrowheads, sword shards, and bones, and argued over whether the blotches upon them were, or were not, heroic blood-stains. Dy Cabon had acquired another book for his saddlebagТs library, of the history and legends of the region, from which he read improving paragraphs as opportunities presented. Despite the odd succession of humble inns and holy hostels, quite unlike anything she had ever experienced as a royina or even as the youngest daughter of a provincar, Ista slept better than she had in her own bed for . . . as long as she could remember. The disturbing dream did not return, to her secret relief.
Dy CabonТs first few morning sermons after Casilchas showed the results of his hasty researches, being plainly cribbed from some volume of model lessons. But the next few days brought more daring and original material, heroic tales of Chalionese and Ibran saints and god-touched martyrs in the service of their chosen deities. The divine made contorted connections between each dayТs tale and the sites they were to view, but Ista was not deceived. His stories of the famous miracles that men and women had performed as vessels of the godsТ powers made FerdaТs and FoixТs and even LissТs eyes shine with a spirit of emulation, but Ista found the divineТs message, on all its several levels, entirely resistible. He watched her anxiously for her responses; she thanked him coolly. He bowed and bit back disappointment, but also, fortunately, the temptation to reopen the subject more directly.
A break in dy CabonТs oblique campaign occurred as they wound through the foothills of the western ranges and arrived at the town of Vinyasca, just in time for the mid-spring festival. This feast day fell at the apogee of the season, exactly midway between the DaughterТs Day and the MotherТs. In Vinyasca, it was also tied to the renewal of the trade caravans over the snowy passes from Ibra, bringing new wine and oil, dried fruit and fish, and a hundred other delicacies of that milder land, as well as exotic fare from even farther shores.
A fairground had been set up outside the town walls, between the rocky river and a pine grove. Mouthwatering smoke rose up from roasting pits behind tents displaying handicrafts and produce of the areaТs maidens, who competed for honors in the goddessТs name. Liss shrugged at the tent of embroidery, sewing, and wool work; dy Cabon and Foix returned disappointed from a reconnoiter of the tent of foodstuffs to report that it did not offer morsels to any but the judges.
Food might be the focus, but youthful energy could not be denied. For all that it was a young womenТs festival, young men vied for their gazes in a dozen contests of skill and daring. IstaТs guard, kindling at the challenges, begged for their commanderТs indulgence and dispersed to try their luck, although Ferda meticulously apportioned pairs in turn to be at her call at all times. FerdaТs sternness eroded abruptly when he discovered the horse races. Having no one elseТs leave to beg, he sought IstaТs, and she hid a smile and sent him off to ready his mount.
УMy courier horse,Ф said Liss in a voice of longing, Уcould make all these country nags look like the plow horses they undoubtedly are.Ф
УIТm afraid the womenТs race was earlier,Ф said Ista. SheТd seen the winner led past, horse and girl festooned with blue-and-white garlands, surrounded by cheerful relatives.
УThat was for the young maidens,Ф said Liss, her voice tinged with scorn. УThere are some older women getting ready for the longer oneЧI saw them.Ф
УAre you sure they were not just grooms, or relatives, or owners?Ф
УNo, for they were tying colors on their sleeves. And they had the look of riders.Ф