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

Was it starting again?
No. No. I wonТt have it. She gasped and gulped, and barely kept from breaking into sobs. In a few minutes, her breathing steadied.
Who had that man been? It was no one she had ever seen in her life, she was certain. She would know him instantly if she ever saw him again, though; the fine shape of his face felt burned into her mind like a brand. And . . . and the rest of him. Was he enemy? Friend? Warning? Chalionese, Ibran, Roknari? Highborn or low? What did the sinister red tide of blood mean? No good thing, of that she was quite certain.
Whatever You want from me, I canТt do it. IТve proved that before. Go away. Go away.
She lay trembling for a long time; the moonlight had turned to gray predawn mist before she fell asleep again.
***
Ista was awakened not by Liss slipping out, but by Liss slipping back in. She was embarrassed to discover her handmaiden had let her sleep through morning prayers, rudeness both as a pilgrim, however false, and as a real guest.
УYou looked so tired,Ф Liss excused herself when Ista chided her. УYou did not seem to sleep well last night.Ф
Indeed. Ista had to admit, she was glad for the extra rest. A breakfast was brought to her on a tray by a bowing acolyte, also not usual for a pilgrim so laggard as to miss the morningТs start.
After dressing and having her hair done up in a slightly more elaborate braid than usualЧnot looking too much like a horse, she hopedЧshe walked with Liss about the old mansion. They fetched up in the now-sunny court. Sitting on a bench by the wall, they watched the denizens of the school hurry past on their tasks, students and teachers and servants. Another thing Ista liked about Liss, she decided, was that the girl didnТt chatter. She conversed pleasantly enough when spoken to; the remainder of the time she fell without resentment into a restful silence.
Ista felt a cool breath on her neck from the wall she leaned against: one of this placeТs ghosts. It wove around her like a cat seeking a lap, and she almost raised her hand to shoo it away, but then the impression faded. Some sad spirit, not taken up by the gods, or refusing them, or lost somehow. New ghosts kept the form theyТd had in life, for a while, often violent, harsh, outraged, but in time they all came to this faded, shapeless, slow oblivion. For such an old building, the ghosts here seemed few and tranquil. FortressesЧlike the ZangreЧwere usually the worst. Ista was resigned to her lingering sensitivity, as long as no such wasted souls took form before her inner eye. Seeing such a spirit would mean some god breathed too near, that her second sight was leaking backЧand all that went with it.
Ista considered the courtyard in her dream. It was no place sheТd ever been before, of that she was sure. She was equally convinced it was a real place. To avoid it . . . to certainly avoid it, all she had to do was crawl back to the castle at Valenda and stay there till her body rotted around her.
No. I will not go back.
The thought made her restless, and she rose and prowled the school, Liss dutifully at her heels. Many acolytes or divines, passing her on the balcony walks or in the corridors, bowed and smiled, by which she concluded dy CabonТs indiscretion had now been widely shared. Pretending to be Sera dy Ajelo was well enough; having half a hundred total strangers assiduously pretend along with her felt oddly irritating.
They looked into a succession of small rooms crammed with books, packed in shelves and piled on tables: dy CabonТs desired library. To IstaТs surprise, Foix dy Gura was curled up in a window seat with his nose in a volume. He looked up, blinked, rose, and made a little courtesy. УLady. Liss.Ф
УI did not know you read theology, Foix.Ф
УOh, I read anything. But itТs not all theology. There are hundreds of other things, some very odd. They never throw anything away here. ThereТs a whole locked room where they keep the books on sorcery and demons, and, um, the lewd books. Chained.Ф
Ista raised her brows. УThat they may not be opened?Ф
FoixТs grin flashed. УThat they may not be carried off, I think.Ф He held out the book in his hand. УThere are more verse romances like this. I could find you one.Ф
Liss, staring around in wonder at what might have been more books in one place than sheТd ever seen in her life, looked hopeful. Ista shook her head. УLater, perhaps.Ф
Dy Cabon poked his head through the door and said, УAh. Lady. Good. IТve been seeking you.Ф He heaved his bulk within. Ista hadnТt seen him since theyТd arrived, she realized, not even at the evening services. He looked fatigued, gray and puffy under the eyes. Had he been up late in some forced study? УI requestЧbegЧsome private audience with you, if I may.Ф
Liss looked up from where sheТd been peering over FoixТs shoulder. УShould I leave you, Royina?Ф
УNo. The correct thing for a lady-in-waiting to do, should her mistress wish private speech with some gentleman not of her immediate family, is to place herself out of earshot, but within sight or call.Ф
УAh.Ф Liss nodded understanding. Ista would never have to repeat the instruction. Liss might be untutored, but five gods, what a joy it was to finally have an attendant with all her wits about her.
УI could read to her, in this chamber or the next,Ф Foix immediately volunteered.
УUm . . .Ф Dy Cabon gestured to a table and chairs visible through an archway in the next room. Ista nodded and passed in before him. Foix and Liss settled back into the cozy window seat.
More discussion of their holy itinerary was due, she suspected, and tedious letters to be written thereafter apprising dy Ferrej of their planned route. Dy Cabon held her chair, then edged around the table to seat himself. She could hear FoixТs voice begin to murmur in the next chamber, too softly to make out the words from here, but in the cadences of some strong, striding narrative stanzas.
The divine tented his hands on the table before him, stared at them for a moment, then looked her in the face. In a level tone he asked, УLady, why are you really on this pilgrimage?Ф
IstaТs brows rose at this utterly blunt beginning. She decided to return straight speech for straight speech; it was rare enough in a royinaТs hearing and ought to be encouraged. УTo escape my keepers. And myself.Ф
УYou have not and had not, then, any real intention to pray for a grandson?Ф
Ista grimaced. УNot for all the gods in Chalion would I insult Iselle or my new granddaughter Isara so. I still remember how I was chided and shamed for bearing a daughter to Ias, these nineteen years ago. The selfsame brilliant girl who is now the brightest hope the royacy of Chalion has had in four generations!Ф She controlled her fierce tone, which clearly had taken dy Cabon aback. УShould a grandson come, in due time, I shall of course be very pleased. But I will not beg the gods for any favor.Ф
He took this in, nodded slowly. УYes. I had come to suspect something of a sort.Ф
УIt is, I grant, a trifle impious to use a pilgrimage so, and abuse the good guards the DaughterТs Order lends me. Though IТm quite sure IТm not the first to make holiday at the godsТ expense. My purse shall more than compensate the Temple.Ф
УThat does not concern me.Ф Dy Cabon waved away these pecuniary considerations. УLady. I have read. I have talked to my superiors. I have taken thought. I haveЧwell, never mind that now.Ф He drew a breath. УAre you aware, RoyinaЧdo you realizeЧI have found reason to think, you see, that you may be extraordinarily spiritually gifted.Ф His gaze upon her face was deeply searching.
Found reason where? What garbled, secret tales had the man heard? Ista sat back; did not, quite, recoil. УI am afraid that is not so.Ф
УI believe you underestimate yourself. Seriously underestimate yourself. This sort of thing is, I admit, rare in a woman of your rank, but I have come to realize you are a very unusual woman. But I believe that, with prayer, guidance, meditation, and instruction, you might reach a pitch of spiritual sensitivity, of fulfilled calling, that, well, that most of us who wear our godТs colors only dream about and long for. These are not gifts to be lightly cast aside.Ф
Not lightly, indeed. With great violence. How in five godsТ names had he come by this sudden delusion? Dy CabonТs eager face, she realized, was afire with the look of a man seized by a grand idea. Was he picturing himself as her proud spiritual mentor? He would not be turned from his conviction that he was called to aid her to some life of holy service by any vague excuses on her part. He would not be stopped by anything less than the whole truth. Her stomach sank. No.
Yes. It was not, after all, as though she had not made full confession before, to another god-gripped man. Perhaps these things grew easier with practice.
УYou are mistaken. Understand, Learned. I have walked down that road already, to its bitterest end. Once, I was a saint.Ф
It was his turn to recoil, in astonishment. He gulped. УYou were a vessel of the gods?Ф His face bunched up with consternation. УThat explains . . . something. No, it doesnТt.Ф He grasped his hair, briefly, but let it go unravaged. УRoyina, I do not understand. How came you to be god-touched? When was this miracle?Ф
УLong, long ago.Ф She sighed. УFormerly, this story was a state secret. A state crime. I suppose it is no longer. Whether it will in time become rumor or legend or dead and buried, I know not. In any case, it is not to be shared, not even with your superiors. Or, if you seem to have cause to do so, take your instruction first from the Chancellor dy Cazaril. He knows all the truth of it.Ф
УThey say he is very wise,Ф said dy Cabon, wide-eyed now.
УFor once, they say right.Ф She paused, marshaling her thoughts, her memories, her words. УHow old were you when Roya IasТs great courtier, Lord Arvol dy Lutez, was executed for treason?Ф
Dy Lutez. IasТs boyhood companion, brother in arms, greatest servant throughout his darkly troubled thirty-five-year reign. Powerful, intelligent, brave, rich, handsome, courteous . . . there seemed no end to the gifts that the godsЧand the royaЧhad piled upon the glorious Lord dy Lutez. Ista had been eighteen when sheТd married Ias. Ias and his right arm dy Lutez had reached their fifties. Dy Lutez had arranged the marriage, the aging royaТs second, for already there were worries about IasТs sole surviving son and heir, Orico.
УWhy, I was a young child.Ф He hesitated, cleared his throat. УThough I heard it talked about, later in my life. The rumor was . . .Ф He stopped abruptly.
УThe rumor you heard was that dy Lutez had seduced me and died for it at my royal husbandТs hands, yes?Ф she supplied coolly.
УUm, yes, lady. Was itЧit wasnТtЧФ
УNo. It was not true.Ф
He breathed covert relief.
Her lips twisted. УIt was not me he loved in that way, but Ias. Dy Lutez should have been a lay dedicat of your order, I think, instead of holy general of the SonТs.Ф