"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?"

"Archdivine, I know naught." Cazaril's voice shook. "And I am..." he broke off.

"Yes?" encouraged Mendenal.

If I say it aloud, I will fall to pieces right here. He licked his lips, and swallowed. When he forced the words from his tongue at last, they came out a hoarse whisper. "I am very frightened."

"Oh," said the archdivine after a long moment. "Ah. Yes, I... I see that it would be... Oh, if only Umegat would wake up!"

The Mother's midwife cleared her throat, diffidently. "My lord dy Cazaril?"

"Yes, Acolyte Clara?"

"I think I have a message for you."

"What?"

"The Mother spoke to me in a dream last night. I was not altogether sure, for my sleeping brain spins fancies out of whatever is common in my thoughts, and I think often of Her. So I had meant to take it to Umegat today, and be guided by his good advice. But She said to me, She said"—Clara took a breath, and steadied her voice, her expression growing calmer—" ‘Tell my Daughter's faithful courier to beware despair above all.'"

"Yes?" said Cazaril after a moment. "And... ?" Blast it, if the gods were going to trouble to send him messages in other people's dreams, he'd prefer something less cryptic. And more practical.

"That was all."

"Are you sure?" asked Mendenal.

"Well... She might have said, her Daughter's faithful courtier. Or castle-warder. Or captain. Or all four of them—that part's blurred in my memory."

"If it is so, who are the other three men?" asked Mendenal, puzzled.

The unknowing echo of the Provincara's words to him in Valenda chilled Cazaril to the pit of his aching belly. "I... I am, Archdivine. I am." He bowed to the acolyte, and said through stiff lips, "Thank you, Clara. Pray to your Lady for me."

She gave him a silent, understanding smile, and a little nod.

Leaving the Mother's acolyte to keep close watch over Umegat, the archdivine excused himself to go attend upon Roya Orico, and with a shy diffidence invited Cazaril to accompany him to the Zangre gates. Cazaril found himself grateful for the offer and followed him out. His earlier towering rage and terror had long since passed, leaving him limp and weak. His knees buckled on the gallery stairs; but for catching the railing he would have tumbled down half a flight. To his embarrassment, the solicitous Mendenal insisted Cazaril be carried up the hill in his own sedan chair, hoisted by four stout dedicats, with Mendenal walking beside. Cazaril felt a fool, and conspicuous. But, he had to admit, vastly obliged.

THE INTERVIEW CAZARIL HAD BEEN DREADING DID not take place until after supper. Summoned by a page, he climbed reluctantly to the royesse's sitting room. Iselle, looking strained, awaited him attended by Betriz; the royesse waved him to a stool. Candles burning brightly in all the mirrored wall sconces did not drive away the shadow that clung about her.

"How does Orico go on?" he asked the ladies anxiously. They had neither of them come to supper in the banqueting hall, instead remaining with the royina and the stricken roya above stairs.

Betriz answered, "He seemed calmer this evening, when he found he was not completely blind—he can see a candle flame with his right eye. But he is not passing water properly, and his physician thinks he is in danger of growing dropsical. He does look terribly swollen." She bit her lip in worry.

Cazaril ducked his head at the royesse. "And were you able to see Teidez?"

Iselle sighed. "Yes, right after Chancellor dy Jironal dressed him down. He was too distraught to be sensible. If he were younger, I would name it one of his tantrums. I'm sorry he is grown too big to slap. He takes no food, and throws things at his servants, and now he's freed from his chambers, is refusing to come out. There's nothing to do when he gets like this but to leave him alone. He'll be better tomorrow." Her eyes narrowed at Cazaril, and her lips compressed. "And so, my lord. Just how long have you known of this black curse that hangs over Orico?"

"Sara finally talked to you... did she?"

"Yes."

"What exactly did she say?"

Iselle gave a tolerably accurate summation of the story of Fonsa and the Golden General, and the descent of the legacy of ill fortune through Ias to Orico. She did not mention herself or Teidez.

Cazaril chewed on a knuckle. "You have about half the facts, then."

"I do not like this half portion, Cazaril. The world demands I make good choices on no information, and then blames my maidenhood for my mistakes, as if my maidenhood were responsible for my ignorance. Ignorance is not stupidity, but it might as well be. And I do not like feeling stupid." Steel rang in these last words, unmistakably.

He bowed his head in apology. He wanted to weep for what he was about to lose. It was not to shield her maiden innocence, nor Betriz's, that he had kept silent for too long, nor even dread of arrest. He had feared to lose the paradise of their regard, been sickened with the horror of becoming hideous in their eyes. Coward. Speak, and be done.

"I first learned of the curse the night after Dondo's death, from the groom Umegat—who is no groom, by the way, but a divine of the Bastard, and the saint who hosted the miracle of the menagerie for Orico."

Betriz's eyes widened. "Oh. I... I liked him. How does he go on?"

Cazaril made a little balancing gesture with one hand. "Badly. Still unconscious. And worse, he's"—he swallowed, Here we go—"stopped glowing."

"Stopped glowing?" said Iselle. "I didn't know he'd started."

"Yes. I know. You cannot see it. There's... something I haven't told you about Dondo's murder." He took a breath. "It was me who sacrificed crow and rat, and prayed to the Bastard for Dondo's death."

"Ah! I'd suspected as much," said Betriz, sitting straighter.

"Yes, but—what you don't know is, I was granted it. I should have died that night, in Fonsa's tower. But another's prayers intervened. Iselle's, I think." He nodded to the royesse.