"I stalked him for a day, intending to assassinate him for her, but I couldn't get near him. So I prayed to the Bastard for a miracle of death magic. And I was granted it."

After a moment, Ista's eyebrows went up. "Why aren't you dead?"

"I thought I was dying. When I awoke to find Dondo dead without me, I didn't know what to think. But Umegat determined Iselle's prayers had brought down a second miracle, and the Lady of Spring had spared my life from the Bastard's demon, but only temporarily. Saint Umegat—I thought he was a groom—" His story was growing hopelessly tangled. He took a deep breath, and backed up and explained about Umegat and the miracle of the menagerie, and how it had preserved poor Orico in the teeth of the curse.

"Except that Dondo, before he died, when he still thought he was about to be married to Iselle, told Teidez it was the other way around—that the menagerie was an evil Roknari sorcery set up to sicken Orico. And Teidez believed him. Five days ago, he took his Baocian guard and slew nearly every sacred animal in it, and only by chance failed to slay the saint as well. He took a scratch from Orico's dying leopard—I swear, it was only a scratch! If I had realized... The wound became poisoned. His end was..." Cazaril remembered who he was talking to. "... was very quick."

"Poor Teidez," whispered Ista, staring away. "My poor Teidez. You were born to be betrayed, I think."

"Anyway," finished Cazaril, "because of this strange concatenation of miracles, the death demon and the ghost of Dondo were bound in my belly. Encapsulated in some kind of tumor, evidently. When they are released, I will die."

Ista's grieving face went still. Her eyes rose to search Cazaril's face. "That would be twice," she said.

"Ah... eh?"

Her hands abandoned the tortured handkerchief, and went out to grip Cazaril's collar. Her gaze became scorching, almost painful in its intensity. Her breath came faster. "Are you Iselle's dy Lutez?"

"I, I, I," stammered Cazaril; his stomach sank.

"Twice. Twice. But how to accomplish the third? Oh. Oh. Oh..." Her eyes were dilated, the pupils pulsing. Her lips shivered with hope. "What are you?"

"I, I, I'm only Cazaril, my lady! I am no dy Lutez, I am sure. I am not brilliant, or rich, or strong. Or beautiful, the gods know. Or brave, though I fight when I'm trapped, I suppose."

She made an impatient gesture. "Take away all those ornaments—stripped, naked, upside down, the man still shone. Faithful. Unto death. Only... not unto two deaths. Or three."

"I—this is madness, now. This is not the way I intend to break the curse, I promise you." Five gods, not drowning. "I have another plan to rescue Iselle from it."

Her eyes probed him, still with that frightening wildness. "Have the gods spoken to you, then?"

"No. I go by my reason."

She sat back, to his relief releasing him, and her brows crimped in puzzlement. "Reason? In this?"

"Sara—and you—married into the House and the curse of Chalion. I think Iselle can marry out of it. This escape could not have been available to Teidez, but now... I am on my way to Ibra, to try to arrange Iselle's marriage with Ibra's new Heir, Royse Bergon. Dy Jironal will seek to prevent this, because it will spell the end of his power in Chalion. Iselle means to slip away from him by bringing Teidez's body back here to Valenda to be buried." Cazaril detailed Iselle's plan to ride with the cortege, then rendezvous with Bergon in Valenda.

"Maybe," breathed Ista. "Maybe..."

He was unsure what she was referring to. She was still giving him an extremely unsettling look.

"Your mother," he said. "Does she know of all this? The curse, the true tale of dy Lutez?"

"I tried to tell her, once. She decided I was truly mad. It's not a bad life, being mad, you know. It has its advantages. You don't have to make any decisions. What to eat, what to wear, where to go... who lives, who dies... You can try it yourself, if you like. Just tell the truth. Tell people you are pregnant with a demon and a ghost, and you have a tumor that talks vilely to you, and the gods guard your steps, and see what happens next." Her throaty laugh did not incline Cazaril to smile along. Her lips twisted. "Don't look so alarmed, Lord Cazaril. If I repeat your story, you have only to deny me, and I will be thought mad, not you."

"I... think you have been denied enough. Lady."

She bit her lip and looked away; her body trembled.

Cazaril shifted, and was reminded of his saddlebag, leaning against his hip. "Iselle wrote you a letter, and one to her grandmother, and charged me to deliver them to you." He burrowed into the bag, found his packet of correspondence, and handed Ista her letter. His hands were shaking from fatigue and hunger. Among other things. "I should go get rid of this dirt and eat something. By the time the Provincara returns, perhaps I can make myself fit for her company."

Ista held the letter to her breast. "Call my ladies to me, then. I shall retire now, I think. No reason more to wake..."

Cazaril glanced up sharply. "Iselle. Iselle is a reason to wake."

"Ah. Yes. One more hostage to go. Then I can sleep forever." She leaned forward and patted his shoulder in an odd reassurance. "But for now I will just sleep tonight. I'm so tired. I think I must have done all my mourning and wailing in advance, and there is none left in me now. All emptied out."

"I understand, lady."

"Yes, you do. How strange."

Cazaril reached gingerly out to the bench, pushed himself up, and went to let the weepy attendants back in. Ista set her teeth and suffered them to descend upon her. Cazaril hoisted his saddlebags and bowed himself out.

A WASH, A CHANGE OF CLOTHES, AND A HOT MEAL did much to restore Cazaril physically, though his mind still reeled from his conversation with Ista. When the servants set him to await the Provincara's return in her quiet little parlor in the new building, he was grateful for the chance to marshal his thoughts. A cheerful fire was set for him in the chamber's excellent fireplace. Aching in every bone, he sat in her cushioned chair, sipped well-watered wine, and tried not to nod off. The old lady was not likely to stay out very late.

Indeed, she soon appeared, flanked by her cousin-companion Lady dy Hueltar and the grave Ser dy Ferrej. She was dressed in gala splendor in green satins and velvets, glittering with jewels, but one look at her ashen face told Cazaril that the bad news had already been blurted to her by some excited servant. Cazaril lurched to his feet, and bowed.

She gripped his hands, searching his face. "Cazaril, is it true?"

"Teidez has died, suddenly, of an infection. Iselle is well"—he took a breath—"and Heiress of Chalion."

"Poor boy! Poor boy! Have you told Ista yet?"

"Yes."

"Oh, dear. How did she take it?"

Well did not describe it. Cazaril chose, "Calmly, Your Grace. At least, she did not fly into any sort of wild pelter, as I'd feared. I think the blows her life has dealt her have left her numb. I don't know how she'll be tomorrow. Her attendants have put her to bed."

The Provincara vented a sigh and blinked back tears.

Cazaril knelt to his saddlebags. "Iselle entrusted me with a letter for you. And there is a note for you, Ser dy Ferrej, from Betriz. She did not have time to write much." He handed out the two sealed missives. "They will both be coming here. Iselle means to have Teidez buried in Valenda."

"Oh," said the Provincara, cracking the cold wax of the letter's seal, careless of where the sprinkles fell. "Oh, how I long to see her." Her eyes devoured the penned lines. "Short," she complained. Her gray eyebrows went up. "Cazaril will explain everything to you, she says."

"Yes, Your Grace. I have much to tell you, some of it in confidence."