The Curse of Chalion Read Online Free PDF

had been fine and white, the nails perfect and pearl-rubbed. Now the knuckles stood out, and the thin skin was brown-spotted, though the nails were still as well kept as when she’d been a matron in her prime. She did not, by the smallest jerk, react to the couple of tears he dropped helplessly upon its back, but her lips curved up a little. Her hand drifted from his light grasp to touch his beard and trace one of the gray streaks. “Dear me, Cazaril, have I grown that old?”
    He blinked rapidly up at her. He would not, he would not break down weeping like an overwrought child…“It has been a long time, Your Grace.”
    “Tsk.” Her hand turned, and the dry fingers tapped him on the cheek. “That was your cue to say I haven’t changed a bit. Didn’t I teach you how to lie to a lady better than that? I had no idea I was so remiss.” With perfect composure, she retrieved her hand and nodded to her companion.
    “May I make you known to my cousin, the Lady dy Hueltar. Tessa, may I present my lord the Castillar dy Cazaril.”
    From the corner of his eye Cazaril saw the warder, with a breath of relief, relax his guard, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. Still on his knee, Cazaril made a clumsy bow in the dedicat’s direction.
    “You are all kindness, Your Grace, but as I no longer hold Cazaril, nor its keep, nor any of my father’s lands, I do not claim his title either.”
    “Don’t be foolish, Castillar.” Beneath her bantering tone, her voice sharpened. “My dear Provincar is dead these ten years, but I’ll see the Bastard’s demons eat the first man who dares to call me anything less than Provincara. We have what we can hold, dear boy, and never let them see you flinch or falter.”
    Beside her, the dedicat stiffened in disapproval of these blunt words, if not, perhaps, of the sentiment behind them. Cazaril judged it imprudent to point out that the title by right now belonged to the Provincara’s daughter-in-law. Her son the present provincar and his wife likely judged it imprudent, too.
    “You will always be the great lady to me, Your Grace, whom we worshipped from afar,” Cazaril offered.
    “Better,” she approved judiciously. “Much better. I do like a man who can pull his wits about him.” She waved at her warder. “Dy Ferrej, fetch the castillar a chair. One for yourself, too; you loom like a crow there.”
    The warder, apparently accustomed to such addresses, smiled and murmured, “Certainly, Your Grace.” He pulled up a carved chair for Cazaril, with a gratifying murmur of Will my lord be seated? , and retrieved another for himself from the next chamber, placing it a little apart from his lady and her guest.
    Cazaril scrambled up and sank down again in blessed comfort. He ventured tentatively, “Was that the royse and royesse I saw come in from riding as I arrived, Your Grace? I should not have troubled you with my intrusion, had I known you had such visitors.” He would not have dared.
    “Not visiting, Castillar. They are living here with me for now. Valenda is a quiet, clean town, and…my daughter is not entirely well. It suits her to retire here, after the too-hectic court.” A weary look flickered in her eyes.
    Five gods, the Lady Ista was here as well? The Dowager Royina Ista, Cazaril hastily corrected this thought. When he had first come to serve Baocia, as unformed a larva as any boy of like degree, the Provincara’s youngest daughter Ista had seemed already a grown woman, though only a few years older than himself. Fortunately, even at that foolish age, he’d not been so foolish as to confide his hopeless infatuation of her to anyone else. Her high marriage soon after to Roya Ias himself—her first, his second—-had seemed her beauty’s proper destiny, despite the royal couple’s disparity of age. Cazaril supposed Ista’s early widowhood might have been expected, though not as early as it had proved.
    The Provincara brushed aside her fatigue with an