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sinking to his knees. Dy Jironal s corpse had not yet finished falling to the
pavement, although his dead hand had spasmed from his sword hilt. Dy Cembuer
was lifting himself upon his good arm, his mouth opening upon a cry that was
going to eventually become, Cazaril!
Some men were throwing themselves prone. Some were starting to run.
The goddess drew the curse of Chalion like thick black wool into Her hands.
Lifting it from Iselle and Bergon, somewhere in the streets of Taryoon. From
Ista in Valenda. From Sara in Cardegoss.
From all the land of Chalion, mountain to mountain, river to plain. Cazaril
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could not sense Orico in the dark fog. The Lady spun it out again through
Cazaril. As it twisted through him into the other realm, its darkness fell
away, and then he wasn t sure if it was a thread or a stream of bright clean
water, or wine, or something even more wonderful.
Another Presence, solemn and gray, waited there, and took it up. And took it
in. And sighed in something like relief, or completion, or balance.
I think it was the blood of a god.
Spilled, soiled, drawn
up again, cleaned, and returned at last . . .
I don t understand. Was Ista mistaken? Did I miscount my deaths?
The goddess laughed.
Think it through . . .
Then the vast blue Presence poured out of the world through him like a river
thundering over a waterfall. The beauty of a triumphal music he knew he would
never quite remember, till he came to Her realm again, cracked his heart. The
great rent drew closed. Healed. Sealed.
And, abruptly as that, it all was gone.
THE CRACK OF THE STONE PAVEMENT HITTING HISknees was his first returning
sensation. Desperately, he held himself upright, sitting on his heels, so as
not to wrench the sword blade around in his flesh. The hilt and a handspan of
bright blade hung below his downward-turning gaze, driven at a crooked upward
angle into his stomach just below and to the left of his navel. The point
seemed to come out somewhere to the right of his spine, and higher.
Now came the pain. As he drew his first shuddering breath, the weapon bobbed a
trifle. The stink of cauterized flesh assailed his nostrils, mixed with a
celestial perfume like spring flowers. He trembled with shock and cold. He
tried to hold very still.
He had a distressing urge to giggle. That would hurt. More . . .
Not all the scorched-meat smell was from him. Dy Jironal lay before him.
Cazaril had seen corpses burned from the outside in never before from the
inside out. The chancellor s hair and clothes smoked a little, but then went
out without catching to flame.
Cazaril s attention was arrested by a pebble that lay on the pavement near his
knee. It was so dense
. So persistent.
The gods could not lift so much as a feather, but he, a mere human, might pick
up this ancient unchanging object and place it wherever he wished, even into
his pocket. He wondered why he had never appreciated the stubborn fidelity of
matter. A dried leaf lay nearby, even more stunning in its complexity. Matter
invented so many forms
, and then went on to generate beauty beyond itself, minds and souls rising up
out of it like melody from an instrument . . . matter was an amazement to the
gods.
Matter remembered itself so very clearly. He could not think why he had failed
to notice it before. His own shaking hand was a miracle, as was the fine metal
sword in his belly, and the orange trees in the tubs
 one was tipped over now, wonderfully fractured and spilling and the tubs, and
the birdsong starting in the morning, and the water water! Five gods,
water! in the fountain, and the morning light filtering into the sky . . .
 Lord Cazaril? came a faint voice from his elbow.
He glanced aside to find that dy Cembuer had crept up to him.

What was that?
 Dy Cembuer sounded very close to tears.
 Some miracles. Too many in one place at one time. He was overwhelmed with
miracles. They filled his eyes in every direction.
Speaking was a mistake, for the vibration stirred the pain in his gut. Though
he could speak; the sword did not appear to have pierced his lung. He imagined
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how much it would hurt to cough blood, just now.
Gut wound, then. I will be dead again in three days. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]