Romilly asked, troubled, “Would he recognize you, then, Uncle?”
“That he would,” said Orain grimly, “and others than me.”
She wondered; can it be that Carolin himself is somewhere in the monastery? Or did he speak of Alaric, whose family had been condemned to death by the Hastur-lord? Or of Carlo, who was certainly an exiled man and high in Carolin’s confidence? Orain’s hand was beneath her arm.
“Here, lean on me, lad – I’d pretend to be sick and hide in the guest-house, but then they’d hale me off to the infirmary, and find out soon there’s nothing wrong with me but a cup too many of their wine.”
She looked at the settled snow, cringing in the keen wind that came as the snow had quieted. “Is there truly a laran which can work sorcery on the weather?”
“So I have heard,” Orain muttered, subsiding into gloom again. “Would that you had some trace of it, son!”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Midwinter-night service in St. Valentine-of-the-Snows was famous throughout the Hellers; people came from all through Nevarsin, and from the countryside round, to hear the singing. Romilly had heard some of the music before this, but never sung so well, and she would have enjoyed the service, had she not been so troubled by Orain’s obvious worried state. He insisted that they should sit at the back, and when she asked where Dom Carlo was, and why he had not come to the service, scowled and refused to answer. He had cautioned Alaric, too, not to enter the chapel at all. But toward the end of the service, when there was a moment’s lull, he whispered “No sign yet of Lyondri Hastur. We may be lucky.” His face twisted and he muttered, “We’d be luckiest if he fell off a cliff somewhere and never made it to Nevarsin at all!”
And, as Caryl said, same weather magic has been done. I did not think the weather would clear so quickly.
She saw Caryl, scrubbed and shining, in the front row of the choir, his mouth opening like a bird as he sang; it seemed to Romilly that his voice soared out over all the choir. It was as well, perhaps, that Dom Carlo was not here, except for Orain’s dread; it seemed that the big gaunt man could hardly sit still, and no sooner was the service ended than he was up and out of his seat, pushing for the back of the chapel. He walked with her to the stable, and busied his hands checking on the sentry-birds, so that Romilly would have been annoyed – did he think she could not care for them properly, then? Later she knew what he had been looking for, why he had arranged everything close together so that they could be snatched up and ready to ride at a moment’s notice, but at the moment she was only exasperated and wondered if he was still drunk, or believed she was too drunk to handle them properly. He checked on the chervines and horses too, turning up each hoof, arranging saddle-blankets and saddles, until she thought she would scream with nervousness at his fiddling. Or was he lingering so that he would see it, if Lyondri Hastur actually arrived at the monastery?
But at last he sighed and turned away. He said, “A good Festival to you, lad,” and gave Romilly a rough hug. “If it’s too cold here in the stable, you can sleep in Dom Carlo’s bed, no one will know the difference.”
“I think I should stay near the birds,” Romilly said, avoiding his gaze. It was not that she did not trust him, exactly; she had lived in camp among them, and if her real sex had not yet been discovered, he was unlikely to discover it now, even should they share a sleeping room. And if he should – she discovered that she felt shaky and weak when she thought about that – Orain was not a cristoforo and would not be bound by their Creed of Chastity – she had heard stories all her life, of how licentious were the lowlanders and the Hali’imyn – but somehow she could not imagine that he would attempt to force himself upon her. Still, she was uncomfortable at his touch, and pulled away as quickly as she could, remembering the dream she had had … in the dream he had held and caressed her as if she was the woman he did not know her to be. …