Nebula Awards Showcase 2006 (45 page)

“Let the verdict of the Oracle be pronounced for all to hear,” cried the herald. “The crime is treason, heresy, and attempted desertion to the enemy. The body is not at fault, and will be spared, but is unfit to bear memory. Let it be banished to the wilds. Generous is the Oracle.”

They held him, but Vru would not struggle. He was limp and sweaty. He looked at his chest; how strange not to see Delighting-in-Beauty there. He felt like a child again.

He kept seeing the false Embracing-the-New, as he had left it, with its Ghennungs broken off. Had he killed a god? But it was a false god, a monstrosity!

The doctors teased a Ghennung from his flesh. He watched as it burned in the brazier, twitching. A strange, hissing scream came from it. Fear filled his guts like a balloon expanding. They took another Ghennung, the one that had been his grandfather’s. What had his grandmother looked like? He could only remember her old. How sad, how sad. She had surely been beautiful young. Hadn’t he often said so?

They took another. He needed a god, a god to center him. But he could not think of Delighting-in-Beauty. He had betrayed her. He thought of Embracing-the-New, the real Embracing-the-New, the figure bereft reaching for hope. Yes, he thought. They took another Ghennung. It blackened and twisted in the fire. Vru, he thought. My name is Vru. They reached for the last Ghennung. Embracing-the-New, he thought, the body of green stone. Remember.

The beast stood in the courtyard. The wind was cool, the forest smelled like spring. There would be hunting there. Others were holding him. They smelled like his clan, so he did not attack. They let him go.

He looked around. There was one horrible old one who stank, who looked angry, or sad. The others brandished claws, shouted. He hissed back and brandished his claws. But there were too many to fight. He ran.

He headed for the forest. It smelled like spring. There would be hunting there.

L
ois McMaster Bujold was born in Columbus, Ohio, in 1949; she now lives in Minneapolis. She started writing for professional publication in 1982. Her first three SF novels were all published in 1986 by Baen Books. Bujold went on to write the Nebula-winning
Falling Free
(1988) and many other books featuring her popular character Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, his family, friends, and enemies. The series includes three Hugo Award-winning novels; readers interested in learning more about the far-flung Vorkosigan clan are encouraged to start with the omnibus
Cordelia’s Honor
. Bujold’s books have been translated into nineteen languages, and have also found audio and e-book editions. In 2001 came a new fantasy,
The Curse of Chalion,
which garnered a Mythopoeic Award for Adult Fantasy.
Paladin of Souls,
a sequel in the same world, followed in 2003, and won the Locus and Hugo awards, and now has won a Nebula Award as well. A third volume,
The Hallowed Hunt,
will be out from Eos/HarperCollins in June 2005. A fan-run Web site devoted to her work,
The Bujold Nexus,
may be found at
www.dendarii.com
.

About
Paladin of Souls,
this year’s Nebula winner in the novel category, she says:

“Ista dy Chalion, the heroine of
Paladin of Souls,
started out as a minor (if pivotal) character in
The Curse of Chalion,
my first book in this fantasy world. She had enormous gravitational pull—every scene she appeared in seemed to tilt toward her—but she could not be that tale’s central focus. The last scene of that book included a sort of promissory note that I would get back to her properly, give her her own story and her own journey of learning and redemption.

“If
Chalion
dealt with the concerns of the goddess the Daughter of Spring, in this world’s five-part and decidedly nondualistic pantheon, Ista’s book hinged on the ambiguous god called the Bastard, not coincidentally the god of all things out of season, which Ista surely is. It was a lot of fun to write an older heroine—Ista is about forty—who doesn’t get shuffled off to the sidelines. (Well, all right, forty doesn’t look old to me now, but this was based on an era of shorter life spans.) It also allowed me to draw on a much broader range of life experiences than for a younger protagonist. Ista at last finds her own place to stand, stepping away from the constrained patterns imposed upon her by her place in her society, which is a theme pertinent to any age.”

I
sta leaned forward between the crenellations atop the gate tower, the stone gritty beneath her pale hands, and watched in numb exhaustion as the final mourning party cleared the castle gate below. Their horses’ hooves scraped on the old cobblestones, and their good-byes echoed in the portal’s vaulting. Her earnest brother, the provincar of Baocia, and his family and retinue were last of the many to leave, two full weeks after the divines had completed the funeral rites and ceremonies of the interment.

Dy Baocia was still talking soberly to the castle warder, Ser dy Ferrej, who walked at his stirrup, grave face upturned, listening to the stream, no doubt, of final instructions. Faithful dy Ferrej, who had served the late Dowager Provincara for all the last two decades of her long residence here in Valenda. The keys of the castle and keep glinted from the belt at his stout waist. Her mother’s keys, which Ista had collected and held, then turned over to her older brother along with all the other papers and inventories and instructions that a great lady’s death entailed. And that he had handed back for permanent safekeeping not to his sister, but to good, old, honest dy Ferrej. Keys to lock out all danger . . . and, if necessary, Ista in.

It wasn’t as though she wanted her mother’s keys, nor her mother’s life that went with them. She scarcely knew what she wanted. She knew what she feared—to be locked up in some dark, narrow place by people who loved her. An enemy might drop his guard, weary of his task, turn his back; love would never falter. Her fingers rubbed restlessly on the stone.

Dy Baocia’s cavalcade filed off down the hill through the town and was soon lost from her view among the crowded red-tiled roofs. Dy Ferrej, turning back, walked wearily in through the gate and out of sight.

The chill spring wind lifted a strand of Ista’s dun hair and blew it across her face, catching on her lip; she grimaced and tucked it back into the careful braiding wreathing her head. Its tightness pinched her scalp.

The weather had warmed these last two weeks, too late to ease an old woman bound to her bed by injury and illness. If her mother had not been so old, the broken bones would have healed more swiftly, and the inflammation of the lungs might not have anchored itself so deeply in her chest. If she had not been so fragile, perhaps the fall from the horse would not have broken her bones in the first place. If she had not been so fiercely willful, perhaps she would not have been on that horse at all at her age . . . Ista looked down to find her fingers bleeding, and hid them hastily in her skirt.

In the funeral ceremonies, the gods had signed that the old lady’s soul had been taken up by the Mother of Summer, as was expected and proper. Even the gods would not dare violate her views on protocol. Ista imagined the old Provincara ordering heaven, and smiled a little grimly.

Ista considered the empty spaces of that solitude, its fearful cost. Husband, father, son, and mother had all filed down to the grave ahead of her in their turn. Her daughter was claimed by the royacy of Chalion in as tight an embrace as any grave, and as little likely to return from her high place, five gods willing, as the others from their low ones.
Surely I am done.
The duties that had defined her, all accomplished. Once, she had been her parents’ daughter. Then great, unlucky Ias’s wife. Her children’s mother. At the last, her mother’s keeper.
Well, I am none of these things now.

Well, she was still Lord dy Lutez’s murderer. The last of that little, secret company left alive, now.
That
she had made of herself, and that she remained.

She leaned between the crenellations again, the stone abrading the lavender sleeves of her court mourning dress, catching at its silk threads. Her eye followed the road in the morning light, starting from the stones below and flowing downhill, through the town, past the river . . . and where? All roads were one road, they said. A great net across the land, parting and rejoining. All roads ran two ways. They said,
I want a road that does not come back.

A frightened gasp behind her jerked her head around. One of her lady attendants stood on the battlement with her hand to her lips, eyes wide, breathing heavily from her climb. She smiled with false cheer. “My lady. I’ve been seeking you everywhere. Do . . . do come away from that edge, now . . .”

Ista’s lips curled in irony. “Content you. I do not yearn to meet the gods face-to-face this day.”
Or on any other. Never again.
“The gods and I are not on speaking terms.”

She suffered the woman to take her arm and stroll with her as if casually along the battlement toward the inner stairs, careful, Ista noted, to take the outside place, between Ista and the drop.
Content you, woman. I do not desire the stones.

The realization startled, almost shocked her. It was a new thought.
A new thought, me?
All her old thoughts seemed as thin and ragged as a piece of knitting made and ripped out and made and ripped out again until all the threads were frayed, growing ever more worn, but never larger. But how could
she
gain the road? Roads were made for young men, not middle-aged women. The poor orphan boy packed his sack and started off down the road to seek his heart’s hope . . . a thousand tales began that way. She was not poor, she was not a boy, and her heart was surely as stripped of all hope as life and death could render it.
I am an orphan now, though. Is that not enough to qualify me?

They turned the corner of the battlement, making toward the round tower containing the narrow, winding staircase that gave onto the inner garden. Ista cast one last glance out across the scraggly shrubs and stunted trees that crept up to the curtain wall of the castle. Up the path from the shallow ravine, a servant towed a donkey loaded with firewood, heading for the postern gate.

In her late mother’s flower garden, Ista slowed, resisting her attendant’s urgent hand upon her arm, and mulishly took to a bench in the still-bare rose arbor. “I am weary,” she announced. “I would rest here for a time. You may fetch me tea.”

She could watch her lady attendant turning over the risks in her mind, regarding her high charge untrustingly. Ista frowned coldly. The woman dropped a curtsey. “Yes, my lady. I’ll tell one of the maids. And I’ll be
right back.
”

I expect you will.
Ista waited only till the woman had rounded the corner of the keep before she sprang to her feet and ran for the postern gate.

The guard was just letting the servant and his donkey through. Ista, head high, sailed out past them without turning round. Pretending not to hear the guard’s uncertain, “My lady . . . ?” she walked briskly down the steepening path. Her trailing skirts and billowing black velvet vest-cloak snagged on weeds and brambles as she passed, like clutching hands trying to hold her back. Once out of sight among the first trees, her steps quickened to something close to a run. She had used to run down this path to the river, when she was a girl. Before she was anybody’s anything.

She was no girl now, she had to concede. She was winded and trembling by the time the river’s gleam shone through the vegetation. She turned and strode along the bank. The path still held its remembered course to the old footbridge, across the water, and up again to one of the main roads winding around the hill to—or from—the town of Valenda.