ggk.asongforarbonne-第66节

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　　〃And　you　are　so　close　now；　aren't　you？〃　Ranald　says；　his　own　voice　harsh。　He　is　going　to　have　to　leave　very　soon；　he　knows。　He　is　afraid　he　is　about　to　be　ill。　He　cannot　get　that　image　of　the　king　out　of　his　mind。　〃Everything　has　e　together　for　you。　Duergar's　death；　the　treaty；　Rosala's　flight　now；　Ademar　in　the　palm　of　your　hand。〃　He　says　that　last　too　loudly；　but　he　doesn't　care　any　more。　〃All　you　need　now；　to　deal　with　the　other　countries；　to　make　it　all　acceptable　to　them；　is　for　the　child　to　have　been　a　boy。〃
　　〃You　are　correct；〃　his　father　agrees；　smiling　benignly。　〃You　astonish　me；　my　son。　I　have　prayed　upon　my　knees　to　the　god。　I　can　only　hope　Corannos　has　heard　my　words　and　found　me　worthy　to　be　answered；　that　I　may　strike　soon　with　fire　and　sword　in　his　most　holy　name。　All　I　need；　truly；　as　you　say；　is　for　the　child　to　be　a　boy。〃
　　
　　Rosala　came　back　down　the　corridor　from　the　room　where　her　son　lay　sleeping。　The　wet…nurse　they　had　found　was　with　him；　and　the　younger　of　the　two　priestesses　who　had　been　present　at　Cadar's　birth　was　staying　in　Barbentain　Castle　for　this　first　week。　They　were　careful　in　Arbonne　with　babies；　she　was　discovering；　or；　at　least；　careful　with　the　babies　of　nobility。　Some　things　were　constant　wherever　in　the　world　one　went。　Rosala　doubted　the　same　attention　had　been　paid　to　the　child　of　the　wet…nurse　in　its　village。　She　knew　it　had　died；　she　didn't　want　to　know　how；　or　why。　Children　died　in　so　many　ways。　The　usual　advice　was　not　to　grow　too　attached　to　them　in　the　first　year；　lest　the　heart　break　if　they　were　taken　away。　Rosala　remembered　hearing　that　years　ago；　and　thinking　it　made　sense；　she　didn't　think　that　any　more。
　　She　had　no　idea　how　women　held　back　from　loving　the　small；　desperately　needy　infants　in　their　arms。　She　was　grateful　beyond　words　for　the　care　they　were　offering　Cadar。　Crossing　the　mountains　south　in　that　jostling　wagon　she　seemed　to　have　passed　from　an　endless　nightmare　to　a　sheltering　haven。
　　An　illusory　thought；　she　knew。　She　was　too　versed　in　the　ways　of　the　world　to　imagine　that　she　would　simply　be　allowed　to　live　here　peacefully　with　her　child　and　the　old　countess　receiving　troubadours　and　their　joglars；　listening　to　music　and　riding　in　the　fields　beside　the　river　as　the　seasons　followed　each　other　and　Cadar　grew　into　a　child　and　then　a　man。　They　had　been　known　to　kill　women　in　Gorhaut　for　merely　speaking　impertinently　to　their　husbands　in　a　public　place。　What　would　they　do　to　a　woman　who　fled　with　a　child？　And　not　just　any　woman；　or　any　child。　The　heir　to　the　dukes　of　Garsenc　was　sleeping　in　the　room　she　had　just　left；　and　Cadar　was　perilously　near　in　succession　to　the　throne　itself　while　Ademar　remained　unwed。　Third　or　fourth　in　line；　actually；　by　one　path　of　reckoning；　depending　on　whether　one　counted　the　disinherited　Blaise　or　not。
　　It　didn't　much　matter。　They　would　be　ing　for　Cadar；　and　probably　for　her。　It　would　begin　with　the　formalities　of　statecraft；　the　richly　clothed　emissaries　with　their　learned　speeches　and　their　gifts　to　the　countess　and　the　mellifluously　written　letters　they　would　carry。　The　gifts　would　be　elaborate；　that　was　the　way　of　things。　The　speeches　would　be　eloquent　and　courteous。　The　demands　in　the　letters　would　be　unveiled　and　coldly　precise；　and　backed　by　ultimatums　that　left　nothing　to　the　imagination。
　　Rosala　wondered　whether　she　should　take　ship　for　the　east　to　release　Arbonne　from　the　burden　of　her　presence。　If　somewhere　in　one　of　the　fabled　courts　of　magic　in　those　far　lands　she　might　find　a　home　for　herself　and　Cadar。　Another　illusion；　that。　She　knew　the　tales　of　what　happened　to　fair…skinned　women　in　the　courts　and　bazaars　of　those　lands　of　spice　and　silk。　She　knew　what　happened　to　their　male　children。
　　She　could　hear　music；　a　murmur　of　voices　and　laughter　spiralling　up　the　stairwell　from　the　great　hall　below。　She　couldn't　remember　the　last　time　she'd　heard　laughter　that　didn't　carry　an　edge　of　malice。　They　had　told　her　that　the　music　tonight；　by　a　young　man　from　Orreze；　would　be　of　a　very　high　order。　She　knew　she　would　be　wele　if　she　went　downstairs。　She　still　felt　tired；　though；　and　extremely　tender；　not　ready　for　the　demands　of　public　spaces。　Privacy　was　a　rare　thing　in　her　world；　something　to　be　valued　as　much　as　any　other　gift　they　had　offered　her　here　in　Barbentain。
　　She　sat　down　carefully　in　a　recessed　window　seat　to　listen。　The　stone　bench　was　cushioned；　for　which　she　was　grateful。　She　reached　over　and　unlatched　the　window。　It　was　of　stained　glass；　etched　wonderfully　with　the　image　of　a　green　island　in　the　sea。　The　breeze　came　in；　and　through　the　window　she　could　see　the　unfiltered　light　of　the　blue　moon。　They　called　it　Riannon　here　for　the　goddess；　not　Escoran　for　the　god。　Because　of　that　difference；　she　reflected；　Arbonne　was　to　be　destroyed。
　　After　a　moment　she　rejected　the　thought：　too　simple　an　argument　and　conclusion。　Nothing　was　that　simple　in　the　world。
　　She　could　hear　the　river　running　below　in　the　darkness；　making　a　soft；　continuous　murmur　beneath　the　singing　of　the　joglar。　It　was　cool　tonight　on　the　isle　of　Barbentain；　Rosala　wrapped　the　woolen　robe　they　had　given　her　more　closely　about　herself。　The　fresh　air　revived　her；　though；　and　brought　back　with　its　clarity　the　reassuring　awareness　that　she　had；　by　ing　here；　done　all　she　could　do　for　Cadar。　The　next　moves；　in　the　larger　game；　were　not　hers　to　make。　The　scale　of　her　own　life　had　suddenly　bee　much　smaller；　focused　on　a　heartbeat。　She　felt　an　urge…and　almost　laughed　at　herself…to　go　back　up　the　corridor　to　look　in　upon　his　sleep　again。　It　was　strange　how　swiftly；　how　pletely；　love　could　re…enter　one's　world。
　　The　last　person　she　had　loved　was　her　father；　and　he　had　died　by　Iersen　Bridge　almost　two　years　ago。　Her　mother　had　gone　before　him；　in　the　last　plague　year。　Her　brother　Fulk　elicited　no　real　intensities　of　emotion；　nor　did　she　in　him；　Rosala　knew。　He　would　not　lead　the　pursuit　to　bring　her　back；　but　neither　would　he　speak　up　to　stay　it。　He　was　a　good　steward　of　Savaric；　though；　and　she　respected　him　for　that。　The　Savaric　lands　were　terribly　exposed　now；　wide　open　to　raids　from　Valensa　across　the　newly　drawn　border　of　the　Iersen　River。　If　the　treaty　ever　ceased　to　hold　they　would　be　vulnerable　to　even　more　than　that。
　　It　wouldn't　hold；　Fulk　had　told　her　last　year　during　one　of　the　rare　times　when　they　were　both　at　Cortil。　Truces　like　this　one　never　did；　but　lands　lost　for　long　enough　were　likely　to　be　lost　forever。　He　had　said　it　quietly；　for　her　ears　alone。　Not　for　cautious　Fulk　de　Savaric　the　openly　critical　talk　of　a　powerful　lord；　with　a　new　king　on　the　throne。　Their　father　would　have　been　loud　in　his　denunciations；　Rosala　knew；　whatever　the　consequences。
　　As　Blaise　de　Garsenc　had　been　before　he　left；　both　the　first　time　and　then　again　a　year　later；　after　his　abortive　return　home。
　　Thoughts　of　Blaise　were　difficult。　He　was　here　in　Lussan　she　now　knew；　with　the　duke　of　Talair。　It　would　be　easy　to　see　him；　to　send　a　message　as　clear　or　cryptic　as　she　wanted　it　to　be。　She　wondered　if　he'd　yet　learned　she　was　in　the　castle。　The　priestesses　had　told　her　the　whole　fair　was　gossiping　about　the　high…born　lady　from　Gorhaut　who'd　been　brought　to　the　temple　so　near　to　giving　birth。　Othon；　she　had　thought　ruefully：　he　would　have　been　constitutionally　incapable　of　not　telling　the　tale；　nor　had　she　really　any　right　to　have　expected　him　to　withhold　it。
　　Blaise　had　never　been　the　sort　to　listen　to　gossip；　though；　and　En　Bertran　de　Talair　had　sworn　an　oath　not　to　tell　him　until　she　was　ready。　It　was　even　probable…a　sharp；　new　thought…that　Blaise　hadn't　even　known　she　was　with　child。　There　had　been　no　munication　at　all　since　the　night　he'd　gone　away　for　the　second　time。
　　
　　Rosala　remembered　that　night。　Sitting　beside　an　open　window　in　Arbonne　with　the　murmuring　river　below　and　music　wafting　up　the　stairwell；　she　went　back　in　her　mind's　eye　to　that　wintry　darkness；　the　stars　lost　and　a　storm　wind　howling；　lashing　snow　and　ice　in　rattling　sheets　against　the　windows　of　Garsenc　Castle。　She　had　listened　to　the　father　and　the　sons　curse　each　other；　heard　the　unforgivable　names　spoken；　the　vile　things　said；　savagely　wounding；　more　bitter　than　the　night。　She　had　wept　silently；　utterly　ignored　in　her　seat　by　the　fire；　ashamed　of　her　own　weakness；　wanting　so　much　to　be　gone　from　the　room；　from　the　tangled；　savaged　hatreds　of　the　Garsenc　men；　but　unable　to　leave　without　Ranald's　permission　and　unwilling　to　draw　attention　to　herself　by　speaking。　The　father　would　turn　on　her　she　knew；　viciously；　the　moment　he　remembered　she　was　there。
　　Numb　with　cold　beside　the　guttering　fire　none　of　them　had　bothered　to　tend；　the　servants　having　prudently　absented　themselves；　Rosala　had　felt　the　cold　tears　on　her　cheeks　and　heard　her　brother…in…law；　reaching　some　final　apex　of　his　fury；　denounce　his　father　and　brother　in　a　voice　raw　with　anguish　before　he　stormed　from　the　room　and　the　castle　into　the　wild　night：　naming　the　one　man　as　a　traitor　to　Gorhaut；　obscenely　unworthy　of　the　god；　and　the　other　as　a　drunkard　and　a　coward。　She　had　agreed　with　both　assessments；　even　as　she　wept。　He　was　a　cold；　hard；　bitter　man；　Blaise　de　Garsenc；　wi