Ista’s high mourning with preparation for every likely or unlikely contingency. Ista sat in a window seat overlooking the entry court, letting the endless words flow over her like a drip from a gutter spout. Her headache was now quite real, she decided.
A clatter and bustle at the castle gate announced, unusually, another visitor. Ista sat up and peered through the casement. A tall bay horse clopped in through the archway; its rider wore the castle-and-leopard tabard of the chancellery of Chalion over more faded clothing. The rider swung down, bouncing on—oh, her toes; the courier was a fresh-faced young woman with her hair in a black braid down her back. She pulled a bundle from behind her saddle and unrolled it with a snap to reveal a skirt. With decidedly perfunctory modesty, she hitched up her tunic and wrapped the garment around her trousers at her slim waist, shaking out the hem around her booted ankles with a cheerful swing of her hips.
De Ferrej appeared below; the girl unsealed her chancellery pouch and held it upside down to drop out a single letter. Dy Ferrej read the direction and tore it open then and there, by which Ista deduced it was a personal missive from his beloved daughter Lady Betriz, attendant upon the Royina Iselle at court. Perhaps it contained news of his grandson, for his face softened. Was it time yet for first teeth? If so, Ista would hear of the infant’s achievement in due course. She had to smile a little.
The girl stretched, restored her pouch, checked her horse’s legs and hooves, and turned the animal over to the castle groom with some string of instructions. Ista became conscious of her own lady-in-waiting peering over her shoulder.
Ista said impulsively, “I would speak to that courier girl. Fetch her to me.”
“My lady, she had only the one letter.”
“Well, then, I’ll have to hear the news of court from her lips.”
Her woman snorted. “Such a rude girl is not likely to be in the confidence of the court ladies at Cardegoss.”
“Nonetheless, fetch her.”
It might have been the sharp tone of voice; in any case, the woman moved off.
At length, a firm tread and an aroma of horses and leather announced the girl’s arrival in Ista’s sitting room, even before her woman’s dubious, “My lady, here is the courier as you asked.” Ista swung round in the casement seat and stared up, waving her woman out; she departed with a disapproving frown.
The girl stared back with slightly daunted curiosity. She managed an awkward bob, halfway between a bow and a curtsey. “Royina. How may I serve you?”
Ista scarcely knew. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Liss, my lady.” After a moment of rather empty silence she offered, “Short for Annaliss.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Today? I picked up my dispatch case at the station in—”
“No—altogether.”
“Oh. Um. My father had a little estate near the town of Teneret, in the province of Labra. He raised horses for the Brother’s Order, and sheep for the wool market. Still does, as far as I know.”
A man of substance; she was not escaping some dire poverty, then. “How did you become a courier?”
“I had not thought about it, till one day my sister and I came to town to deliver some horses to the temple, and I saw a girl gallop in riding courier for the Daughter’s Order.” She smiled as if in some happy memory. “I was on fire from that moment.”
Perhaps it was the confidence of her calling, or of her youth and strength; the girl, while very polite, was by no means tongue-tied in the royina’s presence, Ista noted with relief. “Aren’t you afraid, out there alone on the roads?”
She tossed her head, making her braid swing. “I outride all danger. So far, anyway.”
Ista could believe it. The girl was taller than Ista, but still shorter and slighter than the average man, even the wiry fellows favored for couriers. She would sit her horse lightly. “Or . . . or uncomfortable? You must ride in heat, cold, all weather . . .”
“I don’t melt in the rain. And the riding keeps me warm in the snow. If I have to, I can sleep wrapped in my cloak on the ground under a tree. Or up it, if the place seems chancy. It’s true the courier station bunks are warmer and less bumpy.” Her eyes crinkled with humor. “Slightly.”
Ista sighed in faint awe of such boundless energy. “How long have you been riding for