by J F Rivkin
He found himself mingling with folk of every degree, and-thanks to ’Malkin-he knew better than to make any extravagant claims about his own position. When asked about his place in the Rhaicime’s party, he merely replied with charming humility that he was no one at all, a lowly commoner of no family, in whom the Lady Nyctasia had been kind enough to take an interest. This ingenuous response had just the touch of truth needed to make it acceptable, without actually revealing anything about Trask’s social standing. ’Malkin was of course too occupied with courting patrons of his own to have time for Trask, but when he happened to encounter his pupil he felt that Trask was doing him credit, and gave him a wink of encouragement.
Nyctasia had never taken an interest in him before, but it would seem that she did so now. It must be the manners he’d learned from ’Malkin that had changed her mind, Trask thought. She had sent for him specially, after all, and even seen that he was provided with a suit of beautiful new clothes for the occasion.
Trask loved these elegant garments, though left to his own devices he would probably have chosen something a good deal more showy. ’Malkin had told him that ostentation in dress was in poor taste, and Trask accepted the idea, but he couldn’t help thinking it a shame that folk who could afford brightly-dyed stuffs should content themselves with dull colors. Still, he had no fault to find with the butter-yellow silk shirt he’d been given, which made his hair glow like molten gold. Even Corson had been impressed when he’d shown off his new outfit for her. “Look at our princeling!” she’d said with a whistle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were someone decent, not a piece of filthy Chiastelm wharf scum.”
Trask let his fellow guests draw their own conclusions about his origins, and he was taken for a student, or the son of prosperous tradesfolk, or even a bastard of good blood-but not, apparently, for an underling from an ale-house. Caught up in his role, Trask himself all but forgot what he was and where he came from. He was hardly surprised when Nyctasia summoned him to join her for the actors’ performance, though he knew that this was an honor any courtier would envy him.
He made Nyctasia a low bow and thanked her very properly for this unlooked-for token of her favor, but she only said, “Sit down and watch the play, Trask-the play, not the audience.”
She didn’t present him to her other guests, but perhaps that was not to be expected. They might be nobles of exalted rank who’d be insulted if Nyctasia introduced a commoner to them. But never mind, he thought-merely being seen in the Rhaicime’s company would confer distinction upon him in the eyes of all who saw him. He smoothed his hair and sat up straighter. ’Malkin was always telling him not to slouch.
Then a burst of trumpets announced that the play was about to begin, and before long Trask had forgotten everything else, even his own ambitions and appearance.
The actors had partitioned off the far end of the hall with curtains about the dais, and when two of the troupe pulled back the draperies, Trask saw that they’d transformed the platform into a forest glade with trees and grass and flowers-and could that be a pond? He had sometimes seen traveling bands of mummers put on a crude play in the marketplace, but a polished performance like this, indoors, with elaborate properties and scenery, was a completely new and fascinating experience to him. The trees were of painted wood and gauze, the flowers of cloth and wire, the grass a green carpet, and the pond must of course be a mirror, he realized. Yet all was arranged so cleverly, so charmingly, that the scene was somehow thoroughly convincing, without looking at all realistic.
Trask was already captivated, but when the actors entered, in their ornate costumes, and delivered their elegant, dramatic speeches, he was awe-stricken, exalted as if by some long-awaited inspiration. Those who portrayed nobles were more lordly than the real aristocrats who were watching them. The swordfighters were more dashing than real soldiers of fortune, who, in Trask’s experience, were more likely to be vulgar louts like Corson than debonair, witty bravos. The bandits were more cunning and clever than real robbers-and Trask had known plenty of thieves in his day. And the princess, when she stood revealed (it seemed that the leader of the bandits had been the princess all along, it was rather complicated) was undoubtedly more majestic than any true daughter of royalty. True, Trask had never seen anyone of regal blood, but he had instinctively grasped the secret of the theater: everything on stage was better than in reality. Everything was as it ought to be, not as it was.
Trask watched the play from beginning to end in a state of feverish intensity that left him exhausted. While the audience applauded, some throwing flowers, coins, or sweets wrapped in gilded lace, he only sat stunned and speechless, consumed with desire.
It was Nyctasia’s duty, as guest of honor, to summon the leader of the troupe and commend the performance on the court’s behalf. When all had taken their bows, and the curtains had been drawn again, she turned to Trask as if he were her page, and said, “Go present my compliments to the actors, Trask, and fetch me the man who played the king.”
As if in a dream, Trask rose unsteadily, murmured, “Yes, Nyc,” and hurried away, his eyes still fixed on the curtain.
The master-actor bowed to Nyctasia with a grace that Trask envied, accepted her congratulations with eloquent thanks, then startled Trask not a little by pointing to him and asking, “Is this the one you mentioned, my lady?”
“Yes. A likely lad, don’t you think? He’s nothing but a nuisance to me, but you might find a use for him, no?”
Trask held his breath.
The director of the troupe looked him over with a professional eye. The boy was at a usefully indeterminate age-young enough to pass for a lass, if they were short a girl, but old enough to fill any number of minor men’s roles with a little padding and a false mustache. They could always do with a spare man-at-arms, a herald, thief, beggar or page. He’d do for an urchin, too, for another year or so. Then with a few years’ training behind him he’d be just the right age for a young hero of romance-and he’d have the looks for the part as well. And besides, a boy who enjoyed the patronage of a Rhaicime might well be valuable in other ways…
“Can he read?” he asked at last. It wasn’t necessary, of course, but it was useful for learning long speeches.
“Yes!” cried Trask, but both ignored him.
“So I’m told,” said Nyctasia. “And he has a good deal of native ability. He’s an excellent mimic, as I know to my cost. He learns quickly, and remembers what he’s taught. You’ll not regret taking him on.”
“Mind you, he can’t expect a wage till he’s trained, my lady, and not much then.
He’ll be working for his keep and training for two years at the least.”
“I would gladly pay you a ’prentice-fee to take him,” said Nyctasia. “Just keep him out of my way!”
“Done!” said the actor, laughing. He bowed again and gestured to Trask. “Come along and make yourself useful, youngster. There’s everything still to be packed away.”
“Yes, sir,” Trask said breathlessly. He too bowed to Nyctasia, imitating the older man’s flourish. “Nyc-I mean, Your Ladyship-” he began, but Nyctasia cut short his words.
“Don’t thank me,” she ordered, “thank Annin. I expect you’ll pass through Chiastelm on your way north. Now please go away.”
Trask didn’t see what Annin could have to do with his good fortune, but he felt so dazed that anything seemed possible. “Yes, my lady,” he said, and followed his new master without another word. Perhaps if he was careful and didn’t question his luck, he thought, he could keep himself from waking up.
23
nyctasia was dreaming of bells again.
Even deep in the crypts, she had heard the bells heralding her mother’s death, and now, as Tiambria’s time drew nigh, the echo of their knell haunted her dreams and made her start anxiously at any bell that sounded. Her concern for her sister, and for the child who was to unify the city, drove all other matters from her mind, and she allowed more of the respo
nsibility for Rhostshyl to fall to others, and left much of the business of the budding university in the capable and willing hands of ’Malkin. So occupied was she with thoughts of Tiambria that she rarely even found herself brooding over the loss of Erystalben. She devoted herself to study of the great scholarly works on the healing arts, poring over all that was written about childbearing and its dangers, but she learned nothing that Dame Tsephis and Master Anthorne had not told her.
The same fears tormented Lord Jehamias. “Your own mother died in childbed, did she not?” he asked Nyctasia wretchedly. “And Briar is-”
“No, Jehame. I’ve told you, Teselescq would have recovered fully if she’d given herself time to heal, as her physicians advised. She made light of their warnings and went riding far too soon after the twins were born. She was seized with such pains that she lost her seat and suffered a terrible fall. It was her own willfulness that killed her.”
He groaned. “But that’s just the sort of thing Briar would do.”
“Yes, but Briar has you and me to keep her from killing herself, brother.
Teselescq’s husband was an old man who took little interest in her-theirs was purely a marriage of duty. But if you ask Briar to do as her physicians order, just to spare you worry, I daresay she’ll oblige you.”
“Perhaps she may, but suppose she refuses?”
“Jehame, Briar knows what happened to our mother. But even if she refuses to listen to reason, nothing of the sort will happen to her, because I’ll have her locked up if necessary! Teselescq was of age, you see, but Briar is still my ward, by law. So you needn’t worry-between us, we’ll take care of her in spite of herself.” It was all perfectly true, but it comforted neither of them much.
“Still, I wish there was something I could do now,” said Jehamias. “You’re a healer, ’Tasia, you’ll have your spells to do, but I can only wait. They won’t even let me stay with her. Mistress Omia says I’d only be in the way.”
“She said much the same to me, and she’s right, I’m afraid. I may be a healer, but I’m no midwife, nor even a physician. I can’t very well put Briar into a healing-trance while she’s giving birth, so I can be of little help till the child’s born-and she’ll probably not need me, then. All I can do when the time comes is undertake a trance-spell myself, to try to create an Influence to lend her strength. It may well come to nothing.”
“Even that’s more than I can do,” sighed Jehamias.
“But you can help me, Jehame, if you will. I need someone to attend me, to see that nothing disturbs me, and to recall me from the trance at the proper time.
Someone who cares for Tiambria would best serve the Influence, you see.”
Jehamias had of course been eager to help, to feel that he could be of some use to his wife at such a time. Tiambria’s confinement therefore found him secluded with Nyctasia, watching over her anxiously as she sat stiffly upright in a narrow chair, silent and motionless, unaware of him or of anything save her inner visions. Greymantle lay at her feet, not sleeping but perhaps creating an Influence of his own to guard her.
She had given Jehamias various tasks-most of them quite meaningless-to keep him occupied. He tended the fire carefully, felt Nyctasia’s pulse from time to time, and dutifully tried to concentrate his thoughts on the Discipline that Nyctasia had said would somehow assist her in her efforts. But as the hours passed without word of Tiambria, he paced the chamber more and more, waiting and worrying, while Nyctasia’s trance gave way to mere dreams, dreams of great iron bells.
The tolling of the bells reached her even far beneath the earth, and she turned to her cousin in dismay, only to find that he was not Thierran, but Jenisorn brenn Vale. “There’s nothing to fear, Nyc,” said Jenisorn, laughing. “It’s the harvest-bells. The Royal Crimson are ripe, the Crush has begun! We must hurry, or the fruit will lose its flavor.”
Of course, this dark underground passage was in the wine-cellars of the Edonaris vintnery, not in the crypts of the palace. Her mother had died long ago, she was safe in the Midlands, far from Rhostshyl and its mournful memories. She followed Jenisorn up the stairs at a run, the sound of the bells growing ever louder as she neared the light at the head of the stairs.
She raced through the doorway, despite the deafening clamor, into the abandoned tower on the crown of Honeycomb Hill. The bell-rope thrashed wildly from side to side, but Nyctasia caught it and pulled as hard as she could, lest the bell should fall silent too soon. She was dragged and shaken to and fro by the weight of the bell, and the ground trembled beneath her as the shattering noise fractured the supports beneath the tower. At any moment it might collapse and crush her, but Nyctasia could not abandon her duty. Mortal danger threatened the valley, and only she could sound the warning in time. Someone called to her from nearby, and she wondered, in the midst of her frantic efforts, why he should use her old nickname, when she was known in Vale only as Nyc…
“’Tasia!” cried Jehamias, shaking her awake at last. “Come, the bells have sounded-the birth-peal! Twice, ’Tasia, they’ve rung it twice. It must be twins!”
***
“As soon as one begins to cry, the other joins in,” Tiambria said despairingly.
“Did ’Kasten and I do that?”
“You certainly did,” said Nyctasia. “And you didn’t stop it till you were ten years old.”
Tiambria laughed. Sitting up in bed, supported by pillows and cushions, she looked wan and weak, but pleased with herself. “But what ails the creatures now?
They can’t be hungry again so soon. Jehame, do send for a nursemaid. Tell her to take them away and drown them.”
“They don’t want a nurse, they want their aunt,” said Nyctasia. “Don’t you, my pets?” She picked up one of the swaddled infants and asked it, “Now are you my niece or my nephew?” The child stopped crying and gazed at her in solemn, wondering silence. “Never mind, you’re sure to be one or the other,” she said, tucking it into the crook of her arm and deftly scooping up its twin with her free arm. It too stopped its whimpering as Nyctasia bounced them both gently up and down.
Jehamias, who was still terrified to hold even one of the babies, watched her in awe and alarm, and even Tiambria murmured, “Do take care, ’Tasia.”
“Ho, you forget that I was carrying both you and ’Kasten about when I was twelve. I daresay I could juggle these little mites if I tried.” She knelt down and offered the babies for Greymantle’s approval. “What do you think, Grey? Will they do?” He sniffed them with interest, wagging his tail, then began to lick their faces, pleased with their milky scent. One of the twins gurgled with delight, and the other immediately echoed the sound.
“’Tasia, don’t let him do that!” Tiambria protested. “Anyone would think you were raised in a kennel! Give them to me.” She held out her arms for the twins.
Nyctasia grinned at her disapproval. “Nothing’s cleaner than a hound’s mouth,” she teased. “Oh, very well, Briar, you may have this one.” She let her sister take one of the twins from her arms, and pretended to toss the other to Jehamias. “Do you want one too, Jehame? No?”
“I’ll thank you to stop using my daughter for a shuttlecock,” laughed Tiambria.
“And stop tormenting poor Jehame, too. What demon’s gotten into you? Give me that child!”
“I shan’t. I think I’ll keep this one,” said Nyctasia. “Anyone can see that she takes after me, just look how pretty and clever she is.” She sat on the bed near Tiambria and held her tiny niece close to her heart, crooning a song to her as she rocked her. The baby made contented, sleepy, suckling sounds, and yawned.
“Can’t you even sing them a proper lullaby?” Tiambria scolded in a whisper.
“They like it,” Nyctasia retorted, and sang softly:
“Oh, I could complain
That my life is a curse,
That love’s a murrain
That no healer can nurse.
But let me explain-
Things could always be wor
se!”
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