by J F Rivkin
“She said she was staying at the Peacock with a wealthy Rhaicime,” scoffed one of the women. “Of course, nobody believed that. She had plenty of money, though.”
Nyctasia had hastily departed, avoiding the curious stares directed her way.
Toward midnight she ordered a meal in a tavern that seemed slightly less squalid than the rest. A large, middle-aged woman was scraping food from the tables and gathering empty mugs while keeping a wary eye on her remaining customers. A young man carried ale and food from the kitchen. Nyctasia paid him, took a few cautious bites of the bread, then gave up all pretense at eating. She laid another coin, a heavy silver Meridian, on the table and addressed the busy woman.
“Perhaps you’ve seen a friend of mine-a tall swordswoman called Corson, with money to spend-”
“Lady, I get soldiers in here all the time,” said the woman impatiently. She did not pick up the coin.
“You’d remember this one-she’s beautiful. Bright brown hair in a long braid, and wide blue eyes. She was probably sick, maybe feeling mean…”
“What kind of fool soldier wears long hair?”
Nyctasia sighed. “Vanity makes fools of us all,” she said wearily. “You’ve not seen her then?”
At that, the young man came up to them. “Ma, I’ll wager she means the crazy one, over at Merl’s.”
“I never heard that she was beautiful.”
He shrugged. “I never heard she wasn’t. And she sure is sick. Merl’s just waiting for her to die so he can throw her out. Last time he tried, she broke his arm,” he told Nyctasia with a giggle.
She stood. “Where is this place?”
“I’ll show you,” he said eagerly. “It’s not far.”
The woman pocketed Nyctasia’s money. “All right, but bring yourself right back here after. There’s work to do.”
“That one has to be into everything,” she complained, watching them from the doorway. She frowned and suddenly called after Nyctasia, “Lady, don’t tell Merl you’re a friend of hers!”
***
“Has that madwoman upstairs died yet, Merl?” shouted Nyctasia’s guide.
“I don’t know,” growled a heavyset, bearded man with one arm in a sling. “Why don’t you go up and look for yourself?”
“I will,” said Nyctasia. “Show me where she is.” She started up the stairs.
Merl shrugged and followed her, with the youth and a few curious customers trailing after them. “In here,” he said. “Watch out, she’s rutting dangerous.”
The others prudently fell back, as Nyctasia went in. She shut the door behind her and hastened to Corson’s bedside. “Corson, take off those earrings! That bastard Brethald poisoned them!”
But Corson didn’t move. She lay on a dirty straw pallet, her unsheathed sword on the floor at her left hand. Only her labored breathing showed that she was still alive.
Nyctasia knelt beside her and began to draw off the golden earrings but Corson lunged without warning and dragged her to the floor. Before she could call out for help, Corson had her by the throat.
Corson was back in the woods, surrounded by the band of jeering thieves. “We’ll have the jewelry too,” said the leader, and reached to take her prized earrings.
This time he’d not get the better of her so easily! She threw him to the ground and fell upon him savagely, her hands closing around his throat. But as she stared down into the robber’s face, his features began to break and shift like reflections on the surface of a pond
…
Nyctasia was unprepared for the attack, and struggled vainly to break Corson’s grip. There was a ringing in her ears and dazzling black patches clouded her vision. Desperate, she groped for her dagger but Corson suddenly went limp, overcome by weakness, and collapsed, senseless.
When Nyctasia had somewhat recovered her breath she bent over Corson and listened for her heartbeat, then quickly drew off the earrings, wrapping them in a handkerchief. Satisfied, she got to her feet, still gasping, and went out to the landing.
“Is she dead?” said Merl eagerly.
Nyctasia leaned on the doorframe, one hand to her throat, and looked at him with disgust. “Get me some rope,” she ordered.
With Corson seemingly lifeless, and safely bound, the innkeeper felt much bolder about entering the room. He glared at Nyctasia, who was laying her folded cloak under Corson’s head. “She’s not staying here!” he said.
Nyctasia stood. “Don’t worry, man, it isn’t catching. She’s not sick, she’s poisoned.”
“How do you know?”
For answer, Nyctasia unwrapped the glittering earrings. “These were prepared with a deadly poison, but it wasn’t intended for her-she stole them. It’s unwise to steal from me.” The lie would serve as a warning. Nyctasia knew that everyone at the inn probably had plans to rob her already.
Merl looked uneasy. “Well, I don’t care what’s wrong with her, she’s not going to die under my roof. Folk will stay away for a year if they hear about it. You get her out of here or I will.”
“She’ll not die, I promise you,” Nyctasia said, hoping that she spoke the truth.
“I’m a healer, I’ll see to her.”
“She’s trouble, dead or alive,” said Merl stubbornly.
“Listen to me, man-! don’t want her here any more than you do. I’d rather have her someplace clean! But she’s too sick to be moved yet, and anyone who tries it will regret it!” She spoke firmly, looking straight at the man like one who can make good her threats. He dropped his eyes. As ever, Nyctasia was convincing.
“I’ll take her away when she’s stronger,” she continued, “but I can make it well worth your while to keep her here for now.”
This made a better impression on Merl. “You’ll pay what she owes? She broke some furniture too, you know.”
“You’ll be satisfied.” Nyctasia paced rapidly around the room, hands clasped behind her, then pointed to the weapons she’d taken from Corson. “Lock those up somewhere. And have this room cleaned. Thoroughly!”
“How do I know you can do what you say? If she dies-”
Nyctasia smiled. “Very well, you shall have proof.” Her face assumed a strange dreamy expression which the burly innkeeper viewed with misgiving. He backed away a step as Nyctasia approached him.
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corson could see nothing but a thin film of mist that crept around her feet. She tried to struggle, but something held her until she lay with her strength spent, watching as the fog swirled about her knees. It clung to her waist, then moved up over her breasts, and from behind her came a pitiful, low, moaning sound. Her head was held still and something pressed against her lips. Wetness filled her mouth.
She awoke and found Nyctasia standing over her. “Nyc,” she whispered, “I have to tell you… burning… we’re burning! Who can help us?” She spoke hurriedly, sure that she had to warn Nyctasia, but to her horror she heard herself babbling nonsense. Nyctasia’s face withdrew, retreating farther and farther away until it seemed no nearer than a star in the night sky. Then, there was only darkness
…
Once Nyctasia had healed his broken arm, and paid handsomely for Corson’s board, Merl was won over and even became helpful. He let it be known at the inn that anyone who troubled Nyctasia would have him to deal with, and he’d see to it that they never again troubled anyone.
Before long, Corson’s room was comfortably furnished, though Corson herself was hardly aware of the difference. Still delirious and dangerous, she had to be forced to submit to any care, and to swallow the antidotal potions Nyctasia prepared for her.
Nyctasia kept a constant watch over her, sleeping little, pacing, always reproaching herself. She should have foreseen such a thing! It was intolerable to her that someone else should suffer for her carelessness, that Corson should die like this, not at the hands of enemies, not in fair fight, but by pure mischance!
But it was not only Corson’s danger that troubled her-she was haunted by the memory o
f her henchman, Sandor, as well. He had served her faithfully and risked his life in her service more than once, yet when Thierran had killed him she’d sorrowed less than for a hound lost in the hunt. Sandor had always done his duty, but Nyctasia felt that she had somehow failed in hers. Failed, not only in her duty to Sandor, but to some principle of her own philosophy. Who had killed him, in truth, Thierran or herself? When she tried to think about Sandor, she could hardly recall his face. And now, had Corson too outlived her usefulness?
Surely Corson was different, though. Such a wanton, winning creature with her bold tongue and her reckless courage, her generous laughter and her prickly pride. So quick to take offense, so ready to be cajoled.
But Corson was not so very different from others of her station; rather, Nyctasia was different from the woman she had been. For a Vahnite, there was no forgiveness for an offense against the Indwelling Spirit. One could only make amends by becoming a person who was incapable of such a crime.
Nyctasia had been, by turns, amused and angered by Corson, as she might have been by some half-wild household pet. Now, with a pang, she remembered the ways she had tricked Corson, trapped her, used her. She knew that her servants thought her a just and generous mistress-such was the proper role for an Edonaris. Nyctasia had always performed her part well, but it had never been more than a performance. She was not aware of how much she was changing. She only knew that Corson’s death would weigh on her heart as well as her spirit.
Corson whimpered. “Nyc, where are you? There’s blood on the sand-” but she did not know that Nyctasia was bending over her, bathing her face with cool water.
She was wandering along a beach at dusk, looking for something lost, her feet bare and bleeding. The cold wind from the sea threw spray in her face, and she shivered.
Nyctasia brushed back the damp hair from Corson’s hot, fever-flushed face.
Corson’s magnificent hair was lank and dull now, her skin sallow. It was too late for medicines to save her, the poison had been at work too long-long enough to have killed the small, slight Nyctasia. Had she worn the earrings herself, as Brethald intended, there would not have been time for her to realize what ailed her.
Corson was seized with a fit of trembling, and Nyctasia, still watching her, finally came to a decision. With a determined nod, she rose and barred the door.
So be it. She would try to work a healing trance, whatever the risk. It was not a spell she should attempt without help, for Corson was far nearer to death than anyone she had tried to heal before. There should be someone at hand to recall her at the proper time and sever the spell. She thought for a moment of enlisting the aid of Merl, who had become her champion, but she dared not trust his goodwill as far as that. She would be utterly at the mercy of anyone who attended her.
Very well, she must take the chance-not only for Corson’s sake, but for her own.
Nyctasia wasted no more time. Sitting on the bed, she unlaced Corson’s shirt and placed her hand over Corson’s heart. She lowered her head and waited, eyes closed, pacing her thoughts to the measured rhythm of Corson’s heartbeat and entering gently into the pattern of the first Recognition, the commencement of the Influence Toward Life.
Sleeping one, dream of me.
Distant one, greet me,
Silent one, speak to me.
Secret one, heed me.
Lonely one, lean to me.
Lost one, seek me.
Captive one, reach to me.
Fugitive, flee to me.
Hider, draw near to me.
Wild one, be dear to me.
Stranger, receive me.
As the words possessed her, all else receded and became unreal. There was nothing but the seeking in darkness, the reaching of one spirit to another. Then even the words gave way, and only the rhythm remained to guide her. She followed it blindly, trustingly, until she came to its source-the black waves beating on the dark shore.
A still figure lay just out of reach of the breaking waves, and Nyctasia went to her, trying not to see the familiar likeness of Corson, but only to be aware of her presence. The pulse of the surf now said to her, “Neither land nor sea.
Neither earth nor air.” Nyctasia knew that she was here only in spirit, but it was all-important that she not only know this but believe it, not only believe but remember. Remember. Remember that this was not a place but a state of being.
Remember that one could not truly be here, that one must not, above all, stay here.,.. Everything that she thought she saw or felt or heard, she must deny.
She would not even think of Corson by name. “Friend,” she said, “it is time we were away from here. The tide is coming in.” Neither sea nor sky. Neither shore nor star.
The being who was Corson and yet was not Corson, replied faintly, “I cannot. I am too weak.”
“That is your dream, but I am here to wake you. Arise. You are whole, you are healed.”
The only answer was the ghost of a sigh.
“Trust in me, do you not know me?” Neither lips nor tongue. Neither voice nor word.
A hesitation. “I… know you…”
“And I know you. You are a warrior! This battle is not done yet.”
“No…”
“You have only to face the enemy to defeat them. They are mere shadows who war against you. Come away. Lean on me.” Neither hands nor limbs. Neither tears nor blood.
Together, they moved away from the black waves, Corson’s steps growing firmer even as Nyctasia’s weakened.
“Don’t leave me,” Corson cried.
“You can stand alone now,” Nyctasia said aloud, but there was no one to hear her. She was kneeling beside the bed where Corson still lay senseless, beyond the reach of her voice. For a long while Nyctasia knelt there, trembling, ashen, unable to rise. Then, gripping the bedstead, she pulled herself to her feet and staggered to her cot, where she lay gasping like a drowning woman.
30
because she remembered nothing that she had experienced during her trance, Nyctasia had no way of knowing whether she had been successful. Her own weakness told her that she had given strength to Corson, but had it come in time to shift the balance towards life? Corson seemed unchanged, still wandering in her fever dreams, and Nyctasia could only continue to nurse her and hope for some encouraging sign.
Corson thought that she had been walking for days on end without finding her way. She longed for rest but felt that she must keep moving on, though she no longer remembered why.
Then someone called to her, and she saw a tall figure coming towards her over the dunes. “Steifann…?” She tried to run to him, but soon stopped, exhausted. “Steifann, help me! I’m so tired…” But it was not Steifann who reached to embrace her. Corson frantically felt for her sword, but it had been lost somehow. She screamed as the grinning specter bent over her, sliding its arm around her waist, trying to force open her mouth with its tongue. Suddenly furious, she struck out wildly at the creature with all her remaining strength, only to find herself lying in a strange room, staring at her own hand. For some reason, a bed slat had been tied to her arm.
Nyctasia scrambled to her feet and ran to throw open the door so that she could summon help if Corson broke free to attack her. She watched from a safe distance as Corson tried to sit up, looking about in bewilderment.
“Steifann…?”
Nyctasia approached cautiously. “It’s Nyc.”
Corson stared at her. “Why is your shirt all wet?”
“This is the broth I was trying to feed you when you knocked me down just now.”
She picked up a broken bowl and set it on the table.
“I did not,” said Corson. She lay back and tugged at the cord at her other wrist. “Help me!”
Nyctasia hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed and undid the knots. “Who did this?” Corson demanded, frightened.
“I did. You keep trying to kill me.”
Corson looked puzzled. “We have to hurry,” she said vaguely. �
�It’s almost dawn.”
She fell asleep again before Nyctasia could reply.
Nyctasia laid her palm against Corson’s temple, and smiled. The fever had broken.
“I’m not hungry.”
Nyctasia sighed. “How in the Hlann’s name do you think to get your strength back if you won’t eat?” She began to straighten Corson’s tangled bedclothes again.
Corson picked unenthusiastically at the plate of stew before her. “It’s probably poisoned,” she muttered.
But Nyctasia only laughed. “Do you want me to eat some of it first?”
“As soon as I do get my strength back, the first thing I’m going to do is tear you into shreds, you murderous bitch.”
“I know, you told me. But last time you mentioned it you were planning to cut out my heart and liver and skewer them. Let me know when you’ve decided which it’s to be.”
“I will.” She started to eat the stew, which was not at all bad.
Corson was bored with being confined to bed. She’d been trying for days to provoke Nyctasia, but all her threats and insults had been met with a good-humored patience that was driving her mad. She liked Nyctasia better as a sharp-tongued shrew. “What are you doing now?” she demanded.
“Writing a letter.”
“Where are my weapons?”
Nyctasia paid no attention. Corson looked for something to throw at her, but there was nothing at hand except the stew. She hit the wall with her fist.
Nyctasia looked up. “Do you want something, or are you just trying to annoy me?”
Corson didn’t know what she wanted. When Nyctasia tried to amuse her, she wanted to be left alone, and when Nyctasia ignored her, she felt neglected. Unused to illness, she had no idea that her despair and frustration were only the aftermath of fever. Suddenly she burst into tears.
