by J F Rivkin
Nyctasia went to her and embraced her. “You’re a goose! Hush now, listen to me-if you like, I’ll…” she lowered her voice. “I’ll tell you what isnathon scrathling means.”
Corson grabbed her arm. “Tell me.”
Nyctasia whispered something to her and she gasped. “You filthy
…! Get away from me!” She kicked out at Nyctasia who backed away and dropped into her chair, laughing.
“I think I’ll write a letter,” Corson announced.
“Very well.” Nyctasia cut another sheet from her book and dipped the quill afresh. Writing was a difficult skill, practiced mainly by students and scribes.
The wealthy employed secretaries to write their correspondence, and others patronized public scriveners. Nyctasia naturally assumed that Corson meant to dictate the letter to her. “Very well, what do you want to say?”
“No, give it to me. I’ll write it myself.”
Skeptical, but curious, Nyctasia brought her the book and quill, and sat on the bed to watch, holding the ink.
Corson was clearly a self-taught scribe. As she laboriously dragged the quill over the rough paper, the point frequently caught in the fiber, spattering ink across the page. But Corson persisted. “MY DEAREST STEIFANN,” she scrawled.
Nyctasia couldn’t bear it. “Corson, that is a pen, not a sword-don’t stab the paper with it. Hold it loosely and let it slide over the surface.”
“I don’t want lessons in penmanship!”
Nyctasia stood. “I’m going out, then. Shall I bring you anything?”
Corson only shook her head, intent on her writing. As soon as Nyctasia was gone, she tried to follow her suggestions-but it only became harder to control the pen. She tore out page after page and used them up, practicing. The point of the quill soon wore down, but there was nothing to sharpen it with.
When Nyctasia returned after an hour, she found Corson hunched scowling over yet another ragged and blotchy effort. Her hand was cramped and ink-stained, and there was a black smear across the bridge of her nose. She crumpled up the page and threw it at Nyctasia. “Let it slide over the surface!” she shouted. “How, curse you?!”
Nyctasia set down her satchel and looked at the mess Corson had made of her commonplace book. It required all her powers of self-discipline just to keep her temper. “I thought you didn’t want lessons in penmanship. You should be resting, not wearing yourself out over trifles. Lie down!” To Corson’s relief, she cleared the rubbish from the bed and threw it on the fire.
Corson lay back and shut her eyes, too tired even to give Nyctasia an argument.
Her own weakness frightened her more than any enemy. How could an hour of sitting up and scribbling be so exhausting? “I’ll never be well again!”
“You just need time to mend, that’s all. If you’d stop fretting yourself, you’d feel a good deal better. Look-” She reached in her satchel and brought out a matching silver comb and hairbrush. “These are for you. Perhaps they’ll keep you amused for a while. After all, you are the vainest person I’ve ever known.”
Corson was already unpinning her braid. She gathered up her hair and drew the brush through it a few times, but even this soon became tiring.
“Shall I do it for you?” Nyctasia offered.
“Mmm, all right.” Corson loved to have her hair brushed. She toyed with the silver comb. “These are just of a piece with my mirror. Look in my pack-it’s wrapped in a cloth. I meant to leave it with Steifann, but I forgot about it, with all the trouble you caused me.”
“Steifann… is that your friend the taverner?”
Corson nodded. “Best lover in the land. He arranged the passage for us with that Destiver. ‘Old friends,’” she scoffed. “Hah!”
“That’s what you had against her!” said Nyctasia, enlightened. “Corson, I don’t think you need to worry.”
“You don’t know Steifann. He’ll bed down with anyone.”
“Not like you.”
“Are you going to brush my hair or aren’t you?”
“At once, milady!” She wrapped one long coil of hair around her hand and started to brush it slowly.
“He’s probably whoring all over the city by now, and me dying,” Corson mourned.
“The women of ancient Kehs-Edre wore a certain perfume in their hair, when they wanted to keep their men in thrall,” Nyctasia remarked. “I have the recipe in one of those useless books of mine.”
“How can you perfume your hair?”
“Soak a wooden comb in it for three nights and three days, then let it dry. You just comb your hair with it and the scent lingers… men can’t resist it.”
“What a story!”
“It’s true, though,” said Nyctasia, with the conviction of one who has made the experiment. “In hair like yours, the effect would be maddening. I’ll make you a comb like that someday, if you like.”
“When?” Corson asked. She began to feel that she might recover after all.
Over the next week Corson’s health, as well as her handwriting, made rapid improvement. When several days had passed without a recurrence of the delirium, Nyctasia succumbed to Corson’s insistent demands that her weapons be returned.
“Er… do you want these back as well?” Nyctasia asked hesitantly, holding out the golden earrings. “I’ve washed them in vinegar-they’re quite safe.”
“You wear them. If you live long enough, I’ll take them back.”
“Gold doesn’t suit me.”
Corson shrugged. “Keep them.”
With a sigh, Nyctasia changed her silver earrings for the gold.
31
“you’re right,” said Corson, some days later, “they look better on me. Give them back.”
They were sitting in The Crossroads in Mehomne, indulging in one of their usual arguments. They had arrived on the eve of a caravan’s departure for the Yth, and Corson had been hired by the travelers as an extra guard. It was a job few were willing to undertake, and the wages were more than liberal. Corson felt that the occasion warranted celebration, and she had already downed several tankards of ale.
Nyctasia too was in high spirits. “I’ve never known a man to equal ’Ben,” she said, resuming their earlier discussion. She returned the gold earrings to Corson and put on her silver ones.
“That’s because you don’t know Steifann. I’ve had them all-gentlemen, peasants, townsmen-nobody compares with Steifann.”
“Nobody…?” said Nyctasia, glancing towards a man who had just entered.
Corson turned to look.
The newcomer was a striking, black-skinned man with strong, sharply chiseled features and a powerful, well-knit frame. He was of average height, but his proud, graceful bearing gave him greater stature.
“I see what you mean,” said Corson. For once, she and Nyctasia were in complete agreement.
“We could throw dice for him,” Nyctasia suggested.
“You’d charm the dice. Let’s arm wrestle instead. I’ll even use my right hand.”
“Thanks, but I’m afraid I’d find it difficult to write with all of my knuckles broken.”
“Well, we’ll just have to share him, then.”
“Done,” said Nyctasia.
They were delighted when the stranger, after glancing around the room, came straight to their table. Corson gave him her most winning smile but he only nodded to her, then turned to Nyctasia with a formal bow. “Give you good evening, my lady.”
Nyctasia frowned for a moment, but then broke into laughter. “Do sit down, sir,” she said graciously. “So you’ve come into the light at last-it was a shame to hide such beauty in the shadows. Are you still following me?”
“Let us put it that we have the same destination, my lady.”
Corson did not care for the turn events were taking. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?” she demanded.
“I wasn’t aware of it till he spoke,” Nyctasia explained. “An occasional conversation with an unseen person is not considered a pr
oper introduction. But he’s been two steps behind me since before we left Rhostshyl.”
“I’d have known if someone was following you!”
“Corson, you are the best of bodyguards, but even you can’t watch for shadows in your sleep.”
“Another rutting magician!” Corson said with disgust, “They come out of nowhere like maggots these days.” She drained her ale and waved for another. “Do you want me to kill him?”
Nyctasia was enjoying herself. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“Too sure, perhaps,” the stranger interrupted, suddenly abandoning his deference. “You are too sure of a number of things, lady.”
Nyctasia leaned back, one eyebrow raised, as she contemplated this insolence.
“What is this?” she said slowly, “another riddle?”
“No, a warning.” He paused, then exclaimed with vehemence, “You have made sacrifices, Edonaris, but you do not understand that for power one must sacrifice everything!” He did not take his eyes from Nyctasia’s, and she returned his stare. Bored, Corson finished her ale.
“What price have you paid for power?” Nyctasia said sharply. “Why have I never seen you by daylight? Why do you give no name?”
He looked away. “I have not given up what was not mine to give.”
Nyctasia’s grey eyes were the color of steel. “You dare say that I have done so?”
He shook his head. “If I still suspected you, you would never have seen my face.
Nor would I risk my life to warn you.”
“What is this warning, then?”
“Do not go to Hlasven,” he said softly.
“You are no servant of Shiastred!”
“Nor are you, Lady Nyctasia. Not yet.”
Nyctasia glared at him in disbelief. “I suppose you bribed ’Ben’s messenger to give you the letter?”
He made a gesture of dismissal. “The letter did not interest me. To command a Reflection of the spirit I needed to see you and receive a token from you. This has served my purpose,” he said, handing Nyctasia her glove.
“I’m sorry to have put you to such trouble.” Nyctasia said coldly. “It would have been easier with a lock of my hair.”
“It would have been easier to kill you! I preferred to try the spell. If I’d found you were no different from Shiastred, I’d have used any means to keep you from him. I can’t hope to fight both of you.”
“You will have to kill me, then.”
“We’ll see. I don’t expect you to believe me now-only listen. When you’ve learned the truth about Shiastred, come to me.”
For answer, Nyctasia threw the glove in his face, and rose to walk away without a word.
The stranger seized her arm. “Hear me-”
Corson had long since stopped listening and devoted herself to her drinking, but suddenly she too was on her feet. Kicking aside her chair, she pulled the man away from Nyctasia and stepped between them, sword in hand. Everyone in the room was watching them by now. “Nyc, do you want me to kill him or not?” she asked reasonably. “Make up your mind.”
Nyctasia smiled at her and shook her head.
Corson put up her sword. “Well, what are you lot staring at?” she inquired of the room at large, and people turned back to their own affairs.
The stranger sighed, rubbing his arm where Corson had twisted it. “My lady, you have nothing to fear from me. Will you not speak to me alone?”
“Very well,” Nyctasia said flatly. “I will listen, but I have nothing more to say.” She followed him to the door.
“Wait!” Corson protested, “We had an agreement. We’re supposed to share him.”
Nyctasia glanced back at her, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”
Corson stared after them, wondering whether she should follow Nyctasia. “That little slut,” she muttered, “let her fend for herself. He probably thinks she’s a boy, anyway.” She consoled herself with more ale and finally staggered off to bed, ignoring with drunken dignity several offers of company for the night.
“Move over!” Nyctasia demanded, trying to shove Corson to one side of the bed.
Corson grunted. “You’re back already,” she mumbled. “He must have been a disappointment.”
“I said move, you overgrown sow!”
“What happened?”
Nyctasia climbed over her. “Go back to sleep. The caravan leaves at sunrise, you know.”
“Tell me about him,” Corson insisted, still half asleep.
Nyctasia was silent for a time. “I should have let you kill him,” she said quietly. “He’s Vahr Kastenid.”
“What?”
“Go to sleep!”
Corson yawned. “It serves you right,” she said with satisfaction.
32
It was a good two days’ journey to the marches of the Yth, and the countryside grew ever wilder and more desolate on the way. They made camp early on the second night, at the edge of the wood, refusing to enter the Yth at nightfall.
Everyone in the party felt oppressed and uneasy except Nyctasia, who was afire with anticipation. She argued that they would be no safer by day, since the Yth was known to harbor an unvarying twilight at all hours, but the others chose to wait for dawn, nevertheless.
Disappointed and restless, Nyctasia wandered around the camp, listening for sounds from the forest. Finally she came and sat by Corson, who was keeping watch by the campfire.
“Stop prowling about,” Corson ordered. “Stay where I can see you.”
“Look at this.” Nyctasia unclenched her fist, and a small flame appeared, dancing above her open hand as if an invisible wick grew from her palm.
Corson frowned at it. “Magicians!” she said, and spat.
“Must you do that?”
Corson pointed to the eerie flame over Nyctasia’s hand. “Must you do that?”
“I never could do it before. It’s the Influence of the Yth-so close, I’ve only to reach out for it!” She spoke as if to herself, and Corson looked off into the shadowy forest, ill at ease. Nyctasia had begun to seem a stranger to her.
“You’ve been different ever since we got near this cursed forest. You act like you’re listening to something no one else can hear. I don’t like it.”
“I do.” Nyctasia closed her hand over the flame and it vanished. “You could still turn back. There’s no need for you to make this journey.”
“I’m being paid handsomely for it-I’ll go back to Steifann’s with a fortune. I’m not afraid of spirits.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Your watch is up, Corson.” Another guard had arrived to relieve her. “Have you seen anything strange?”
“Just her,” said Corson, jerking her thumb at Nyctasia. They went off together, still arguing.
“Well, if everything’s so simple for you here, why don’t you do that mirror spell for me? The one I tried to do on the Windhover.”
“Oh, very well,” said Nyctasia, “but I’ll wager you’ll be disappointed. Fetch your mirror and meet me over there.” She pointed to a nearby stand of trees.
Corson had never expected her to agree, and now that Nyctasia was willing, she had her own misgivings. When she went for the mirror she remembered what had befallen those who’d used the spell unwisely, and her apprehensions began to get the better of her.
“Nyc… are you sure it’s safe to do this? It won’t show me something monstrous, will it?”
“I’m glad you take your lessons so much to heart, Corson-you do me credit. No, there’s nothing to fear now. The power of this place is free to those within its bounds, if they’ve the knowledge to wield it. That’s what draws magicians here-”
“Like crows to carrion,” Corson suggested, “All right, I remember about that.
Just get on with it, can’t you?”
Nyctasia shook her head indulgently and picked up the mirror, turning it towards Corson.
“Should I close my eyes?” Corson asked anxiously.
&nb
sp; “You won’t see much if you do. Just think of what you want to see. Leave the rest to me.” She calmly recited the spell of Reflection, holding the mirror steadily before Corson’s fascinated gaze. The words sounded different from the way Corson remembered them.
At first the mirror showed Corson nothing at all, not even her own features. It was like staring through a window at a colorless winter sky. She tried to think only of Steifann. What would he be doing now? Sleeping, most likely, at this hour-he was always up before daybreak to go to market. But would anyone be sharing his bed?
Suddenly Corson gasped and leaned closer, straining to make out the distant shape barely visible in the glass. In her excitement, she forgot the mirror and her own surroundings. She could not have said whether the hazy images were drawing closer to her, or she to them.
“Ohh,” Corson whispered, transfixed.
Steifann was not asleep. He sat at the table in his room with his account books spread before him, carefully sliding the stones back and forth along the wires of a small counting-frame. He was hunched over his work, leaning on one elbow, his hair falling into his eyes. Every so often he glanced longingly at the bed.
The candles had burned low. Yawning, he picked up a quill and began to enter figures in the ledger, but then the nib splayed out and left a blot of ink on the page. Steifann threw down the pen in disgust and got to his feet, stretching wearily. He went to the washstand and bent over the basin to splash water in his face, then shook his head briskly. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he returned to his stool and resignedly scraped away at the inkstain with a sharp knife.
Steifann prided himself on keeping neat records.
Corson hated to see him so tired. “Steifann, get to bed, leave that for tomorrow. I can go to market with Annin in the morning.” Reaching out to touch his shoulder, she struck her hand against the silver mirror, and it was Nyctasia who answered her.
“Come to your senses, Corson, he can’t hear you.” She laid the mirror face down on the ground.
“Where…” cried Corson, looking around in dismay. She snatched at the mirror but it showed her only her own baffled face. “But I… he…”
