by J F Rivkin
“I know,” Nyctasia said gently.
“It’s-it’s a cheat!”
“Yes, in a way. It’s a corrupt spell, turned to self-serving ends. It rarely gives what it promises.”
Corson was both angry and ashamed-she felt guilty not only for spying on Steifann, but for taking more from him than she ever gave in return. If she were there now, Steifann wouldn’t have to work all day and half the night, too.
The wretched mirror spell had revealed her reflection after all, and Corson wasn’t pleased with what she saw. “Does magic always make folk feel worse than they did before?” she demanded.
“Usually,” said Nyctasia.
The perpetual twilight of the forest made it impossible to tell day from night, and the travelers soon lost all track of time. Even when the sky was visible through the densely laced treetops, it showed a monotonous grey cast that might have been seen at any hour.
There were no definite landmarks, and they seemed always to be riding through the same stretch of wilderness again and again. When they halted to rest, the light from their cooking fire made the surrounding gloom seem even deeper and more forbidding. They spoke in whispers, while the sounds of the forest, usually distant and elusive, drew all too near.
“That’s only wolves, that howling,” said one of the merchants. “They won’t come close to a fire.”
“Werewolves, most likely. We should make torches.”
“Werewolves don’t fear fire,” Nyctasia said. “They make fires themselves. In fact, the sort of werewolves that inhabit the Yth only assume human form in order to make fires, or tend wounds-tasks that require hands, you see.” She warmed to her subject. “It’s also said they prefer to mate that way, though I don’t claim to know how that particular information was obtained. For most things they consider the human form inferior to the lupine.”
“Then how can you kill them?” someone interrupted.
“Why, just as you’d kill any animal. But they hunt in packs like other wolves.
Of course…”
Corson nudged her, and she looked up to meet hostile stares on all sides. Those who had been worried that a werewolf might spring into their midst were not heartened at the prospect of being attacked by an entire pack. Nyctasia smiled disarmingly, “But of course there’s no danger if we stay on the road-nothing in the forest will set foot on it. Just don’t let anything tempt you from the road!”
“No fear of that. Nothing could get me into that cursed forest!”
Everyone in the party agreed, but when they next woke, the guard who had last been on watch was not to be found.
They broke camp hurriedly. “There’s no use in our waiting. He won’t come back.”
“No one ever does.”
“That’s not so!” said Nyctasia sharply. “Some come back. If you see him by the side of the road, don’t listen to him, don’t look at him! And for vahn’s sake, stay out of his reach.”
“But how could we be sure?” asked another of the guards, unhappily. “He’s my friend.”
“If he comes onto the road he’s your friend. But don’t try to help him. If you were his friend you’re in more danger than the rest of us.”
“That’s true,” someone agreed. “You know the song about the enchanted groom.”
People nodded. ‘The Marriage of Makine.’
Nyctasia rode up beside the grieving woman. “Do you know the song?”
“No, lady.”
“Perhaps you should. It’s a pretty song, though a sad one.” Her clear voice pierced the eerie silence.
“There was dancing by the river
On the eve of the marriage-tide,
Till a calling from the forest
Drew the bridegroom from the bride.
He left his friends, he left the feast,
And the dancing in the meadow.
He left the one he loved the best
To follow a shining shadow.
She waited all night in the field alone,
All night she called his name
To guide him back from the forest black,
And with the dawn he came.
She ran and took him in her arms
She kissed his eyes that were so wild.
‘Oh look at me, my love,’ said she,
And he looked on her and smiled.
‘Oh speak to me, my love,’ she said,
‘This very morn shall we be wed.’
She kissed his lips that were so cold-
‘I heard you call,’ was all he said.
She led him from the wood away,
Across the field to the river’s edge,
But he would not ford the rushing stream
Nor set his foot upon the bridge.
And then she knew what thing it was
That came to take her lover’s place.
She saw its image mirrored clear
Upon the water’s face.
Swiftly o’er the bridge she fled,
Nor stayed for him that sought her,
For only those of the living dead
Will not cross living water.
It was the calling from the forest
Drew the bridegroom from the bride.
And there was never a wedding-fest
Again at the riverside.”
“Bad luck to sing that here, maybe,” someone said, after a while.
They rode on in the timeless twilight.
From then on, Nyctasia insisted on staying with Corson whenever she was on guard duty. Corson was secretly glad of the company, but she indignantly denied that she needed Nyctasia’s protection.
“Nothing in that forest could be more of a nuisance than you are,” Corson took up a stick and raked a potato from under the ashes. She bit off half and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
“Corson, you have the manners of an ox.”
“Mulghfth?” said Corson. She swallowed, and offered the half-eaten potato to Nyctasia. “Did you want some?”
Nyctasia hid her face in her hands and groaned. “You must be joking.”
But there was no answer, and she looked up to see Corson staring past her, open-mouthed. Nyctasia turned, and a sickening fear rose within her.
It was just as perilously beautiful as she’d heard. It held out its arms and laughed, and its laughter was sweet, melodic, entrancing. Burning with a sinister splendor, the Yth-Elf leaned toward them, and its body was a ripple of flame and shadow in the half-light of the forest.
Corson rose to her feet slowly, and the movement roused Nyctasia from her dazed contemplation of the radiant, sensual figure. “Corson!” she cried. “Don’t look!
Wait!” She tried to pull Corson back, but Corson only thrust her roughly aside and started to move toward the Elf.
Nyctasia seized Corson’s pack and hastily spilled out the contents. She found the silver mirror and ran to hold it up before Corson’s eyes, frantically chanting a spell:
“Behold in this enchanted mirror
Images reversed, but clearer.
Herein all things reveal themselves.
Behold the passion of the Elves!”
Corson backed away, but she could not take her eyes from the glass.
Horrorstricken, she dashed the mirror from Nyctasia’s hand and fell to her knees, sobbing and retching.
Nyctasia stood over her protectively and dared to look back once at the Elf. It glared at her now, its exquisite features contorted with fury. For a moment she met the creature’s challenging gaze before it retreated among the trees. She heard it laugh again-not with seductive sweetness, but in a shrill, mindless titter that seemed to mock her.
“So that’s the game, is it?” Nyctasia thought, with a certain satisfaction. So be it. She would not be taken unawares.
Corson looked dubiously at the cup of thick, greenish liquid Nyctasia had given her. “It smells disgusting.”
“I’m afraid it probably tastes disgusting, too,” Nyctasia said apologetically.
“Dried herbs wouldn’t be as b
itter, but there’s no apothecary’s shop to hand, so fresh ones will have to do. It will give you a dreamless sleep, I promise you.”
Corson had not had an easy night’s rest since she’d seen the Elf. She lay awake for hours, and when at last she fell asleep she was plagued by terrifying nightmares that left her wakeful again. With a grimace, she shut her eyes and drank down the potion in two gulps. “Hlann’s blood, that’s foul!”
“I had nothing to sweeten it with. You’ll soon sleep, all the same.” Nyctasia spread a blanket on the floor of the tent. “Come lie down.”
Corson swallowed some water to wash away the taste of the sleeping draught, then threw herself down beside Nyctasia. “I don’t feel any sleepier than I did,” she complained. “That slime of yours probably won’t help at all.”
“It will help, if you let it,” Nyctasia said patiently. “Just lie quiet. If I had my harp I’d sing you a lullaby.”
“You ought to read to me from one of those books of yours. They’re dull enough to make anyone sleep.”
Nyctasia laughed. “Goodnight, Corson.”
“Night!” Corson mumbled. “Who knows whether it’s night or day in this Hlann-forsaken forest…” She yawned.
Nyctasia watched her for a time. “Corson-”
“Hmm?”
“May I borrow your dagger and leave you mine in its place? I’ll bring yours back to you-I swear it on my honor as a Vahnite.”
“If you like,” said Corson drowsily. It seemed an odd request. Bring it back from where? And there was something else she should ask Nyctasia, but she was so sleepy… For a moment it came to her and she roused herself just long enough to say, “Nyc, where did you find those herbs?”
Nyctasia leaned over her, gently stroking her hair. “Hush, Corson, sleep now.
Don’t worry.”
33
Entering the forest was, for Nyctasia, like coming into a garden after years in a barren wasteland. It was radiant with life, a wellspring of power. She felt that the world she had known until now was the domain of death-that she had escaped from some dire captivity.
She looked back at the road and was overcome with terror. It looked to her like the ghost of a dead, dried river-a river of evil that hungered to draw her in and drown her. The very dust of the road seemed to be the powdered bones of its victims. Surely, if she set foot upon it, it would leech the life from her and leave her one of the lost, shadowy creatures who wandered the road, only fit to be prey for ghouls or the perverse Elves. She shuddered, not at the ways of the Yth, but at the horror of the road-banishment from the source of life. She turned her eyes away in loathing.
Nyctasia willingly allowed herself to harbor the inhuman feelings that flooded her. She wished to know the voice of the Yth in all its treacherous glamour-to resist its lure because she chose to do so, not because she refused to hear it.
To understand the Yth’s power was to master it.
She touched the hilt of Corson’s dagger, the token of the oath that bound her to return. It was a primitive spell, but all the more powerful for that. She forced herself to look back at the road, to see it as it was, and she smiled at the sight of it, familiar and reassuring. It was the way to her true home and her own kind. Unafraid, she turned and moved off deeper into the Yth.
The forest was as curious about Nyctasia as she was about it. Leaves brushed her face as she passed, and a grey bird lit on her shoulder and tried to steal one of her silver earrings. But she was not to be caught so easily. She would leave nothing belonging to her within the Yth’s power.
All about her there was a furtive rustling that quieted whenever she paused to listen. Even the wind seemed to follow her, whispering, carrying the sound of distant voices.
Nyctasia knelt to study a cluster of pale yellow mushrooms growing at the foot of a hollow tree. She held herself very still and watched from the corner of her eye, hoping that whatever hid nearby would take courage and draw nearer. The thickets stirred with wary, sly movements. She thought a pallid face peered out from the branches of a tree, but it vanished before she could turn to look.
There was a frantic scurrying of shadows and Nyctasia was left in an absolute, ominous silence.
She looked up to see that the missing guard from the caravan was approaching her. He moved haltingly and his face was set in a mirthless, tight-lipped smile.
He did nor speak to her.
Nyctasia had expected this. Rising unhurriedly, she faced him and made a Sign of Command, then uttered a simple spell of Unveiling. He backed away, grinning in rage, and Nyctasia saw that his teeth were sharp and jagged, and slanted back towards his throat. Then the creature lost all resemblance to the guard. It crouched on its haunches, snarling at Nyctasia, but when she took a step towards it, it turned and swiftly loped away.
Nyctasia meant to find the man, alive or dead, and this creature could lead her to him. She started in pursuit, but it ran faster than a person could follow on foot.
She would not be a person, then. This was the Yth, where one’s form only reflected the need of the moment, and her need was for speed and stealth and the keen senses of a hunter. Almost at once, a shape like a small silver fox darted through the trees and took up the chase.
Nyctasia was familiar with the Principle of Transformation. A shifting spell was not intended to change one thing into another, but to manifest the truth that all things were, in essence, one and the same. But only here, with the power of the Yth at her command, could she avail herself of this knowledge without risk.
The teaching had always seemed to her more of an ideal than a reality.
Now it seemed altogether natural to take on a different shape, for this shape belonged to her as well. When it no longer suited her ends, she would simply discard it for another. She ran effortlessly, keeping track of her quarry by scent and hearing alone. She was assailed by a myriad of smells and sounds, some alluring and some threatening, but she kept to her course unswervingly.
All at once there was a familiar scent on the wind that made her stop and hug the ground, prowling about and sniffing. She gave a sharp whine. It was the smell of man, the smell of death. Nyctasia had found what she was seeking.
“Wake up, you! Your friend’s gone. Do you know what’s become of her?”
Still muzzy-headed, Corson said vaguely, “Who, Nyc? She was right here a moment ago.”
“She’s nowhere in camp, I tell you! Get up, everyone’s to be counted.”
It was soon determined that no one was missing except Nyctasia.
“She’s the one who knew all about the forest. If it could get her, no one is safe!”
“She knew too much about it, if you ask me. I never did trust that one.”
Corson was sure that Nyctasia had left the road by her own wish, but would she return? She wanted to wait, but the others insisted on moving the camp. Whatever had taken Nyctasia might still be close by.
While they took down the tents and harnessed the horses, Corson paced back and forth along the edge of the road, shouting for Nyctasia. No one told her to help load the wagons, but neither did they help her to call. Corson knew what they were thinking. She was thinking the same thing-what if Nyctasia did come back
…?
Nyctasia was walking beside a stream, gathering some sweet-smelling herbs, when she heard Corson’s voice calling. She paid no heed to it at first but kept on her way, following the stream until she found that it was leading her back to camp. Surely not so soon? She stopped and sat down beside a shallow pool, trying to sort out her thoughts.
She dipped her hand in the clear water, and silvery minnows swam into her palm, curious and unafraid. Her reflection rippled as though with laughter. Gazing down at it, Nyctasia hardly knew its features for her own.
“Images reversed but clearer,” she murmured. Why should she renounce the power and freedom of the Yth for the sake of that stranger mirrored in the pool? What would she lose by yielding to the fascination of the forest?
Corson�
��s voice pulled at her like an answer to her questions, but she set her back to it and struck off aimlessly through the forest. She wandered among the whispering leaves and beckoning shadows, wishing to lose herself in the depths of the Yth, but still she could hear Corson calling her. Whichever way she turned, the shouting only grew louder, and she was soon within sight of the road again. Resigned, Nyctasia drew nearer to the campsite until she stood almost at the edge of the road. Half-hidden by the thickly tangled bushes, she watched the caravan prepare to depart. They were almost ready. She must have been gone longer than she’d intended.
Corson was no longer shouting. She stood in the middle of the road, looking about her hopelessly. Someone came over to her, and Nyctasia could hear them arguing, then Corson shrugged and followed after him.
Nyctasia approached reluctantly. Try as she might, she could not let her promise go unfulfilled.
“Wait!” She came to the edge of the road and held the dagger out to Corson.
For a moment, everyone was frightened into silence, then people shouted to Corson to keep her place.
Corson needed no warning. She made no move towards Nyctasia, but only drew her sword and waited, her face cold as stone.
Their fear amused Nyctasia. And Corson seemed most laughable of all, brandishing a sword as if such a weapon could avail against the Yin’s magic. She could destroy the lot of them if she chose!
“Corson, come away! Leave her!” the drivers whipped up the cart horses, and folk scrambled to mount the wagons, calling to each other to hurry. Corson began to back away, never taking her eyes from Nyctasia. Drawn against her will out of the shelter of the forest, Nyctasia followed her, still proffering the dagger.
Seeing her walk onto the road, Corson allowed her to approach. “Nyc…?”
“I told you I’d bring it back. You needn’t have worried.”
Corson’s relief was overmastered by rage. Seizing Nyctasia by the collar, she shook her roughly and shouted, “If you ever try a fool’s trick like that again, you’ll wish you’d been keelhauled before I finish with you!”
Nyctasia let herself be railed at and buffeted about, without a word of protest.
When Corson paused for breath, she merely straightened her clothes and said mildly, “It is written, ‘If the Yth fails to make you its prey, beware lest it make you a predator.’ You’re quite right, Corson, I shouldn’t have gone. I’m sorry.”
