by J F Rivkin
“I can weep for Rhostshyl,” she told him, “if it is now the city of the dead.”
He shrugged. “When the city was dying you ran away. Why should you mourn it now?
Come along, everyone’s waiting for you.”
She accompanied him in silence, knowing without question that the palace of the Edonaris was their destination. Where else was there to go?
The battered gates and smashed windows of her home were like wounds in her own flesh. She had passed most of her life within these halls, the most splendid in the city. Now they lay open to the night, the great columns and arches supporting nothing, the magnificent windows gaping, fanged with shards of colored glass.
Nyctasia followed Mescrisdan through the stone-strewn corridors till he stood aside to allow her to precede him into the dining-hall. She was, after all, a Rhaicime, his superior in rank.
Lady Mhairestri, matriarch of the Edonaris, sat at the head of the table, a privilege due her great age rather than her rank. Nyctasia was surprised to see her there, for the matriarch was not dead, for all that she could remember.
There were others of the living present, her elder brother Emeryc among them, though it seemed that his wife, a commoner, had not been invited.
Nyctasia’s parents observed her entrance with the same indifference they’d shown her in life. She had been a sickly child-a disappointment to her mother, an iron-willed woman so impatient of weakness that, after safely giving birth to twins, she’d scorned her physicians’ advice to rest, and had died as a result.
The elderly, reserved nobleman she’d married out of duty had survived her by only a few years. Nyctasia had not often seen her father in life, and she hardly recognized him now, but she bowed dutifully to both her parents. Her father did not seem to know her, but her mother nodded coldly in reply.
“Late as usual, Nyctasia Selesq,” said Lady Mhairestri. “Take your seat. You have kept us waiting long enough.”
“Your place is here, cousin, at my side,” said Thierran. “Now that you are here at last, our wedding feast can begin. Only you would arrive late upon such an occasion, ’Tasia, but I forgive you, as always.”
Thierran had been Nyctasia’s bitterest enemy ever since she’d refused the marriage their family had planned for them. But now she faced him with composure. Him too she had seen lying dead at her feet, his throat slashed. She felt only regret as she stood beside him, looking into his pale, handsome face.
There was no malice in his eyes as he said, “You’ve taken a long way, only to return to me, ’Tasia. Would it not have been simpler to remain where you belonged?”
“Perhaps,” she sighed. “But what choice had I, Thorn?” It was a childhood name she’d not used for him for many years. “I suppose we none of us had a choice.”
How could she have helped falling in love with Erystalben ar’n Shiastred, who had seemed to her a twin spirit? And how could Thierran have helped his jealousy and, above all, his wounded pride? All the Edonaris were proud and willful.
Nyctasia might have honored the marriage alliance, to serve the family’s interests, and kept Erystalben as her lover-an arrangement which was common enough among the high aristocracy. But Erystalben too had his pride, and the more he had tried to persuade Nyctasia to repudiate the betrothal, the more dangerous he had become to Edonaris ambition. The full power of the house of Edonaris was brought to bear upon his kinfolk till he was forced to flee the city to protect his people. In time, Nyctasia had renounced her family and followed him into exile, but by then it had been too late…
Now she seemed to see this course of events clearly for the first time. What could she have done to alter it? Who was to blame? If she had been wiser, kinder, like the Vahnite she claimed to be, would anything have been different?
And the maddening thing was that she did love Thierran, could not but love him, in spite of everything. They had been children together. Why had she not been able to explain-? Before the assembled company of ghosts and memories, she bent down and kissed him. “I’m with you now,” she said.
He took both her hands in his and drew her down beside him. “A toast to our union!” he called.
A full wine glass stood at every place except Nyctasia’s, as was usual. But now the matriarch filled the gold chalice called the Bride’s Cup and handed it to her brother, Brethald, who bore it formally to Nyctasia.
“Your affectation of Vahnite Principles must give way to tradition for once,” he said, presenting the goblet.
All glasses were raised, and everyone looked toward Nyctasia.
“To the bride and groom.”
“To the House of Edonaris.”
“To your homecoming, sister,” said Emeryc.
It was for Nyctasia, as the guest of honor, to drink first, and the others waited, watching her. At that moment she desired above all to obey, to be accepted, finally, by her kin. She had only to lift the wine to her lips and her exile would be at an end.
“Allow me, my lady.”
She turned and saw her trusted henchman Sandor standing guard behind her chair.
Sandor, who had been killed while trying to bring her warning of a plot against her. Now, like a monarch’s table-servant, he took up the goblet and tasted its contents before Nyctasia could drink.
Without a word he put it down and turned it on its side, to signify that the drink was dangerous. A crimson stain spread over the damask tablecloth, seeming as though it would soak the whole table. Nyctasia was seized with a sudden horror that it would reach her, drench her, drown her. She clutched at the cup, trying to right it and stop the endless tide of poison that threatened to flood the city. “Help me!” she cried.
“You are weak, weak!” said the matriarch sternly. “Only thus will the fires in the city be quenched.” She stood and raised her glass. “To the everlasting destruction of our enemies! An end to the Teiryn line!” She smashed her glass on the hearth, and another spring of crimson welled from the spot, flowing across the floor. The others echoed her toast.
“No, don’t! Stop! You’re making it worse,” Nyctasia pleaded. “We’ll all be drowned!”
The company broke into laughter. “How could that be, when we are already dead?”
“But surely not the whole city,” Nyctasia sobbed. “Not all! We must warn them!”
She ran from the hall, down corridors haunted by her earliest memories, through courtyards where she had often gathered the hounds for the hunt, past gardens she had planted herself, now sere and withered.
The gates had always been guarded, but now they stood open, and Nyctasia raced out into the streets, seeking the living. Not till she reached the Market Square did she see another person, a man who sat at his ease on a fallen beam, as if waiting for her. She hurried to him eagerly, but when he turned to her she found herself facing another of her remembered dead.
“Fie, Nyctasia, and you a Vahnite!” said Rhavor ar’n Teiryn. “If you mean to break your Discipline, drink honest wine, not that foul brew.”
Nyctasia realized that she was still clutching the golden goblet, and she threw it from her with disgust. “Ah, but it’s your fault, Rhavor. If you’d married me, they’d not be able to wed me to Thierran.”
They had once considered a political marriage between them, in hopes of uniting their warring families, Rhavor’s death had put an end to the plan, but now he smiled and said, “It is not too late for that.”
“It is too late to save a dead city.”
“Rhostshyl dead? Nonsense, my dear girl!”
“Show me the living then! Where are they?”
“They are coming this way. Don’t you hear them? Listen-”
At first there was only the heavy silence, but then a sound of horns and drums reached her, distant but drawing nearer.
“Hurry,” Rhavor urged her, and she set out again, her heart leaping wildly to the drumbeat. The streets grew lighter as the music grew louder, until she turned a corner and met with a grand wedding procession in full rega
lia, bright with banners, colorful caparisons and gold trumpets splendid in the sudden sunshine.
Nyctasia was astonished to see the coats-of-arms of both the Houses of Edonaris and Teiryn among the heralds and standard-bearers. Together! Was it possible?
But more bewildering still was the sight of the noble couple who led this festive throng. The bride was herself, but younger, hardly more than a girl, and the groom was not much older. But he was Rhavor ar’n Teiryn, Nyctasia saw, not her cousin Thierran. They rode side by side, solemn and unsmiling, she looking straight ahead, he down at the cobbled street.
Overcome with wonder and confusion, Nyctasia watched the procession pass. She had never known Rhavor as a youth-when she’d come of age he’d already been a grown man, a widower with a young son.
Perhaps he could explain this mystery. She turned back toward the Market Square, following the parade, and now she saw that the streets through which they had passed were whole again, the shops and houses restored. Behind them, folk flocked, cheering and shouting, but ahead of them the silent streets were still in twilight and in ruins.
Nyctasia fell behind, gazing all about her at the return of life and prosperity to the city she loved. Then suddenly she stopped in her tracks, forgetting all else as she caught sight of one man among the onlookers. He looked more haggard and careworn than she had ever seen him. His long black hair was unkempt, his clothing dirty and ragged. Even his fierce blue eyes seemed dulled and defeated.
But Nyctasia knew at once, without doubt, that here was the lover ravished from her by a dark and desperate spell, lost beyond an unknown threshold of perilous magic.
“’Ben,” she cried, “this way! I’m here!” But she could not make him hear. She struggled toward him through the crowd, calling his name again and again, but when at last she reached his side he looked past her without a sign of recognition or welcome, and kept on his way, unseeing. “No!” Nyctasia screamed.
“’Ben, no-come back!”
I can’t bear any more of this, she thought wildly, and woke.
It was day. Corson was already up and feeding the horses, but Newt still slept, while the farm folk gathered eggs and milked the cows, not far from where he lay.
“If Her Ladyship would deign to rise we might reach Ylna by nightfall.” Corson remarked. “The people here say it’s a day’s ride. I’ve been trying to rouse you since sunup-it’s time enough you woke up!”
“It is indeed,” said Nyctasia.
“Well, it was only a dream,” Corson said sensibly.
It was easy to dismiss Nyctasia’s fancies in the clear light of morning. As they rode south along the Southern Trade Road, they were greeted gaily by families traveling north to the fair. Corson joked with the passersby and accepted an apple, which she ate in three bites. “A fair day and good traveling,” she observed with satisfaction. She had no misgivings or forebodings about the future.
But Nyctasia could not shake off the memory of her visions. “The vahn speaks to us through dreams, Corson.”
“Not to me it doesn’t.”
“Very likely not. But I’ve had dreams before that later came to pass.”
Corson was not impressed. “And for every one that did, a hundred that didn’t-isn’t that so?”
“Yes, but-”
“Dreaming of cabbage doesn’t fill your belly,” Corson said firmly.
“You don’t understand,” said Nyctasia, but she smiled, and for once she did not offer to explain. This time she preferred to think that Corson might be right.
5
the village of Ylna was little more than a cluster of cottages and a wayside inn that depended on the Southern Trade Road for its custom. Corson and Nyctasia reached it in good time and might have pressed on, but the signboard of the Leaf and Bough caught Corson’s eye.
“Nyc, wait. Let me see that foolish paper again. Yes, look, Ylna is on this list, and it says Rowan, Leaf and Bough.” The Cymvelan treasure was still on Corson’s mind.
Nyctasia shrugged. “We may as well stop here as go on. I’m ready for a rest, that’s certain.” What matter when she reached the Valleylands-one place was the same as another to her.
They gave their horses to the ostler and entered the public room of the inn, which was crowded with travelers on their way to the Osela fair. They paid their share, and sat at the long table, where folk were helping themselves to the common fare. The host scurried about, filling the mugs with foamy, dark ale, while the help brought more food from the kitchen.
Set before the company were platters of meat and roasted fowls, great loaves of bread, wheels of cheese, and basins of suet pudding. Bowls of boiled potatoes and onions were passed from hand to hand, and crocks of butter and honey stood at either end of the table. Corson and Nyctasia fell to eagerly. Corson forgot about treasure for the time being, and even Nyctasia found nothing in the meal to complain of. She had several helpings of sweet bread-pudding with apples and raisins, floating in cream.
When the board was cleared, people gave their full attention to drinking and exchanging news. Travelers from the south reported rumors of bandits and slavers prowling the countryside and attacking solitary wayfarers. But most of the talk centered on the harvest and farmers’ concerns. Had there been enough rainfall in the Valleylands? What did a bushel of millet fetch in town? Did the spring frost kill many lambs?
Should barley be planted during the new moon or the first quarter? Believers in both traditions had their say, and the discussion was a lively one. Nyctasia, who had inherited a good deal of farmland, had been raised to take an interest in such matters. But she held her peace, unwilling to reveal her station to strangers.
Corson only interested herself in barley when it was brewed and fermented, and she nursed her mug of stout, paying no attention to the talk. A group of students, as bored as she, looked about for some amusement and caught sight of Nyctasia’s harp.
“You, there, harper, give us a song!”
“The ‘Song of the Bat’!”
“No, not that-something bawdy!”
Corson expected Nyctasia to resent their addressing her in this manner, but instead she made them a bow and began to tune the strings of her harp. “I fear the songs of this region are not known to me,” she said mildly. “I’ll sing you one of my own.”
“She’s up to some trick,” Corson thought.
Nyctasia winked at the students and sang:
“O, I never was made
To take heed of advice,
I’ve gambled and played
By the fall of the dice,
And rambled and strayed
All over creation,
Beset by temptation
And courted by vice.
Each friend and relation
Who knew me of old
Often foretold
That I’d go to the bad.
By wall and by wold
I’ve rambled and wandered,
And gambled and squandered
The whole that I had,
To my last piece of gold.
Of all wisdom’s students
’Twas I was the best,
But I never learned prudence
When put to the test.
For all of my lessons
I was no whit the wiser-
When I’ve lost my last crescents
Then I’ll be a miser,
And if my last pence
Should follow the rest,
With virtue and sense
I shall feather my nest!”
Her performance was received with enthusiasm. The students cheered and threw coins, and even some of the other guests applauded. Corson made haste to gather up the money.
“Give us another, lass!”
Nyctasia smiled, “I believe I do know a song from this part of the world, after all,” she said. “Perhaps someone here can explain it to me:
“What has come before
Will return again,
Neither less nor more,
&
nbsp; Neither now nor then.
Nothing that befalls
Comes about by chance.
The nursling babe that crawls
Will soon join in the dance.
Stars are wheeling in the night,
Moments spinning into time,
Winter turning into spring.
Birds are circling in their flight,
Words are winding into rhyme,
Children dancing in a ring.
What has gone before
Will return again,
Neither less nor more,
Neither now nor then.”
This time there was no clapping when Nyctasia finished. An uneasy silence had fallen on the crowd, and people turned away, avoiding one another’s eyes. Corson recognized the song as one of the verses from the page of riddles.
“What do you mean singing that accursed thing in here?” shouted the landlord.
“We’re decent folk here. Take your trouble-making somewhere else!”
“I’m sure I didn’t mean to give offense,” Nyctasia said in a bewildered tone. “I heard a drunken man sing it at the fair.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “You’d be wise to guard your tongue, minstrel,” he muttered, and hurried off to the kitchen.
Nyctasia turned to the students. “Why all this fuss over a trifling verse?”
“Don’t you know that’s a song of the Cymvelan Circle?”
“Well, and what if it is? Who are they?”
“Don’t blame her, she’s an outlander,” said Corson. “I’ve heard of them-sorcerers or demon-worshippers or some such, weren’t they?”
“That’s what people say. The Valleylanders rose against them during the great drought. In my father’s time, it was. They slaughtered the lot of them and destroyed the temple.”
“Not all of them were killed,” said a local fanner. “Some of the children were spared, and he”-he jerked his thumb toward the kitchen-“was one of them, though he doesn’t like folk to mention it. He thought you sang that song to bait him.”
“I’ve heard it said that they had some great treasure hidden,” Corson said cautiously.
