by J F Rivkin
“It’s a mistake to think that a lover can be a way of life. I do know what you feel, Corson, but I’ve no answer for you. How could I blame ’Ben for loving magic more than he loved me, when I had proved that I loved Rhostshyl more than I loved him? I understand that he could love me still, though he loved the Yth better-I know I loved him well though I loved my city more. But I am not comforted by that reasoning, and why should you be? There is no absolute union of spirits, no companion in eternity, no mirror of one’s being. Each of us is one and separate and utterly alone. Is that simple enough for you?”
“No-it’s a lot of blather about nothing. There’s enough to fret about in this life without worrying over eternity too. What’s the good of it?”
With one of her abrupt changes of humor, Nyctasia smiled and said, “You’re a deep one, that’s certain. You may well be right. Many great philosophers agree with you.”
“Philosophy!” Corson snorted. “Antipathy! Plague take it, I want to know what Steifann’s at with that hag Destiver. He’ll see-two can play at that game. Maybe I will hunt out that treasure. Then I’ll go back to Chiastelm with more money than he’s ever seen, and-”
“Why wait? You’re carrying quite a fortune with you as it is-how much do you need to impress him? The treasure’s probably all moonshine anyway, you know.”
Though she had made light of Corson’s vision, Nyctasia was worried at the thought that Corson might return to the ruins. If the spell had been all that it seemed, then she had dangerously misjudged the power of the place. What sort of magic had the Cymvelans meddled with, to leave such Influences at work when they themselves were long gone? She had not put much stock in the tales of demon-worship and blood-sacrifice, but now… If Corson, who was no magician, could unwittingly draw upon it, then that power was too unbridled to be safe.
She herself might control it, but Corson was hardly prepared for such an undertaking.
Nyctasia saw much in Corson that she knew to be true of herself. In Corson she recognized her own pride and passion, her deep fears and her love of power. But in Nyctasia they had been governed, by years of Discipline and denial, to serve her rather than rule her-or so Nyctasia hoped. She was a Vahnite. But Corson would be defenseless against a magic that promised to fulfill the darkest desires of the spirit… and did as it promised. Corson, with her curious gift for magic, would be its perfect prey.
“Besides,” Nyctasia added, “I thought you were so eager to know about the carryings-on at Chiastelm.”
Corson spat. “Drinking and screwing everyone in sight-I don’t need sorcery to tell me that.” She gave Nyctasia a shrewd look. “You won’t get rid of me so easily as that. I’m not afraid of that place. And there’s no such thing as enough money. If you weren’t such a spoilt, rich little aristocrat you’d know that.”
“Civilized,” said Nyctasia, “is the word you want, not ‘spoilt,’ but I suppose I shouldn’t expect your barbarian brain to grasp such fine distinctions.”
Corson grinned wickedly. “That reminds me, I can’t go back to Chiastelm just yet anyway. I was forgetting I owe you a few more lessons in swordfighting. You didn’t do too badly against that clumsy fool, but you shouldn’t have come out into the open. You had the advantage inside the porch there, among the pillars.
When your opponent is bigger than you are-and that means anyone, for you-you should keep the fight in a tight place if you can, where the enemy will be hampered while you can move freely. You can’t help being such a little speck of a thing, but at least you can put your size to use now and then. I might be able to make something of you if I work hard at it.”
“I don’t believe that you’ll stay in Vale that long, even for the pleasure of cutting me to shreds. Don’t you have to go west from here to reach the river at Amron Therain?”
“The port’s not a half day’s ride from Vale,” Corson assured her. “I’ve wasted so much time looking after you that another day or two won’t matter. I’ll have time enough to give you those lessons, don’t you worry.”
Nyctasia groaned. “I’d get more mercy from the brigands and slavers.” She was glad enough to change the subject when they saw a team of ditchers hedging a field beside the road, not far ahead of them. “Now we’ll find out where in the vahn’s name we are.”
But at first the laborers only stared when Corson asked for directions to the Edonaris vineyards. Then one woman finally answered politely enough, “You’ve only to ride ahead as the road climbs, mistress, and take the east turn when you smell the grapes,” The others stood as if struck dumb, but broke into excited talk as soon as Corson and Nyctasia had ridden on.
“I think they’re still gaping after us,” Nyctasia said uneasily, looking back.
Corson was used in being stared at. “They don’t often see soldiers in these parts.”
“Let alone soldiers tall as towers, eh?”
“Better than being a half-grown gnat with a title longer than my arm.”
“They say one stinging gnat can drive an ox to frenzy.”
“It’s not the stinging I mind so much as the buzzing.”
“Well, you needn’t listen to it longer, you know.”
“That’s as may be-we’ll see. You might decide to go on to Amron Therain with me.
How do you know this Edonaris family will want anything to do with you? They might not even believe you are an Edonaris. Maybe they’ll think you’re an imposter claiming kinship with them because they’re rich. That’s an old game,”
Corson pointed out, clearly relishing the idea of the proud Lady Nyctasia being turned out of doors as a charlatan.
“And you mean to be there to see me humiliated. I take it?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for all the diamond-fields of Tierelon. Nyc, what will you do if they don’t accept you as an Edonaris?”
“The possibility has occurred to me. I have my seal-ring, of course.”
“You might have stolen it.”
“Well, I know more of the family history than any outsider possibly could.”
“I suppose I’ll find out-and soon, at that. This must be the east turning she meant.” There could be no mistake. The scent of grapes was stronger with every breath they took.
Nyctasia smiled ruefully. “You’re right, you know-they probably won’t believe me. If I weren’t an Edonaris, I know I could convince them, but since it’s the truth…”
“Then use your persuasive powers to convince them to let us search the rest of the ruins, since we’ve come all this way.”
“Oh, come, you don’t really believe there’s a hidden treasure there?”
“No…” Corson said reluctantly, “not much. But we’re here, after all. And those moth-eaten riddles might mean something.”
Nyctasia shrugged. “Possibly the Edonaris ought to see them, since their name’s on that list, though it seems to be harmless enough. Let’s ask the way to the house.”
They were riding through grape-covered slopes now, where workers were busy pruning the vines and testing the ripeness of the fruit. Corson and Nyctasia dismounted and hailed a man who was walking toward them along the roadside, stopping at the edge of each row to examine the grape-leaves for harmful insects. When he saw Corson, he stuck his pruning-knife in his belt and strode up to her jauntily, with a welcoming smile.
“Probably an overseer,” Corson thought, and started to ask about the Edonaris manor, but when she saw his face she only stood and stared, her question forgotten. He looked enough like Nyctasia to be her twin brother.
“Nyc,” she said finally, “I don’t think you’ll have trouble convincing them that you’re an Edonaris, after all.”
8
but the man ignored Nyctasia and swept a low bow to Corson, gallantly kissing her hand. “A harvest goddess, come to bless the vines!” he declared, then, turning to Nyctasia, he demanded, “What ails you? Why don’t you introduce me to this vision of heartbreaking beauty?”
Corson grinned at her. “I like this branch of
your family better than the other,” she said.
“This is Corson brenn Torisk,” Nyctasia told him, laughing, “but who am I, for the vahn’s sake?”
He glanced at her quizzically. “Are you really ailing, ’Deisha? You do look pale.”
Nyctasia took off her hat to allow him a better look at her face. Her grey eyes met his, and she smiled at his start of astonishment. “I’ve always been pale,” she said.
He took a step toward her but stopped, shaking his head as if to deny that she stood before him. “You’re not-I took you for-but, who are you?” he whispered.
Nyctasia bowed. “Nyctasia of Rhostshyl, cousin.”
“An Edonaris of Rhostshyl, of course. You’d have to be. What do you want here, Rhostshylid?”
Nyctasia’s manner stiffened. “Hospitality,” she said, “is what we expected. If we’re not welcome here, we’ll seek it elsewhere.”
“All strangers are welcome at harvest time,” he said resignedly. “Forgive me-I am Raphistain ar’n Edonaris. But since when do the nobles of Rhostshyl own us as kin? What sort of welcome would any of us receive at court?”
“A fairer one than I, I fear,” Nyctasia sighed. “I myself am banished from the city.”
“Then you are not here as an emissary?”
“By no means. Rather as a fugitive.”
“Why, that’s another matter altogether! The others must hear of this. Come with me, the rest won’t be back till dinner. You’ll have time to refresh yourselves from your journey.” Now that he knew who Nyctasia was, he became the courteous host, but he was no longer certain how to address Corson. Was she only a guard?
Was it fitting for him to flirt with her?
Corson saw his curious look, and decided to make it clear that she was not Nyctasia’s servant, “You can blame me that we’re here,” she said. “I told Nyc there were Edonaris at Vale. She’d never heard of you.”
Raphistain abandoned his scruples. “You would be welcome in any company,” he assured her, with a meaning smile. “But how did you hear of us? Isn’t Torisk one of the Maritime cities, then?” All coastal accents sounded alike to a Midlander.
“Torisk’s a swamp, in the south. But I’ve traveled about the Midlands a good deal, and heard praise of Edonaris wine. I’ve never tasted it, though,” she hinted.
“What a tragedy! Fortunately, that can easily be remedied, now that you’re here.
I shall see to it myself.”
They followed him on foot, leading their horses, till a stable-boy came running from the yard and took the reins. He gave Nyctasia a puzzled look, but Raphistain sent him about his business at once and hurried them on to the manor house. It was a sprawling stone manse which had obviously been added to many times, as more space was needed. The newer wings and turrets were joined to the main body of the house at all possible angles, but the ivy climbing over the whole facade seemed to bind its parts together and make them one. The walls were alive with song-sparrows, invisible in the ivy vines, chirping and rustling restlessly, never still. Nyctasia saw the coat-of-arms of the Edonaris carved into the arch of stone above the main portal, half-hidden by leaves.
The great, dim hall was almost chill after the late-summer heat of the countryside. The walls of thick stone allowed little of the sun’s power to penetrate, and the windows were high and small here in the oldest part of the house. The doors stood open to admit more light, and Nyctasia could not but compare them to the portals of the palace of the Edonaris at Rhostshyl-defended by a portcullis and armed guards, fortified with great bars and bolts of iron.
What must it be like to have no enemies?
Their host led them quickly through the confusing maze of corridors and stairways, but he could not altogether avoid the curious stares of the few servants they passed. He stopped before the open door of an old, book-lined room where a sharp-featured woman of middle age sat bent over the household accounts.
A great ring of keys at her belt clinked when she turned to face them.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Dinner’s not for hours. ’Deisha, why aren’t you at the calving?”
Nyctasia had been examining the backs of the books, all of which, she noticed, were dusty from neglect. She started guiltily. “But I’m not-” she began.
“What mischief are you two about now? And at harvest time too! Who’s that great creature?” she continued, noticing Corson.
When Raphistain could get in a word, he bowed and said, “Aunt, allow me to present our guests. Mesthelde brenn Vale ar’n Edonaris-Corson brenn Torisk and Nyctasia brenn Rhostshyl ar’n Edonaris.”
She frowned. “What nonsense is this? We’ve no time for games and foolery. What have you done to yourself, ’Deisha? You look like a ghost!” She approached Nyctasia as if she intended to take her by the collar and drag her off to wash her face and hands.
“Madame, I-” said Nyctasia. “Permit me-”
The woman peered at her, squinting, then stepped back suddenly, setting the keys jangling. “Sacred Name of Creation! Who is this?”
“But I’ve just told you, my good aunt,” said Raphistain, enjoying the scene.
“Our cousin Nyctasia has come all the way from Rhostshyl to pay us a visit. And you greet her with a scolding-what will she think of us?”
Ignoring him, Mesthelde sat down again, still staring. At last she said, “Have you sent word to your father, Raphe?”
“Not yet. I only just-”
“Then go fetch him, boy! He’ll be at the coopers’ yet. Don’t waste time. I’ll see to our guests.”
He sighed. “Very well, I suppose it will be best if I go myself. I shall see you all at dinner, I trust. Mind, Aunt, you’re not to frighten them away.”
Mesthelde looked them up and down with obvious suspicion. “Well, if it must be, it must. Come along. As you’re here, you might as well be comfortable. You’ll need some fresh clothes. ’Deisha’s are sure to fit you,” she said to Nyctasia in a tone which implied that the resemblance was a piece of wanton deceit. “But I’m sure I don’t know what we’ll find for you!” She looked up at Corson and shook her head in disapproval of such immoderate height. Nyctasia endured this treatment with unaccustomed forbearance. Corson had rarely seen her so abashed and silent.
Their hostess showed them to spacious rooms in the newer part of the mansion, promising to send maids to see to their needs and fetch them to dinner. Her manner made it clear that they were not expected to show themselves before they were summoned to the evening meal.
Corson was pleased with the chamber allotted to her. It was large and well furnished, but simple enough to make her feel at home. She was accustomed to sharing servants’ quarters or the crowded barracks where guards were housed. So this was what it meant to be a guest, not a mere hireling. But then, these Edonaris were vintners and tradesfolk-the local gentry, perhaps, but not of the highest aristocracy like the Edonaris of Rhostshyl-not too proud to treat a common swordswoman as a guest in their home.
There was therefore no reason, Corson assured herself, to worry about how she should conduct herself here. But… what did one do with ladies’ maids? She wished Nyctasia were with her. What would she do?
As soon as she had asked herself this, Corson knew exactly what to do. When two girls arrived, one bearing bed-linens, the other a tray of grapes and cheese, Corson instructed them to prepare her bath, quite as if she had been giving orders to domestics all her life.
But she did not know that the maids would stay until they were dismissed. It never occurred to her to say, “That will be all,” and as a result she was attended with every possible service while she bathed. The ladies’ maids washed her hair and feet, scrubbed her back, fetched more water, and stood about waiting to rub her dry, then wrapped her in a capacious robe. When they took away the tub, Corson thought she was rid of them at last, but one soon came back to dress her hair for her. Corson managed not to show her surprise, but she was glad she had the fine silver comb and brush Nyctasia
had given her, which were fit for any lady.
The maid exclaimed over her long, glorious hair, and Corson began to feel more comfortable with her new station in life. As she was enjoying the rare luxury of having her hair brushed, an older woman entered and looked at her critically.
“Oh, it’ll have to be the gold, no question,” she said, and went out again, leaving Corson mystified.
“The gold what?” she asked the girl, before she could remember not to display her ignorance.
“It’s the cloth she means, mistress-we’re to make you a gown straightaway.
There’s a length of gold silk from Liruvath that’s long enough.”
Corson was appalled. A gown-! She’d never worn such a thing in her life. Perhaps she should go find Nyctasia and ask her how she ought to behave, after all.
Nyctasia dismissed the maids as soon as her bath was ready. She had always preferred privacy to constant attendance, and she had much to think about.
I oughtn’t to have come here, she brooded. I knew better. I was a fool to imagine for a moment that I might find a welcome among strangers simply because they bear my name. These folk want no part of me, and I can’t blame them-they must have heard what poison we are, we Rhostshylid.
She pressed the water from her sleek., close-cropped hair and felt it trickle down her face like tears, making her somehow sadder. I’ll leave them in peace, she decided. I’ll ask nothing of them but a night’s lodging, and say that we came because of that strange Cymvelan paper. The thought of the list was comforting-she had, after all, some legitimate reason to be here. She quickly dressed in the elegant clothes the maids had laid out for her, meaning to go at once to look for Corson, but just then the girls returned to tell her that the Lady Nocharis had summoned her.
She was shown to a tapestried drawing-room where the family was gathered, obviously to discuss what to do about her. “But if she’s come on her own account-” she heard, before they fell silent at her entrance. Only a few gasps of astonishment greeted her appearance, and she too was taken aback at the uncanny resemblances to some of her near relations in Rhostshyl.
