by J F Rivkin
“There speaks an Edonaris,” she said in a low, harsh tone. “Let our honor be abandoned, let our duty be undone, as long as our name is inviolate, our power unchallenged. Look!” She pulled Tiambria to the window. “Look out there! It was no stray lightning-bolt or careless lamplighter that burned half the city. We did it ourselves. We, who are charged with the welfare of the people.”
“No,” said Tiambria. “It wasn’t our doing. Blame the Teiryn-they began the feud.”
“They did, but we sustained it, Briar. We saw what they failed to see, that we were too strong for them, that they would never overthrow us. And so we refused peace whenever it was offered-oh, yes, the city records will bear me out. Your forebears and mine would have no terms of peace. They knew they had the upper hand. They forced the Teiryn to carry on the feud.”
“What they did is no fault of mine. Why should I be the one to pay for their pride?”
“All your life you’ve enjoyed the privileges they won for you, and never questioned your right to them. This war too is your heritage, never doubt it.
And were you not of the matriarch’s party? Did you not agree when she called for the destruction of the Teiryn?”
“Of the Teiryn, yes! I didn’t know it would mean the destruction of so many others, of so much-”
Nyctasia looked almost pitying. “You didn’t know? Do you suppose it is of any comfort to the suffering, to the bereaved, that you didn’t know! Do you think it makes you any the less accountable for your actions? It’s time you learned that an Edonaris has obligations as well as rights, and you yourself have much to answer for. Now go! And keep your face from my sight until you’re ready to do your duty. I’m ashamed to call you sister!”
Tiambria stood her ground. “You looked exactly like Mhairestri when you said that,” she spat.
Nyctasia’s hand flew up to slap her, and she was prevented only by the sudden realization that this was precisely what Mhairestri would have done. Meeting Tiambria’s defiant stare, she slowly lowered her arm, saying. “And you, my dear, look very like Deirdras just now. Send for your cloak-you’re to come for a short ride with me. The view from the palace windows is none too clear.”
Corson rejoined them at once, frowning to herself. Though a change was always welcome, she considered Nyctasia’s visits to the heart of the city as an unnecessary risk. The Lady Tiambria too would be a target for the enemies of the Edonaris. They’d have to bring extra guards, and that would make them even more conspicuous. Nyctasia usually knew what she was doing, Corson thought, but since she’d returned to Rhostshyl she’d seemed to be courting danger. And if she cared nothing for her own life, no bodyguard could defend her.
They left the palace compound by a back gate, accompanied by two other guards and a groom, with Corson bringing up the rear as she watched to make certain that they weren’t followed. The farther they rode from the palace, the poorer and more crowded the streets became. Some folk scattered at the sight of armed guards, but most had lost fear along with hope, and only stopped to stare at the riders, bowing as they passed. Few seemed to have any idea who they were.
At the mouth of a narrow alley, they left their horses with the groom, and he handed Nyctasia the heavy satchel he carried. The houses in this quarter had been gutted by fire, and the smell of charred timber was still thick in the air.
As Nyctasia led the way through the litter of refuse and debris, Tiambria saw to her astonishment that there were people still living in these wretched, half-fallen dwellings.
Here Nyctasia was known, and when news of her arrival spread she was quickly surrounded by a knot of the city’s most destitute and desperate. They dared not press close to the Lady Tiambria, but she had a far better look at Rhostshyl’s poorest than she was accustomed to. A ragged beggar-child grasped at Nyctasia’s sleeve, and she took his hand, stepping aside to let Tiambria see him. “Explain to this one that you didn’t know what war would bring,” she murmured. Half the child’s face was hideously scarred by fire, one eye sealed shut forever, Tiambria turned away, sickened at the sight. “Perhaps we should take him back with us, make a page of him,” Nyctasia suggested, “and have him before our eyes every day, lest we forget what we now know.” Tiambria made no reply.
They visited several of the ruined houses, where people lay on the floor, injured or sick, and hungry children huddled in corners. Tiambria watched, silent, as Nyctasia changed the dressings on wounds and treated savage burns with salves and unguents. At each place she left medicines or bandages, money to buy food or to pay the gravediggers. Finally Tiambria too stripped off her costly rings and bracelets and gave them to those who appealed to her for alms.
She spread her cloak over a woman who lay shivering with fever and whispering wordlessly to herself.
Nyctasia said nothing more to her for some time, and only when they were ready to depart did she seem to remember her sister’s presence. “Do you know, it’s the strangest thing, Briar,” she remarked, “but none of these folk has ever asked me, ‘Why should I be the one to pay?’”
“But… even if I marry the heir of the Teiryn, ’Tasia”-it was the first time she had admitted the possibility-“it won’t undo the harm that’s been done.”
“No, but you’ll have done your part to see that it doesn’t happen again. That’s all you can do, now, and it’s little enough to ask of you. You can never pay what you owe.”
“I hate you,” Tiambria whispered, her voice choking.
Nyctasia gave her a tired smile. “I love you,” she said.
24
nyctasia had sent her respects to the Lady Mhairestri as soon as she first arrived in Rhostshyl, but she had received no reply and had not expected one.
But when the day appointed for the wedding was only a fortnight away, she was suddenly summoned to present herself to the matriarch.
It was evening, and Nyctasia had already retired to her apartments, with only Corson and Greymantle in attendance. Corson was practicing her penmanship by writing a long letter to Steifann about the opulence of the court and the importance of her own position. When she stopped to rest her hand, she listened with pleasure as Nyctasia played the gilded harp and sang an old ballad.
Nyctasia had been more at her ease of late, since preparations for the wedding ceremony had been set under way, and Corson had found her better company.
But when she had dismissed Mhairestri’s messenger, she leaned her head on her hands and said resignedly, “I might have known that matters were progressing too smoothly. I taunted Tiambria for her fear of Mhairestri, but in truth I still fear her myself. Well, it won’t do to keep her waiting. You may as well stay here, Corson. I can’t appear before the matriarch with an armed escort.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be respectful. It would look as though I didn’t trust her.”
“You don’t trust her,” Corson pointed out, “She’s tried to have you killed before.”
“Oh, of course everyone knows that I don’t trust her, but you see, it would be discourteous of me to show it. Don’t worry, she’d not send for me in order to make an attempt on my life. She wouldn’t put me on my guard first.”
“Discourteous! I should have thought it more discourteous to try to have people murdered,” Corson rejoined. “Take Greymantle with you at least.”
***
There was nothing welcoming in the matriarch’s manner when she received Nyctasia. She remained as straight and stiff as the hard, narrow chair she sat in, and no word or gesture of hers acknowledged Nyctasia’s presence.
Nyctasia dropped to one knee before her, in the proper attitude of formal humility, and reverently kissed her hand, “Madame,” she said, “you do me honor.
I hope I find you well.”
The old woman pushed her away, looking down at her coldly. “So you have come to complete the destruction of this House, Nyctasia Selescq.”
Nyctasia stood, but remained facing the Lady Mhairestri. “I am sorry that I cannot
please you, Madame, but I will allow no further bloodshed in this city, not Teiryn blood, nor that of the innocent. There is nothing to be gained.”
“No, to you our name is nothing!”
“It will be to the honor of our name to show mercy to a fallen enemy, to allow peace to return to the city.”
“Peace! Can you not see that the only way to bring peace to Rhostshyl is to destroy the enemy while they are in our power? If the Teiryn are not crushed now, they will rise against us again, and more will die on both sides.”
Nyctasia was silent. It was the one argument which held any weight with her.
Mhairestri pressed her advantage, becoming persuasive, almost cajoling. Nyctasia was struck afresh by her resemblance to the Lady Nocharis. “I’ve lived long… long, Nyctasia… and I know that some things never change. I’ve seen your kind before. You are young, you believe that things which have never happened before may yet come to pass at your bidding, that words may do the work of swords, that two bulls may graze in one field. It must be so because you would have it so.”
She shook her head, unassailable in her certainty, “I tell you, one house must rule. As long as there are two, war will be inevitable.”
Nyctasia leaned against the mantle, her hands pressed to her temples. “I am no longer so young,” she said. “I know that you may be right-that is my greatest fear.” (Only remember that you are a healer.) “But the future is always uncertain. I will not murder the survivors of this battle to prevent an uprising that may never come. I cannot.” (Let nothing persuade you to forget that.)
“Then do not speak to me of the welfare of the city! It is the welfare of your own spirit that concerns you.”
“Perhaps,” said Nyctasia, more to herself than to Mhairestri, “but if that were so, why would I have returned here?”
“You are weak, weak! Now, when this house needs a strong hand to guide it! Fool, ah-” the old woman leaned back in her chair, breathless, weak with passion, and there was a long silence in the chamber. “That I should live to see the end of this family…!” she said at last.
“I mean to unite the family-”
“Traitor! You mean to unite the family to our enemies!”
“You have said that one house must rule-very well, I shall make one house of the two. And, Mhairestri, I believe that that house will be the House of Edonaris.
The Teiryn will become part of us-we shall devour them as surely as the she-spider devours her mate. Edonaris blood will tell, you know it is so. And I-I have reason to believe that many generations will not suffice to change that. If we continue to intermarry with the Teiryn, in time there will be no Teiryn.”
“And no Edonaris! You will have us a bastard breed, our line polluted by Teiryn blood, all so that you may say you were not guilty of shedding that blood. You have ever been a dreamer, a madwoman. It is useless to reason with you.”
“Certainly this discussion is useless, Madame,” said Nyctasia, her courtesy unwavering. “I weary you to no purpose, I shall take my leave of you, with your permission.”
The matriarch pierced her with an angry stare. “Do you love your House, Nyctasia Selescq?”
Nyctasia hesitated. “I love this city.”
“Answer me!”
It was pointless to lie. “I do not, Madame. I did once.”
“Get out of my sight,” said Mhairestri with surprising calm.
Nyctasia made one final effort, though she felt little hope of success.
“Mhairestri-Mother-” she pleaded-“You must love this House for both of us. I know that you want what is best for the Edonaris, as I want what is best for Rhostshyl, but the family and the city cannot be divided-surely our wishes must often be the same. Would it not be to the benefit of both if we should at least appear to be unified? Only let me report that you withhold judgment on my plans, not that you approve or support them, but at least-that way-”
“I see. Thus, it shall not appear that I was simply powerless to prevent you. My dignity will be spared,” Mhairestri said disdainfully.
Nyctasia spread her hands. “Yes,” she admitted. “And if I succeed in bringing about a truce, you will be honored for your farsightedness. If I fail, you have reserved the right to condemn my actions. Only permit me…” her voice trailed off to silence as she regarded the matriarch’s face.
The old woman gripped the arms of her chair. “You are Rhaicime,” she hissed. “Do as you will-but not with my blessing! If I cannot save the honor of this House, I must look to my own. I have told you once to leave me-go! Get out! Get out of here!”
Nyctasia bowed low and said, “Give you a good night, Madame.” She backed out the door without once turning her back to the Lady Mhairestri, a mark of respect usually reserved for royalty, and requiring considerable skill to perform with grace.
Corson sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, and wishing she had the courage to summon one of Nyctasia’s maids to brush it for her. Most of the servants accepted Corson as a person of some authority, but the lady’s maids clearly thought it unsuitable that an ill-bred mercenary should share their mistress’s chambers. They seemed to regard Corson and Greymantle’s presence there with equal disfavor, and behaved as far as possible as if neither of them existed.
Nyctasia had explained that a few of them were Mhairestri’s spies, and others simply jealous that a mere guard was on terms of greater intimacy with the Rhaicime than they were themselves. Indeed, they might well feel slighted, for Nyctasia demanded little attendance, and rather neglected them. She preferred privacy to being waited upon; she rarely wore clothes that were difficult to put on or take off unassisted, and her close-cropped hair required little attention.
“I need a maid more than she does,” Corson thought, “but I don’t suppose the haughty little chits would lower themselves to wait on me. Nyc would brush my hair for me, but not her rutting proud maids-in-waiting…”
Corson brooded on the paradox of the aristocracy, then yawned and lay back on the bed, stretching. She removed her leather vest and chain mail and tossed them on the floor, leaving only her comfortable loose linen shirt.
But not until Nyctasia came in and barred the door behind her did Corson take off her sword-belt. She hung it carefully over the headboard of the bed, where her weapons would be near at hand should she need them in the night. “Nyc,” she said, “if I told one of your lady’s maids to brush my hair, would she?”
“Yes, I believe so. They’ll ignore you if they can, but they’d be afraid to offend you outright, because they think I make a favorite of you. But I’d rather you didn’t call for a maid just yet. I don’t want any of my people to see that Mhairestri’s upset me.”
Nyctasia found Corson a welcome sight, lolling lazily on the bed with her long hair flowing about her. She looked warm and inviting after the company of the harsh, forbidding Lady Mhairestri. Nyctasia was drawn to her as to a comforting hearthfire on an icy winter night.
“You do look like a hind harried by hounds,” Corson observed. “What did the revered matriarch do to you?”
“Nothing-yet. But she means to do something soon, and I don’t know what. Now I’ll not sleep tonight for thinking about it.”
“Ah, I’ve told you time and again, you think too much. And stop that pacing, you make me giddy.” She reached out her long legs and caught Nyctasia between them.
“If I can’t have a lady’s maid, you’ll have to do. Here, you can take off my boots for a change.”
“Is that any way for a common swordswoman to address a Rhaicime?” Nyctasia chided, but she obeyed, kneeling before Corson as she had before Mhairestri, and tugging at her heavy boots.
Corson grinned down at her. “If you don’t like my manners, you can get yourself another bodyguard,” she suggested.
Nyctasia sat back on her heels and regarded her with a wry smile. “I should,” she agreed, “but where would I find another so fetching? Raphe called you the Goddess of Danger and Desire.”
“Mmm, he
did?” Corson said appreciatively. She’d be sure to tell Steifann that.
“That one knew something about lovemaking-did you ever have him?”
Nyctasia laughed and shook her head. “We couldn’t, Raphe and I. We’d flirt, but-well, he looked so like my brothers… and of course he couldn’t see me without thinking of ’Deisha. It was impossible.”
“Well, in the dark what’s the difference? You should have kept your eyes closed.
When Raphe stops talking, he’s very fine indeed. On my oath, you Edonaris can talk till the stars fall.” She nudged Nyctasia with one foot. “I’ll wager the true hindrance twixt you and Raphe was that neither of you could keep quiet long enough to-no! Stop that, you-”
Nyctasia had grabbed Corson’s ankle, and was mercilessly tickling the sole of her foot. Corson, who was unbearably ticklish, writhed and cursed, pummeling Nyctasia with her free foot, and laughing helplessly.
“Grey,” Nyctasia called, “you’re not to let people kick me! Help!” Greymantle barked and wagged his tail helpfully. Nyctasia surrendered, released Corson’s ankle, and fell over on the floor, holding her side and groaning dramatically.
“Half my ribs are broken,” she complained. “I could have you hanged for treason.”
“Yes, and you probably would too, nasty little bitch,” Corson grumbled, rubbing her tingling foot. “That’s the thanks I get for saving your life-first I’m tickled, then executed!” Both women started to giggle. “Next time someone tries to assassinate you, you ungrateful wretch, I’ll-”
“That-ooph-reminds me,” said Nyctasia, sitting up. “Corson, how would you like to be a Desthene?”
Corson forgot what she was saying. She’s done it again, she thought. Nyctasia’s gifts always took her by surprise. But, a title! Was it possible?
“… was originally a military rank, you know,” Nyctasia was explaining, “so it seems most appropriate for you. It meant ‘commander,’ or something of that sort.
You’d not get the proceeds of the estate, mind you-not for some years, at least.
