Mistress of Ambiguities

by J F Rivkin

  Lady Tiambria reminded Corson of Nyctasia, when she’d first known her. This one still had a lot to learn, of course, but she showed promise. “Nyc’s probably sneaked off to practice more of her mooncalf magic,” Corson said disgustedly.

  “Whenever she disappears, you can be sure she’s up to some crazy spell or other, and usually it’s a harebrained business anyone with a grain of sense would let alone!”

  Tiambria looked anxious. “Do you think she’s in danger, then?”

  “I’ve never known her when she wasn’t, have you?” But then, remembering that Nyctasia’s sister was with child, she added, “But don’t fret yourself over that one-she’s proof against a horde of demons or a nest of vipers. If a viper bit her, it would die. And as long as she’s got that hound with her, nothing that’s human will attack her and live.”

  But despite her assurances to Lady Tiambria, Corson was worried. How dare Nyc run off like this, without asking her to come along, without even letting her know where she was bound? II something happened to her. Corson wouldn’t even know! How could she protect her? For the first time, Corson understood Steifann’s complaints about her own wanderings. No wonder he always insisted that she write and tell him where she was, she realized, remembering guiltily that she very rarely did so. But at least she could take care of herself-she wasn’t a delicate, sheltered little hand-reared songbird like Nyc!

  Corson was at a loss. It was no use scouring the countryside for Nyctasia. She could be anywhere. Well, if she didn’t see fit to tell Corson what she was about, she could just go ahead and get herself killed, and serve her right, the silly, sly, secretive minx. But what was to be done about Lord Erystalben?

  Ought she to wait here for Nyctasia’s return, or could she safely entrust the secret to someone at court? Nyc’s kin had come between her and Shiastred before, but they wouldn’t dare interfere in her affairs now-would they? Tempting as it was to leave the responsibility to someone else, Corson couldn’t be sure that they’d not find a way to use Nyctasia’s lover as a weapon against her. She knew who Nyctasia’s allies were, but they too favored the marriage-alliance with Ochram. They might well think it best to keep Nyctasia and Lord Erystalben apart. Corson thought as much herself, though for different reasons, but she would not take it upon herself to make such a decision for Nyctasia. She believed in letting people make their own choices, and their own mistakes.

  Could she turn Lord Erystalben over to his own family, then? They’d be able to affirm his identity, after all, and if he really was their kinsman, they had a right to know of his return. But Corson knew nothing of the Shiastred. Could they be trusted? And how could she make inquiries about them without arousing suspicion? It would be assumed that there was a reason behind anything she asked. She’d never been given to idle court gossip.

  How fortunate, then, that she’d let Trask wheedle her into bringing him along, this time…

  “They’ve been supporters of the Edonaris for years, since before the war,” Trask reported.

  He had carried on a number of fruitful conversations and flirtations with pages and maids of the palace, leaving them with the impression that he was merely curious about Nyctasia’s past. Since he was, in fact, curious about Nyctasia’s past, this had not been a great challenge.

  “But there have been different factions among them, it seems, since the heir to the Jhaicery left Rhostshyl.” He grinned knowingly. “So that’s the mysterious Jhaice you carried off from the Hare, eh?”

  “Never you mind about him. If you’ve told anyone-”

  “What do you take me for, a milktooth babe?” Trask said indignantly. “I know a secret when I meet one. If you don’t trust me, get someone else to do your spying!”

  “Just remember, if you so much as hint that you know anything about this, I’ll tear out your tongue and make you eat it! Now what’s this about divisions among the Shiastred?”

  “Well, listen then-there are all sorts of stories about, but most agree that the Jhaice Erystalben made trouble for his family with the Edonaris, because his affair with Nyc was interfering with their plans to many her to her cousin, Lord Thierran. They wanted it broken off-”

  “I know all that,” said Corson, who had killed Thierran ar’n Edonaris. “What about the Shiastred?”

  “They ordered him to stay away from Nyc, but he refused, so finally they sent him away-disowned him, some say.”

  “His own blood-kin turned him out? I thought it was Nyc’s family that drove him from Rhostshyl.”

  Trask shrugged. “I heard that too, but the Shiastred couldn’t afford to anger the Edonaris. Some say that they made him go for fear that the Edonaris would have him killed, but it’s also said that most of them weren’t so very sorry to see the last of him.”

  “I can believe that,” Corson said glumly. “And they probably wouldn’t be glad to have him back, either.”

  “There’s those that might. A few of them said openly that Nyc was to blame for the whole business, that she’d ’witched Lord Erystalben, and they turned against the Edonaris in the war. Much good that did them. Nyc pardoned them, of course, but they don’t pretend to be grateful. The rest of them remained loyal to the House of Edonaris, though, and they claim that when Nyc’s swain left the city he forswore his title and inheritance. Fancy doing that for love of Nyc! His cousin Lord Jhasteine has taken his place, and he’s about to be married to a lady of the House of Lesevern, and it’s said that her family-”

  “That’ll do,” said Corson, discouraged. She had heard more than enough to convince her that she’d be ill-advised to leave her prisoner with the Shiastred.

  Half of them hostile to Nyc, the rest unlikely to welcome a rival Jhaice.

  “There’s no help for it, we’ll just have to stay here till Nyc gets back.”

  Trask didn’t mind in the least.

  10

  “where the headland meets the tide…” mused Nyctasia, watching in quiet amusement as Greymantle frisked in the spray, chasing waves and barking excitedly.

  As always the sight of the limitless expanse of the sea calmed and comforted her. The moon was waning now, but full enough still to send its bright path from the far horizon to her feet, and show her the dark glow of the waters between.

  The hushed murmur of the waves welcomed her, reassuring her that all would yet be well.

  Perhaps it had been foolish to read a message in the child’s words, a meaning she herself had never intended when she’d spoken them, years before. But as she gazed out over the breaking waves, she was sure she’d been right to come to the oceanside to find respite from the demands and dangers of Rhostshyl. Even on her way here, she had received a sign that had seemed to affirm her decision.

  She had almost crossed Rhostshyl Wood when she’d met with a group of students and scholars on their way to the city, and passed the night in their camp. She had let them believe she was a court scribe, and had answered their many questions with assurances that Rhostshyl was all they’d heard, that nothing but dire necessity could ever make her leave its walls. When they asked about the Rhaicime, she boasted that she knew her well, that Her Ladyship was wont to dictate secrets to her that she’d entrust to no other scribe, but naturally, as Nyctasia intended, they hadn’t believed much of that.

  “But have you seen her?” one of the students persisted. “The truth now-is she as beautiful as folk say?”

  “Oh, not half so pretty as you,” said Nyctasia gallantly. “The truth, if you must have it, is that she’s as plain as I am myself. And she looks like an unkempt kennels-hand more often than not. Her own courtiers scold her for her unseemly appearance.”

  “I’ve heard something of the sort about her,” one of the older men said seriously. “They say there’s a good deal less finery to be seen at court, since the Rhaicime set the fashion for simplicity. It seems she thinks it ill becomes the nobility to wear a fortune on their backs while folk suffer want in the city. She’s set them an example, and the others are shamed into
following her lead.”

  “And how do you know so much about it, Wren?” the youth next to him jeered.

  “Since when are you a follower of fashion?”

  The first man swatted him. “Show some respect for your elders, brat! I’ve not seen it for myself, but I believe what I’ve heard. You know folk always want to emulate their betters. And if it’s true, I think it’s much to the credit of the Rhaicime.”

  The firelight concealed Nyctasia’s blushes. “There’s some truth to it,” she said, “but My Lady can be as vain as anyone betimes, and that much I can swear to. Perhaps I may not know her quite as well as I claimed, but I do know her ways and those of the court. You’ll see me there when I return, I promise you.”

  “And will you ask the Rhaicime to receive us?” someone teased.

  Nyctasia laughed. “Remind me to do that when we meet next,” she said. “I have always so many affairs of state on my mind that I might forget.”

  That night she had dreamt that she continued her journey alone, with only Greymantle trotting at her side, easily keeping pace with her horse. But as she rode on toward the coast, she chanced to look back over her shoulder, and she had seen all of Rhostshyl following behind her in a long, lively procession that stretched for miles through the woods, all the way back to the gates of the city. Yet, instead of dismay, she’d felt great satisfaction to find that she hadn’t after all left the city behind her. She had called out to her people to make haste, to join her on the way to the sea. She had awakened with a feeling of deep peace and contentment.

  As she shared a morning meal with the travelers, one of the students told her that she had cried out in her sleep, and she answered, smiling, “I was dreaming that all of Rhostshyl was on the way to the sea, not just my dog and I.”

  As students will, they at once sought to interpret her dream, but Nyctasia was sure that she already understood its meaning. Without doubt, the vahn had revealed to her that she was not deserting her duty by making this journey, but rather acting for the good of the city, as she had hoped. To the students she said only, “I suppose it means that I’m such a true Rhostshylid that Rhostshyl is with me wherever I go, in my heart. It’s as I told you before-there’s no other city to compare with her.”

  But the man called Wren cast a different light upon the vision. “It may be as you say, scrivener,” he said politely, “but I take it to mean that Rhostshyl herself will widen her borders, and one day reach toward the sea.”

  For a moment. Nyctasia could only contemplate his words in spellbound silence.

  It was exactly what she wished for her city-that the forest that stood between Rhostshyl and the coast should be cleared, and new roads built; that the walls bounding the city should be broken down and Rhostshyl grow to double her size, till she reached all the way to the coast, a true Maritime city. Could it be that this stranger had read the significance of her dream more truly than she?

  “No riddle has only one answer,” she said pensively. “I believe you possess the gift of prophecy, sir.”

  He bowed. “Not I, but you, Madame, are the dreamer.”

  But it was not to dwell upon such dreams that she had come here, she reminded herself. Time enough for such matters when she returned to Rhostshyl. She must make the most of her stolen moments alone at the edge of the land, where the boundless sea began. There were lessons to be learned here that would help her to realize her dreams one day.

  She had always meant to practice the sequence of Consolations known as The Legacy of the Heirs of Ocean, but she had never found the time and the chance together to devote herself fully to the Discipline, the contemplation of the manifold qualities of the sea, its timelessness, its illimitable power, its unimaginable vastness, its unchanging rhythms that revealed the order and harmony of nature. And above all, its ceaseless work of transformation upon everything it touched.

  From her first sight of the sea, Nyctasia had felt that she could look upon its waters forever, and never tire of a view in which no walls stood as barriers to the eye or the spirit. In the presence of the ocean, one understood how transitory and insignificant one’s own affairs were-a lesson particularly valuable, Nyctasia thought, for those in positions of power over others. The sea humbled one, yes, but it thereby set one free…

  She had been pacing the shore as she meditated, gathering bits of stone and bone, driftwood and shell, but now she chose one smooth, white fragment from among them, and let the rest fall through her fingers, back into the sand.

  Settling herself among the boulders at the foot of the cliffs, she studied the small featureless object she held, as if it were a priceless treasure. Here was the entire secret, the essential unity of all things, revealed.

  It was over a year ago, she realized, that she’d last walked on the strand here, with Corson, and shown her just such a piece of polished rubble, picked up from the beach. She had wanted to come alone, to pursue the Discipline in solitude, but Corson had insisted-and quite rightly-that it was too dangerous. Her enemies could well have set a watch for her here. But now no one, not even Corson, knew where she was. She smiled, remembering Corson’s impertinent questions and indignant dismissals of the answers. Nyctasia had not achieved much of her purpose that day; instead, she had found herself trying to explain to her increasingly impatient bodyguard something of the Principles of Unity and Transformation, endlessly manifested by the working of the waves.

  “The sea takes a shell, a stone, a branch, or a bone, and wears away its form, washes away its color, breaks and blanches and burnishes it, cuts and carves it, smooths and shapes it, till the stone is hollowed to a shell, the wood is tempered to a stone, the bone whittled to a twig, the shell fluted to a splinter of bone. The sea incessantly transforms all things.”

  “Well, what if it does?” Corson said. “Why fret yourself about it?”

  “Because in doing so it reveals to us the indwelling nature of those things, and shows us that form is mere mask, disguising the truth that all things are one and the same. That is what we must always remember-”

  “Why?”

  “So as not to be deceived by mere appearance. So as to understand that we ourselves are made up of the same substance as all other things. We are no different in essence from the stones, the trees, the shells. That which divides us is superficial and will not endure.”

  “Now I see what you’re at,” said Corson, exasperated. “It’s just more of your fancy lies. Magic’s all lies, and this philosophy of yours is nothing but more lies. You say that night is day, and shells are stones, and hens are hats, and you’re so daft you believe it yourself. Asye, you say it so prettily I could almost believe it! But a stone’s a stone and a shell’s a shell-that’s the truth of it, whatever you say.”

  “What’s this, then?” Nyctasia had asked, laughing, and handed her the smooth shape, so worn by the sands that it was impossible to say whether it had originally been driftwood, shell, stone, or bone.

  Corson turned it in her hands, examining it. “I don’t know,” she said in annoyance. “What difference does it make?”

  “That’s it exactly. It makes no difference. It’s true that a stone’s not a shell, as you say, but it’s also true that they are one, and these truths do not contradict one another. Their opposition is apparent, not actual.”

  Corson had only snorted in contempt. “If you like to think that you’re really a lot of rocks and rotting bones and sea-slugs, you can,” she said. “And much good may it do you!”

  Alone on the dark shore, Nyctasia smiled and clutched the unknown fragment tightly in her hand. Much good, she thought, may it do me indeed. She remained looking out over the water, and recited quietly:

  “There is power,

  There is peace.

  There is refuge.

  There, release.”

  Then for a long while, she sat listening to the steady, regular splashing and sighing of the waves, letting the sound and smell and sight of the sea wash over her, wear away her cares and c
oncerns, soothe and caress her and slowly shape her anew, until she became the smooth, hard stone, the hollow shell, the polished branch or bone. All of these and none of them in one. And over time this too, in its turn, was further purified, refined to identical grains of sand, mingling with all that had gone before. Each still ceaselessly burnished the others and was burnished by them, to be worn away at last to invisible motes of dust that dissolved in the waves, and so became again one with the water, from which, it was said in the earliest legends, all life had arisen at the beginning of the world…

  Nyctasia did not know how long she had been resting there among the great rocks before Greymantle bounded up to her, barking and shaking a shower of spray from his coat into her face. He dashed away, along the path up the cliffside, then turned around to see if she was following, and pranced back to her, barking insistently, Nyctasia rose to her feet unsteadily and patted him. “Good lad,” she said. “Very well, let’s go then.” Further meditations would have to wait for the morrow. The tide was coming in.

  11

  “i much regret that you’ve been detained here, sir,” the woman said briskly as she entered, followed by the guard and an immense dog. “I assure you-”

  And then she looked at him and suddenly fell silent, staring in astonishment. A lady from the look of her, Veron thought, despite her plain attire and the scribe’s pen-case at her belt. He saw the color ebb from her face completely, leaving her as starkly white as sun-blanched bone, and she made a gesture he recognized as a sign of Unveiling, to ward off sorcerous illusions-though he had no idea how he knew such things.