by J F Rivkin
Nyctasia looked up, startled, and it was Mhairestri she saw glaring at her, furious, hand raised to strike again. “Get out!” said the matriarch in a low, harsh voice. She hit at Nyctasia’s face and arms, “Get out of here!”
Corson was shaking her. “Get up! We have to get out of here!”
7
“wake up!” corson whispered. “There’s someone coming.”
“Who…?” Nyctasia peered around vaguely, yawning. She sneezed.
“Be quiet, they’ll find us-hurry!” But before they could reach their horses, an arrow flew past them. Corson dropped to the ground at once, pulling Nyctasia down with her.
“They’ve found us.”
A group of ragged figures, with daggers and shorts words drawn, came from among the trees and formed a circle around them. Corson and Nyctasia slowly got to their feet, looking around for any avenue of escape. They were trapped.
But as Nyctasia hopelessly surveyed their captors, she found not a Teiryn or an Edonaris crest among them, and she suddenly laughed aloud, almost giddy with relief. These were not the hirelings of her enemies, but only common robbers!
One of the thieves stepped forward and looked at her quizzically. “Do we amuse you?”
“Please forgive my incivility,” Nyctasia said, “I was only thinking of the old saying, you know, that the penniless don’t fear thieves.” She gestured at her own shabby garments. “I certainly have nothing to fear.”
The thief looked them over scornfully. With her patched cloak and satchel of books, Nyctasia was the picture of a wandering student, and Corson looked the vagabond soldier that she was.
“Yet you have such fine horses-stolen I’d say from the look of you two.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “Get their weapons,” he ordered.
“You’d better decide how badly you want them,” Corson said grimly. “How many of your people can you spare?” She held her broadsword ready. Corson would give up her goods if she must, but would not let herself be disarmed without a fight.
“Our swords aren’t worth what they’ll cost you.”
“She’s in a terrible humor,” Nyctasia remarked. “She killed four people in a skirmish outside Rhostshyl fast night. As a matter of fact, that’s how we got the horses.”
“This city’s getting too dangerous,” said the thief. He shrugged. “All right, don’t get their weapons-but you’ll put up that sword if you want to keep it.”
When Corson had reluctantly obeyed, he walked over to inspect the saddlebags.
“Books,” he muttered, tossing them out on the ground.
Nyctasia winced. “Is there no respect for learning anymore?” she asked plaintively.
“Students are thieves’ bane,” he sneered. “They never have anything worth stealing.” He turned to Corson. “But you might have picked up some loot. Throw that pouch over here.”
Corson cursed. “Someday I’ll make you pay for this. I swear it.” She tossed her purse at the robber’s feet.
He shook it with satisfaction. “We’ll have the jewelry, too. You, Nessa-”
One of his followers approached them, hand outstretched. Nyctasia surrendered her belongings with indifference. She was carrying nothing of value.
“Copper,” complained Nessa, pocketing Nyctasia’s earrings. “Ho, but look at these now-gold, or I’m a fishmonger!”
Corson seethed with frustrated rage. Her golden earrings were her most treasured possession. The ringleader held them up and peered at them, delighted. “You’re right. These will fetch a good price. And soldiers are usually such poor game, too. What they don’t spend on drink they throw away at dicing. You give me new respect for the breed,” he said to Corson.
Suddenly her sword was in her hand again. She gripped the hilt so tightly that her arm shook. “Get out of here, you scum, before I forget what the odds are!”
The thieves laughed, “We don’t want to tangle with her,” one of them shouted,
“she killed four people at Rhostshyl!”
“I don’t see any of you bravos trying to disarm her,” Nyctasia said quietly.
“Bear-baiting is cowards’ sport,” She turned to the leader. “Why don’t you call them off before it’s too late? You have what you want.”
The robber grinned and casually put on Corson’s earrings. “We’d better go while we still can, eh?” He made a sign for his people to withdraw. “Come on, bravos,” he said.
Corson slowly lowered her sword. Her whole body was trembling. She watched as Nyctasia gathered up her books, inspecting them for damage. “What do you want with those useless things now?” she shouted. “They took everything-our horses, our money… I’ll kill someone for this! Me, robbed!”
Nyctasia looked at her warily. “Never mind, I’ll make good your losses. I have a fortune in keeping at Chiastelm.”
“And how do you think we’ll get there without horses?”
Nyctasia shrugged. “We’ll get there, don’t worry.”
“Well, what do you mean to do?!”
“To begin with, I think I’ll take a bath. I’m filthy.”
“A bath!”
But Nyctasia was already walking downstream towards a pool that was hidden among the trees. Best to leave Corson alone to nurse her wounded pride. “That’s right, a bath,” she called back. “It’s a habit among civilized people. I won’t be long.”
Uneasily, Corson watched her move out of sight. She knew that she should stay with Lady Nyctasia, but she was glad of a chance to recover her temper alone.
“Stay within earshot,” she called, and leaned back against a tree, clenching and unclenching her fists. She felt more exhausted than after an actual fight.
She could hear the Lady Nyctasia singing to herself as she bathed. She’d just lost her horses and goods, and the silly bitch was singing!
“So beware, my Lady Alys,
This is a haunted palace…”
Her voice was high and pure and serene.
Corson liked the Ballad of Mad Alys. When it ended, she called to Nyctasia,
“You’re crazy, Lady, you really are!”
“All the Edonaris are crazy,” Nyctasia answered, amused. “And all the Teiryn are stupid. That’s what folk say in Rhostshyl, among themselves. Do you know what I most regret leaving behind? My harp.”
“If you’d brought it, those rutting bandits would have stolen it.”
“That’s true.” She began to sing “The Queen of Barre.”
A bath would feel good at that, Corson reflected.
Nyctasia was kneeling by the water, half-dressed, drying her hair with the corner of her cloak. She did not hear Corson’s step on the soft moss bordering the pool. By the time she realized that Corson was standing over her, it was too late to conceal her side, smoothly healed, where there had been a vicious wound the night before. For a moment they stared at one another, frozen.
“So your reputation for witchcraft is quite undeserved,” Corson said coldly.
“You heal quickly for someone who’s not a witch!”
“I lied. I’m an excellent liar.”
“I’ve noticed that about you. What other lies have you told me, sorceress?”
Nyctasia began rubbing at her hair again, trying to appear calm. “I don’t really remember,” she said carelessly. “No doubt I said whatever was necessary. I always do.” She did not rise to her feet, hoping that Corson would not kill someone who was unarmed and on her knees.
“You did put a curse on the Teiryns. You brought the sickness on them!”
“Don’t be a fool!”
“If you can heal with magic, you can kill with it.”
“That isn’t so!” Nyctasia exclaimed earnestly. “Healing is much simpler. I can explain-”
“Liar! I should just bring your head back to Rhostshyl and collect my wages!”
“You can’t be stupid enough to believe that I could be driven out of my own city if I had that kind of power! Why would I need to lie to you-why would I need you at
all-if I could defend myself with spells?!”
“You make everything sound true, but you’ll not get around me again with your clever words. If I see you again, you’d better have some spells to defend yourself with!” She turned and strode off furiously, without a backward glance at the dread sorceress of Rhostshyl.
When Corson was out of sight, Nyctasia slowly stood and finished dressing, her hands trembling at the memory of Corson’s barely restrained fury. The danger just passed made her think of an experience she had long tried to forget. Years ago, she had led the hunt for a savage wildcat which had killed a herdsman on one of her estates. In the end, it had broken free of the hounds and tried to spring at her-but she had only been waiting for a clear shot and she sent an arrow cleanly through its throat.
Nyctasia had been in at the kill on many dangerous hunts since then, but she still sometimes dreamt of the cat at bay, and the wild hatred in its eyes as it crouched to spring at her. Corson had turned on her with the same look of desperate rage.
“But it’s my own carelessness that will kill me,” Nyctasia thought. She was furious with herself for allowing Corson to learn the truth just then, while still smarting from her humiliating defeat by the thieves. Nyctasia could not afford to be careless, and she never forgave herself for a mistake.
She doubted that she could reach Chiastelm alone, but there was nothing to do now but wait. Corson might return when she’d come to her senses. If she hadn’t carried out her threats then, at the height of her fury, she wouldn’t do so later in cold blood. Corson was no fool, thank Asye!
Nyctasia gathered some dry twigs for kindling and began to stir up the dying campfire. She was at home in the woods. Like any aristocrat, she’d been thoroughly trained in the hunt as well as the other courtly arts of fencing, dancing, harping, and etiquette. Hunting and harping she enjoyed; she was adequate at the rest.
If only she had her bow now, she could at least hunt some small game for dinner-but it was hanging from the saddle of her stolen horse. With a sigh, she settled herself comfortably at the foot of a tree and drew out the letter from Erystalben ar’n Shiastred, still unread.
“… So I’ve the Teiryn to thank that you remember your word to me at last. If I could not draw you from your beloved city,, at least those fools can drive you from it. ’Tasia, that adder’s nest is not worth your regrets. Let it look to its own destruction. Your place is here. I have carried out much of our purpose, but it will go for nothing unless you soon join your power to mine.
“I’ve seen no further sign of Vhar Kastenid, though I do not believe he has given up the battle. But together we will be able to hold this place against any enemy. Come to me quickly, ’Tasia. At times I do fear that you have forgotten.
And then I do not see my way clearly…”
Nyctasia read on to the end of the letter, then put it away, smiling to herself.
She had never forgotten, not for a moment. It was true that she could not leave the city as easily as Erystalben had-an Edonaris had duties which could not be abandoned lightly. And she had left behind much that she loved. But she did not regret.
Corson walked blindly for a time, trying not to think of the way she’d been shamed before the Lady Nyctasia. But again and again she saw the thieves gloating over their spoils, laughing at her. The thought of her own helplessness sickened her, and she finally stopped in a small clearing to rest. Her hands were scratched from heedlessly pushing her way through thorn bushes, and twigs and brambles clung to her sleeves.
She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and brooded over her past defeats and present losses. Painful memories assailed her of every time she’d been beaten, outnumbered, humiliated. Unwillingly, she remembered being captured in battle and led through the streets with the other prisoners, her hands tied behind her. The wounds from that war had long since been healed, but Corson had never recovered from the disgrace.
She lay her head on her arms, cursing wearily. If she could only get drunk, she thought, she could forget everything. She licked her lips. “I don’t even have any water. I should have kept to the stream. It’s that witch’s fault-I hope they find her and butcher her!”
Corson frowned. She couldn’t decide what to make of the Lady Nyctasia. The woman had admitted to practicing magic, but she’d fled from Rhostshyl nevertheless, and Corson had seen her defenseless before swords. Clearly she had no power to strike down her enemies at will, but could she cast spells to waste them with a sickness? And was she even now working magic against Corson herself?
“Spells!” she spat. “I’ll go back and settle this affair with her one way or another!” She’d agreed to escort Lady Nyctasia to Chiastelm and it might after all be the wiser course to keep her in sight. And then perhaps she could still collect the rest of her fee…
Yet Corson remained where she was, uncertain, as the dusk gradually deepened around her. She still had made no move to rise when she suddenly heard the sound of approaching horses. In a moment she had leapt to her feet and hidden herself in the shadows.
“If they’re robbers they’re too late,” she thought, gripping her sword hilt,
“and if they’re not, maybe I can rob them and get myself a horse.” She waited, sword in hand, till a rider came into view, but then she only stood where she was, open-mouthed and staring.
Nyctasia was riding her own horse and leading Corson’s. “I told you we’d get to Chiastelm somehow,” she said.
8
“how did you get those horses back?!”
Nyctasia grinned. “I destroyed the entire band of thieves with my murderous magic arts, of course. Have you forgotten that I’m an all-powerful enchantress?”
Corson sheathed her sword, not trusting to her own temper. “Answer me!”
“Take care you don’t arouse my wrath, woman. You know I might change you into a mushroom and eat you.”
Corson started towards her. If she had to beat an answer out of this lying witch, she was quite prepared to do it. “You cursed, japing-”
Nyctasia backed her horse away a few paces into the brush. “Very well, I’ll explain about the horses,” she laughed, “but you won’t like it.”
“I know,” said Corson, grabbing for Nyctasia’s bridle. The horse shied back suddenly, kicking out, and Corson pitched forward into the brambles. They tore at her neck as she tried to rise, and thorns caught fast in her hair.
“Corson? Are you hurt?” Nyctasia dismounted and pushed her way through the thicket.
Corson glared at her and tried to pull free from the entangling branches, cursing as the briars raked her fingers, Nyctasia could see that she would have to be handled carefully. She was in no temper to be reasoned with-but reason was not the only form of persuasion.
She smiled to herself. “You’re making it worse. Here, let me help.” She knelt beside Corson and began to unsnarl her hair. There was a great deal more of it than she’d expected. “The braid’s come down. I think I’ll have to cut it off,” she teased.
Corson struck at her halfheartedly. “If you dare…!”
“Hold still.” Nyctasia carefully undid the thick braid, freeing loose strands of hair from around the thorns. “There, now.”
“Are you finished?”
“Not quite.” She combed her fingers through the heavy waves of waist-length hair. “I wish I had a brush.”
“I’ll do it,” said Corson. She pulled her hair over one shoulder to braid it.
Nyctasia touched a finger lightly to the back of her neck. “You’re bleeding.”
“I suppose you’re a vampire as well as a witch.”
Nyctasia leaned over and nibbled at Corson’s throat. “Mmm-hmm.”
“What are you doing?!”
“I’m casting a spell on you. Don’t be afraid.” She laughed softly and brushed her lips along Corson’s jaw.
Corson was stunned. Lady Nyctasia was a client, an aristocrat, an arrogant, lying, sorcerous-
Nyctasia kissed her again, on the mouth, and st
arted unlacing her tunic.
“But you… you…” stammered Corson, “I…”
“What’s wrong?” Nyctasia breathed, close to her ear.
Corson couldn’t remember. She would worry about it later, she decided.
Abandoning her misgivings, she let Nyctasia push her to the ground.
Nyctasia straddled her, laughing. She spread open the tunic and slowly slid it down over Corson’s shoulders, then stretched her body over Corson’s and gently kissed her eyelids and the corners of her mouth.
Corson raised her shoulders and tried to shrug out of the sleeves. “I can’t move.”
“Good,” said Nyctasia, sliding her small scholar’s hands up beneath the loose chain-mail.
“Oh,” Corson said faintly, and fell back onto the grass. Nyctasia lay over her and buried her face in the deep mass of hair at the base of Corson’s neck. She nuzzled her car. “Now aren’t you glad you didn’t kill me?” she whispered.
Corson was ordinarily a light sleeper, but it was well into the next morning before she woke, and then she lay for some time with one arm flung over her eyes, trying to think of something to say to Lady Nyctasia. She could hear her moving about the clearing, building up the fire.
Then Nyctasia stood over her. “Ho, bodyguard, wake up! You’re supposed to be protecting me from the dangers of the forest, aren’t you? Wild beasts. Enemies.
And robbers,” she added maliciously.
Corson sat up quickly and glowered at her. “What chance did I have against twenty people?”
“None at all, but you’re almost foolhardy enough to try it. You certainly had me worried.” She shook her head and wandered back to the fire to check on the spitted bird she’d shot that morning.
Corson shook the twigs and leaves from her hair then hastily braided it and bound it up before joining her companion. She was ravenous. “All right,” she said, “how did you get the horses back?”
Nyctasia looked up from turning the makeshift spit, “I once told you that I bred those horses myself. Well, I didn’t breed them just for swiftness. If they’re taken they’ll return to me-you can see how they’ve chewed through their ropes.