by J F Rivkin
“I have other plans for you, but you will not shield my brother’s killer from me, Nyctasia. You dare speak of the honor of an Edonaris, who have done everything in your power to disgrace our house!” He gripped Nyctasia’s hair, pulling her head back. “This assassin is only part of the price you’ll pay for your life, do you understand me?”
It was useless, Nyctasia realized. Nothing but Corson’s blood would satisfy him.
“No,” she said simply. “I do not understand you. I never have.”
“What does that mean?” he demanded, coming around to face her, furious. “You’re in no position to-”
“It means that you can kill me any way you choose, Thierran, except one. I can still prevent you from boring me to death.”
The way was still open to her, and she followed it easily now, meeting no resistance. She did not even have to close her eyes this time-past the Second Consolation, it made no difference.
Peace was within her reach at last, and life and death were reconciled. To cease to be part was to become one with the whole, to be not merely a life, but Life itself.
Nyctasia was content.
16
“i’m going to get myself killed,” Corson thought. “He probably has a dozen guards in there.” From where she crouched behind a broken-down section of wall, Corson could see a light from one of the windows on the topmost story. The house was supposed to be deserted.
Corson knew she’d guessed right, and she hated herself for it. The last thing she wanted to do was to risk her life looking for Lady Nyctasia, but the Smugglers’ House was the obvious place for Lord Thierran to bring her. It was Edonaris property, and it stood empty on an isolated stretch of cliffs.
She watched as two guards made a leisurely circuit of the house. “This is madness,” she thought. “If I’m caught here that bastard will feed me to the seagulls. And Lady Nyctasia is probably dead already, there’s nothing I can do.
I’d better get away from here while I still can.”
As the two sentries came around the corner into view again, Corson stood. “Ho, you there!” she shouted. “What are you doing here?” She scrambled over the wall and stepped out of the shadows. “I’m caretaker here and you’d best explain your presence before I summon the watch!”
The guards came up to her, swords drawn. “You’ll have to speak with Lord Thierran,” one of them said. “The house was opened at his orders.”
Corson stepped back. “I’ve had no word of this. You’re a couple of thieves and smugglers!” She continued to back away, drawing them further from the house.
“Don’t be a fool. Come back here!”
Corson let him get within arm’s reach, then swiftly brought up her sword. The sentry clutched at his stomach and crumpled to the ground. As the other ran to give the alarm, she bent and pulled the knife from its sheath on her boot, then sent it into the back of the fleeing figure.
Corson dragged the bodies out of sight behind the wall, then dashed for the house. The lighted window seemed to be miles above her, but she found a foothold in the uneven masonry and started to climb, cursing under her breath. She felt sick. She was sure that she would either be discovered, or fall and break her neck.
There were plenty of holds in the stonework, but heights made Corson dizzy, and she felt exposed and vulnerable, an easy target for anyone below. Sweat ran down her back and between her breasts. She knew better than to look down.
“Steifann is right,” she thought with disgust. “Only a halfwit would do this sort of thing. With my looks, I could have been a royal courtesan, I could have had a palace. Silks. Satins. Ropes of pearls.” She continued to climb.
Soon she was near enough to hear shouting from the open window. “I mean to find her, and I’ll have the truth from you-”
Corson had to move up closer before she could hear Nyctasia’s reply. “She acted on my orders, and only I am accountable.”
Corson slowly climbed up alongside the window and edged over to peer around the casement. Lord Thierran stood with his back to her, hiding Nyctasia from view, and there was no one else in sight. Corson smiled and reached for her knife. It would be an easy throw.
“Simm! Danin! Where are you two?” someone shouted. The patrol had not reported on time, and some of the other guards had been sent to find their missing cohorts. “What are you doing out there, screwing in the bushes?”
For a moment, Corson froze. Then, shaking off her panic, she swarmed up the last few feet to the roof and threw herself flat behind a chimney. Soon she heard shouting and confusion, and she knew that the bodies had been discovered. Her one chance had been to get in unobserved, and now a whole company of guards was alerted to her presence.
When the noise had died away, Corson inched forward carefully to look over the edge of the roof. She could see no one in the yard, but they’d soon be searching the grounds for her, and her escape would be cut off completely. If she could reach the ground without being seen, she might be able to save herself, but it was too late to help Lady Nyctasia. By now Lord Thierran must have been warned.
There was no time for duty or pride or sentiment.
But she had barely begun her descent when she heard footsteps approaching from the front of the house. Her last hope of escape was lost, and she felt a chill tingling between her shoulder blades where the arrow would strike.
The window was only a few feet to her left, and in a moment Corson had made up her mind and clambered over the sill. If she was going to die anyway, maybe she could at least kill Lord Thierran first.
But Lady Nyctasia was alone. There was blood on her mouth, and her shirt was torn at the shoulder. She gave no sign of seeing Corson, though her eyes were open and staring.
Corson hurried past her and flattened herself against the wall by the doorway.
Lord Thierran was coming up the corridor, still shouting orders to his retainers. “I want guards at every entrance! Search the stables and the gatehouse!”
He strode across the room to the window and looked out anxiously over the grounds, watching for any movement.
Corson kicked the door shut. At the sound, Lord Thierran wheeled around and stared at her in disbelief. She was coming towards him, smiling, a dagger in her left hand.
17
nyctasia was disturbed by a faint impression that she had once, long ago, seen something that she should remember. She drifted in lazy indifference, beyond reach of thought or time. As easy to admit illusions as to dismiss them, now, for illusion and substance were the same. Calmly, incuriously, she enveloped the distant memory.
Two people crossed in front of her, going in opposite ways. Then they turned to face one another, and came together. One held out a hand, and the other bowed.
This dance did not interest Nyctasia. Memory was for the living. She withdrew, but the images continued to haunt her. Patiently, passively, she followed the vision again.
A woman passed before her and turned, then a man crossed to the other side, and turned. The woman went to him and reached for him. He bowed before her, fell at her feet.
Nyctasia became aware that she had witnessed a dance of death. Still she was unmoved. Life and death were one. Composed, remote, she waited.
Corson hurried past her, hid herself, drew her dagger. Thierran entered, crossing at once to the window. These shadows began to seem familiar to Nyctasia. She remembered Carson’s smile when Thierran had turned and seen her waiting for him. Paralyzed with fear, he in turn had waited for her. She pushed him against the wall, forcing back his head, then slashed his throat with one smooth sweep of her blade. Her smile was as rapt and brilliant as a lover’s.
***
Nyctasia knew a certain confusion. Had she dreamed these things while she was among the living… or had she seen them, unheeding, as she followed the ebb tide of her life? Was not dream reality, and reality dream? Surely this vision could not affect her now.
But other images took its place-Corson cutting her bonds with a bloody dagger,
rubbing her wrists, trying urgently to tell her something…
“He’s dead, look! Nyctasia, wake up!”
She herself must be Nyctasia, then. But who was Nyctasia? With the name came other memories, vague and confused. Who was dead, herself or another?
It seemed to Nyctasia that she pondered endlessly over events from the distant past, but as she moved from timelessness to the present, Corson still stood over her, trying to rouse her.
“Nyctasia, wake up, please wake up! If I have to carry you-”
Her deliberations had lasted less than a moment, then. She laughed. “Do you know,” she said to Corson, with genuine interest, “that’s the first time you’ve ever called me by name?”
18
corson had only hoped for a chance to take vengeance on Lord Thierran, and now that it was done she was almost surprised to find herself still alive. The house was still, and she realized that it might yet be possible to escape unseen, but precious time passed before she could rouse Nyctasia from her indifference.
Peering out the window, Corson saw lanterns moving below as guards searched the grounds for her. “We’ll not get out this way.”
Nyctasia looked down at Thierran’s body curiously. “Ah,” she said with satisfaction, “that really happened, then.”
“Stop dreaming! They’ll come to report to him soon-we’ve no time to waste. Do you understand?”
Nyctasia picked up her satchel and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”
Corson didn’t believe her, but this was their only chance. She listened at the door, then opened it cautiously. “Is there another stairway?”
“The servants’ stairs, through the room at the end of the hail.” Taking a torch from the wall, Nyctasia led the way, moving as calmly as a sleepwalker.
It seemed to Corson that they had been descending the narrow staircase forever.
“Where are we?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Almost down to the kitchen. But there’s-”
Corson clutched her arm. “Quiet! Listen… they’ve found him,” They raced down the remaining steps to the scullery, but Nyctasia continued down the dark stairway to the cellars.
“Come back! We’ll be trapped down there!” Corson followed, cursing softly. She was going to die like a rat in a hole because of this witless witch! Already there were footsteps on the stairs behind her.
When she reached the bottom the door to the cellars stood open, but before she could enter, Nyctasia called from somewhere behind her. A faint light showed from the crawlspace beneath the stairs.
Corson crouched and squeezed herself into the angular opening, nearly falling headlong through a gaping hole in the floor. Nyctasia had already descended to an underground chamber and stood waiting at the foot of the ladder, her white face peering up anxiously in the torchlight.
Halfway down the steps, Corson let the flagstone drop gently back into place over her. She could hear the guards on the stairs just above her head.
“They can search the cellars for hours,” Nyctasia whispered. “We’re underneath them, so walk softly. There’s a tunnel leading down to the cove.”
Corson nodded. The smugglers’ tunnel was a legend in Chiastelm, but its exact location had remained a mystery. They moved quietly away from the ladder, listening for footsteps overhead.
The chamber narrowed to a low passageway at the far end, and Corson had to stoop as she followed Nyctasia down the dark corridor. “I’ve heard stories of this place,” she said, “but I thought they were all moonshine.”
“So did I, till I bought the house. But then of course I searched for the tunnel. It wasn’t hard to find.”
“Then why haven’t folk found it?”
“I suppose they did-if there was any treasure it was looted long ago. The City Governors secured the house after the owners were hanged.”
“They say it’s haunted,” Corson remembered.
“Very likely it is,” Nyctasia agreed absently. She paused, sniffing the air, and sneezed. A fresh salt scent cut through the dank air of the tunnel. “This is the place, you can smell the sea.” She walked on for a few steps until a wide fissure appeared in the wall to their left. “We have to climb down there and jump.”
Dropping to her knees, she thrust the torch out over the edge, and Corson looked down uneasily, trying to measure the distance.
“I can’t see the ground.”
“It’s about ten feet, I think. But there are holds cut into the rock for part of the way down.” She dropped the torch over the side and threw her bookbag after it.
“I hate heights,” said Corson sadly. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Oh yes, it’s simple.” Nyctasia lay on her stomach and edged her legs out over the side, feeling for footholds. As she disappeared over the edge, Corson heard her remark, “Of course, we did it with ropes
…” Sounds of scraping and kicking were followed by a loud thud and curses.
Nyctasia held up the torch, rubbing at her hip with the other hand. “Simple!” she said brightly, grinning up at Corson.
“I could have been a royal courtesan,” grumbled Corson. “Get out of the way!”
She landed on her feet by Nyctasia. They were in a large, natural cavern. “How far are we from the docks? Our ship leaves with the early tide.”
“An hour’s walk, I’d say. This way.” They started off again, Nyctasia limping slightly. “Aren’t you staying in Chiastelm. Corson?”
“I’d planned to, but your loving cousin offered a handsome reward for both of us. Now that he’s been murdered, I’ll be suspected.”
Nyctasia considered. “It might be as well for you to stay away for a time, but I doubt that my family is much interested in you-they’ll blame me for Thierran’s death… and lay claim to my properties.” She drew a breath. “The matter has gotten out of hand, you see. It’s one thing for Mhairestri to have me killed secretly, but another to herald it abroad that the Edonaris are at each other’s throats. As for you, you’ll soon be forgotten if you stay shy of Rhostshyl and keep quiet about this affair.”
“Oh well, I have friends in Lhestreq,” Corson said resignedly. “I hope you have plenty of money, because we’ll have to pay an outrageous sum for our passage.”
“Don’t worry, you know I can conjure gold from the elements.”
Corson stopped in her tracks. “I want an answer,” she said in deliberate, measured tones, “not a riddle, not a jibe! Can you pay or can’t you?”
“You’ve no call to doubt-”
Nyctasia was silent. Corson had earned her confidence, but trust had always been a luxury she could ill afford.
Corson faced her, arms folded. “Make an effort,” she said drily. “You can answer a question if you try. Out with it!”
Nyctasia succumbed with a laugh. “Of course I can pay. Thierran would have killed me with pleasure and thrown my body off the cliff, but it would never have occurred to him to pick my pockets first.”
“Of course. A gentleman.”
“An Edonaris,” said Nyctasia.
The ground grew uneven, sloping sharply downward, and Nyctasia found it harder to keep up the pace. She abandoned the dying torch and they stumbled on in the darkness until a dim light revealed the mouth of the cave ahead. Corson cleared a way through the barrier of roots and bracken, and helped Nyctasia scramble down the steep outcropping of rock to the beach. It still lacked some two hours to dawn.
But they had not gone far before Nyctasia stopped to lean against a pile of boulders. “Can we rest here awhile?”
“Not for long. We haven’t much time.”
“It isn’t time I need,” Nyctasia said obscurely. She pulled off her boots and walked to the ocean’s edge, then knelt, motionless, head bowed, her hands in the water.
It was easier, much easier, than Nyctasia had expected, perhaps simply because she was exhausted. She had often undertaken fasts and vigils to achieve the same end, but now, almost effortlessly, she emptie
d herself of fear, of pain, of weariness. She allowed sensation and sentiment alike to flow out from her with the waves that caressed her and drew away again. She rested and was renewed.
Corson sat on a rock and watched her, worried. It was growing lighter. But Nyctasia knelt on the shore for only a moment, then rose and returned to her, ready to go on.
She was transfigured. Her grey eyes were silver in the sea’s reflected light.
She blazed with a vivid elation she could barely contain. Pointing out across the waves, she cried, “There is power! Why, the reason I bought the Smugglers’
House in the first place-”
“I don’t care! Just put these on and be quiet!” She shoved Nyctasia’s boots at her. “We have to go faster.”
To her relief, Nyctasia obeyed and fell into step beside her. But now she kept pace with Corson’s long stride with seeming ease.
“I suppose that was more of your spell-healing?”
“No, that takes time, as I told you. This is a borrowed power. It’s easy, you see, but therefore fleeting… Lightly won is lightly lost,” she sang:
“Lightly won is lightly lost
Early flower, early frost.
Wont to wanton, wont to weep,
What is lent is not to keep,
What is lent is not to keep!”
She laughed to herself. “I’ve never tried it before. It’s called a spell of Perilous Threshold. It’s really most interesting.”
“I hate magicians,” said Corson with feeling. “The only thing that keeps you on your feet is that you’re just too crazy to know you can’t go on.”
“There’s something in that,” Nyctasia agreed.
But by the time they reached the clusters of fishermen’s huts scattered along the shore outside of town, Nyctasia had begun to falter again. “No more of your witchery,” Corson warned. “You’ll draw attention to us.” They had already attracted curious glances from the fisherfolk readying their nets in the half-light of early dawn.