Silverglass s-1

by J F Rivkin

  Corson paged through chapter after incomprehensible chapter of Influences, Reflections, and Balances until she came at last to something that looked like poetry. Here, a note in Nyctasia’s handwriting read, “Debased Version of the Fourth Reflection:”

  See in this enchanted mirror

  All things from afar draw nearer

  Till yond is nigh, and all is here

  For nothing is lost, as shall appear.

  Pierce if you please the shining’s seeming Wake if you will the sleeper’s dreaming

  Learn of lover, reck of foe,

  Find thy friend, thy rival know.

  Lift, if you like, the veil of distance

  Dare to deny its false Resistance

  Set at naught a thousand paces

  Recall thy steps, erase thy traces.

  Corson read the verse again, then the brief precepts that followed. The spell made no sense, but it seemed simple enough to do-all that was needed was a mirror. “Learn of lover?” she repeated. It would be underhanded of her to spy on Steifann, of course, but no one would be the wiser, and no harm done.

  Nyctasia had warned her to leave the books alone, and she herself distrusted magic, but the temptation was a powerful one for someone as jealous as Corson.

  She looked around guiltily, undecided, then quietly shut the door of the cabin.

  Fetching the mirror from her pack, she unwrapped it slowly, half hoping that Nyctasia would return and catch her out.

  The cabin seemed to grow closer and smaller than ever as she knelt beside the book, clutching the mirror in one clammy hand. Her own voice sounded strange to her while she recited the words of the spell, and the mirror felt suddenly heavier. She glanced down at it, then remembered that she was not to look at it yet, and turned away. Had she seen something move in the glass just then? Corson resolutely shut her eyes, whispering Steifann’s name, then waited for the space of twelve heartbeats. It was time-but Corson still hesitated, seized with nameless forebodings. Then, steeling herself, she opened her eyes wide and stared into the mirror.

  22

  nyctasia’s curiosity about the Windhover only served to put the crew on their guard against her. It generally boded no good for them when someone took such an interest in their doings, and Destiver was doubly suspicious of her passengers after her encounter with Corson. When she found Nyctasia seated by the open hatchway making notations in her commonplace book, she was certain that the game was up.

  “Give me that!” She snatched the book away, ignoring Nyctasia’s protests. “What are you writing?”

  Nyctasia pointed. “A description of those ropes securing the mast, all supporting each other. I find the balance of forces most interesting.” She held out her hand for the book, but Destiver paid no heed. “See here,” Nyctasia said coldly, “it merely says that two ropes attach to each side, and one each to the front and back.”

  Destiver could not read and she would probably have doubted the truth of this, had the drawings not confirmed Nyctasia’s words. “Front and back!” she snorted,

  “The stays run fore and aft, and the shrouds run athwartships.” She threw the book down beside Nyctasia, who seized it and immediately began writing again.

  “Wait a bit!” she called after Destiver. “Which did you say were the shrouds?”

  Destiver lost all patience. “Get out of my sight,” she yelled. “Get below and stay out from underfoot or I’ll have you keelhauled!”

  Nyctasia was wise enough to obey, despite her vexation.

  How dare a common sailor address an Edonaris in that manner! In Rhostshyl she’d have been pilloried and flogged for such insolence. “Peace, peace!” Nyctasia counseled herself. There were sure to be many more such indignities before her journey’s end.

  But these thoughts were driven from her mind at once when she pushed open the cabin door and saw Corson kneeling over the book of spells, staring into the silver mirror. “Corson!” she gasped. “What have you done?”

  “Not a rutting thing!” shouted Corson. “I did just as it says, and here I am looking at my own face! I could do that without this crazy nonsense of yours.”

  Nyctasia picked up the book and looked at the spell with horror. “Vahn help us!” she whispered, sinking onto the bunk. “Corson, you fool-! Be thankful you didn’t understand it. That’s all that saved you.”

  “Saved me? From what?”

  “From getting what you wanted! You might succeed in working that spell if you could read its meaning, but there’d still be the price to pay. All power has its price.”

  Corson had not considered this. “Like the spell you did on the way to the docks?”

  “In a way. It’s always dangerous to draw upon a power you don’t possess. But if I use a spell of Reflection, I know what will be demanded of me in return, to restore Balance. When it’s done blindly, without the proper preparation, it’s like a weapon in the hands of a child. More is lost than gained.”

  “But I did as the book said. I followed it to the letter.”

  “I don’t mean that absurd ritual,” Nyctasia said impatiently. “All that’s mere superstition to deceive the ignorant. Even the words of the spell are only the outward sign of the Principles of Power-power that could destroy you! To learn to wield that power takes years of discipline and study. That’s the preparation I speak of. If that is lacking in you, the magic will exact its own sacrifice.”

  Corson was trying to find a way through the maze of Nyctasia’s explanation.

  “Well, what would be taken from me?”

  “There’s no saying-I can only tell you what’s happened to others.” She opened the book of spells, turned over a few leaves, and began to read. “It is said that those who’ve seen their loved ones in the glass have never seen them again in life.”

  Corson paled.

  “There is a tale,” Nyctasia continued, “of a poor student who desired to learn whether he would marry the one he loved. Commanding a Reflection of the future, he saw the maiden lying upon her bier, at which sight he was so stricken with grief that he straightway took his own life. When tidings of this reached his lady, she did in truth perish of sorrow, and thus did the vision of the student come to pass.

  “Others have been shown more than they could bear to see, and have lost their reason in consequence. There have been those who tore out their own eyes to escape from the sight-”

  Corson had heard enough. “Very well, suppose you did it, what then?”

  Nyctasia shook her head. “It would be safer for me than for most, but one doesn’t undertake any spell lightly. The Discipline lessens the danger but cannot abolish it. Only the veriest simpleton would squander such hard-won mastery without good cause.”

  Corson knew that Nyctasia wouldn’t find her jealousy sufficient reason for using the spell. “Oh, no matter,” she said, disappointed. “I don’t care about it, I was only looking for some amusement.”

  “For vahn’s sake, Corson, you can’t toy with such things! Promise you’ll not try this again, please!”

  “All right, all right, I promise. But the boredom’s more deadly than those wretched spells anyway.” She kicked fretfully at the side of the bunk. “What do you find to do all day on this rat-ridden scow?”

  “Well, I was trying to learn something about the ship, but the captain ordered me to stop asking questions and stay below. What a surly-tempered creature she is.”

  Corson laughed. “You call me a fool, but at least I’ve the sense not to ask too many questions of a shipful of smugglers.”

  “Smugglers!” Nyctasia was shocked. Smugglers were the bane of the Maritime cities. As Rhaicime of Rhostshyl it was her duty to see the lot of them arrested, and instead she found herself in league with them.

  “Use your sense. Who else would smuggle us out of Chiastelm?”

  “Small wonder they don’t like questions, then,” Nyctasia admitted. “Corson, what does it mean to keelhaul someone?”

  Carson succinctly described the brutal pu
nishment. “It’s murder, really. No one survives it.” She grinned at Nyctasia’s discomfiture. “But Destiver’s all talk and swagger-she’s not about to keelhaul anyone. She’d simply cut our throats and throw us overboard. Just keep out of her way. I’ve not saved your worthless life twice over just so that you could be food for the fish.”

  “As to that,” said Nyctasia, “why did you save my worthless life a second time?

  You owed me no further service once we’d reached Chiastelm.”

  Corson was taken aback. “Why? Well, because… you’d not paid the rest of my fee. And you still haven’t,” she added.

  “And I thought,” said Nyctasia in wounded tones, “that it was for loyalty and friendship’s sake. You like me-admit it!”

  Corson flushed. “Like you!” she blustered. “Plague take you! You silly, conceited, devious, high-born witch!”

  Nyctasia sat back, helpless with laughter. She was the most irritating person Corson had ever met. You couldn’t argue with her, she was too glib. And you couldn’t fight with her, she was too small. To get the better of her somehow was a constant challenge to Corson.

  “But you’re right,” Nyctasia said when she’d caught her breath, “I do owe you the rest of your fee.” She picked up her cloak from the floor and shook it out,

  “And an Edonaris always pays her debts.” She suddenly ripped one of the patches from the cloak and removed the gemstone concealed beneath it. “Will this suffice?” she asked, tossing the large, brilliant diamond to Corson.

  Abashed, Corson stared at the priceless jewel, “Won’t you need this? You’re a fugitive-how will you pay your way?”

  “I only have to go as far as Hlasven. I’ll not want for anything with ’Ben.”

  “Ben?” It was a commoner’s name. “I thought he’d have forty names and a score of titles, like you.”

  “Not quite like me, but you’re near the mark. He’s the Lord Erystalben Cador Jhaice brenn Rhostshyl ar’n Shiastred. Unless you care to hear the ancillary distinctions as well?”

  “Spare me,” said Corson. “But what makes you so free with your answers this morning? It’s not like you to give names and destinations.”

  “I’d have to tell you sooner or later, since I assume you’re coming with me.”

  “Why? You won’t need a bodyguard once we’ve landed in Lhestreq.”

  Nyctasia shrugged. “You’ve no other plans at present, and I could profit from a few lessons in sword fighting. Besides, I enjoy your company.”

  Corson didn’t know whether to be flattered or indignant. Nyctasia was probably laughing at her. “I may as well go that way as another,” she said finally, pocketing the splendid diamond. “I suppose I owe you that much if I take this in fee.”

  “Nonsense-you’ve more than earned it. And there’s something more due to you as well.” She took the golden earrings from her pouch and pressed them into Corson’s hand. “Do try not to lose this pair.”

  Corson was no longer surprised by anything Nyctasia did. She accepted the gift coolly and put them on.

  “I was right,” said Nyctasia, “they do bring out the gold in your hair. Now we’re quits.”

  “Not quite. There’s still something I owe you.”

  “What’s that?”

  For answer, she suddenly caught Nyctasia up in her arms and laid her down on the berth.

  “Corson-”

  Corson knelt beside the berth, bending over her. “Don’t be afraid,” she teased.

  “I’m casting a spell on you.”

  Nyctasia put her arms around Corson’s neck and started unpinning the long braid.

  “Don’t you know, a witch whose passions are aroused may turn into a ravening demon?”

  “Oh, hold your tongue for once!” Corson exclaimed, and silenced her with a long, fierce kiss.

  It was past noon when Nyctasia emerged from below deck, and the midday meal was almost over. She looked suspiciously at a thick grey soup, consisting mainly of lentils and rubbery potatoes, with an occasional shred of meat which she did not attempt to identify. She had found the food on board ship nearly as bad as Corson had described it, but she was too hungry to be particular. Hard bread and dried apples, with a cup of dark ale, completed the meal. Nyctasia took everything and joined Corson on the long bench.

  “Now we’re quits,” Corson remarked smugly.

  Nyctasia glanced at her, suppressing a smile. “You’re a dangerous woman,” she said, biting off a piece of stale bread.

  Corson grinned into her soup. “Especially when I’m bored.” She wolfed down the rest of her food. “By the way, what does isnathon scrathling mean?”

  “Corson!” Nyctasia choked on her bread.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Corson innocently. “You kept saying it to me this morning.”

  “I called you that?”

  “And a lot of other things I’ve never heard before. What does it mean?”

  Nyctasia shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s quite impossible to translate-”

  “Try.”

  “Really, I…” Nyctasia protested, giggling. Corson couldn’t get another word out of her for the rest of the meal.

  23

  that night nyctasia could not fall asleep. The cabin seemed more dank and close than ever, and she understood why most of the crew slept on deck in mild weather. “Why should I suffocate in here?” she asked herself. “Even a lady has to breathe.” She went above and moved about silently, stepping over sleeping sailors, until she found Corson sprawled by the windlass.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Corson sleepily. “What did it mean, what you called me?”

  Nyctasia lay down beside her. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Rutting bitch,” said Corson. She threw one arm over Nyctasia and promptly fell asleep again.

  But Nyctasia was still wakeful. She lay for a long time looking up at the stars and listening to the mysterious creaking and sloshing sounds of the ship. The strong smell of resin and brine was almost as soothing to her as the scent of Maegor’s spices, but sleep did not come, and finally she detached herself from Corson and rose. Corson mumbled an incoherent protest and turned away, sighing in her sleep.

  Nyctasia wandered restlessly up to the bow and climbed into the forecastle to look out across the sea, A horizon unbounded by city walls was a novelty she never tired of contemplating.

  Someone was there before her, leaning on the rail, watching the water. Nyctasia wondered what the night watch on board ship kept guard against. “A fine night,” she said politely. “May I join you?”

  He turned toward her and bowed. “I should be honored, Rhaicime.”

  Nyctasia was startled to be addressed by her title of rank-the crew knew who she was, then. But she had paid well for their silence, and Corson claimed they could be trusted.

  She stood her ground but remained wary. “You have the advantage of me, sailor,” she said evenly.

  “Oh, I am but a passenger like yourself, my lady. We have met once before in Rhostshyl, though you’ve no doubt forgotten.”

  She could not see his features clearly in the darkness, but it was this very obscurity which seemed somehow familiar. And his voice… of course, this was Erystalben’s messenger! Now completely at her ease, she joined him at the rail, leaning into the fresh breeze. “Certainly I remember. Have you another letter for me?”

  “No, but I bring you a riddle. I am told that you enjoy them.” He paused. “Which is the greater power, Lady Nyctasia, the Indwelling or the Invited?”

  Nyctasia smiled, thinking of the hours she and ’Ben had spent in arguing this question, trying to reconcile the two. “I will tell you that,” she said, “if you can tell me which is the greater-wind or water.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, “A good answer.”

  “It is the only answer.”

  “No question has only one answer. You who are Mistress of Ambiguities must know that.”

  It was one of ’Ben’s nicknames for her. Hearing it, Nycta
sia was pierced with longing for him.

  “A hand without a weapon may be weak,” she said slowly, “but a weapon without a hand is useless.”

  “Thus, vahn is the greater power.”

  The Mistress of Ambiguities shook her head. “Yet those who are unarmed will fall before swords.”

  Both were silent for some moments, and Nyctasia suddenly realized how tired she’d become.

  “Then there is no answer?” he said at last.

  “I have given you two.” Nyctasia yawned. “And I fear I’m too weary to devise a third tonight. But I expect we shall meet again.”

  “I hope so, my lady.”

  He continued to look out over the dark water. Nyctasia returned to Corson’s side and fell asleep at once.

  Over the next few days she made certain to speak to every man on board, but none of them sounded like Erystalben’s nameless messenger.

  Finally, she questioned the captain, who denied having any other passengers on board. “… and the only reason I don’t have you two thrown overboard is that we’ll reach Lhestreq in two days anyway. And you can tell that rutting friend of yours to stop looking at me like she means to cut my throat!”

  Nyctasia was bewildered. “I hadn’t noticed that she does. I’ll… er… speak to her about it.”

  “You do that,” said Destiver and stalked away.

  Corson was nowhere on deck, but Nyctasia soon found her in the cabin, sitting on the berth, her head in her hands.

  “Feeling bored?” Nyctasia suggested. She sat down and put her arm around Corson’s waist, Corson only shook her head without looking up.

  “What’s the matter with you? The captain says you want to murder her.”

  “Let me be, can’t you?”

  Nyctasia began to rub her back and shoulders. Corson shrugged stiffly. “Do that up higher,” she said grudgingly. “My head hurts.” She hated to admit to any sort of weakness.

  “Is that all? Poor thing!” Nyctasia knelt on the berth and started kneading the muscles of Corson’s neck. “We’ll be in Lhestreq in just two days,” she remarked.