by J F Rivkin
Her leggings were made of a soft, dark suede.
She stretched like a cat and turned before the mirror, trying to see herself from all sides. “Do I look all right?” she asked anxiously.
Nyctasia broke into astonished laughter.
Corson’s face fell. “What’s the matter?”
“Do you look all right? Are you blind? You look like sunrise over the rippling wheat! You look like a pillar of golden flame! You look like a fountain of topaz and amber! Corson-yes, you look all right.”
27
nyctasia traveled alone to Mehomne. On the morning of her departure, Corson did not even get out of bed. “You can get yourself eaten by werewolves if you like,” she said. “Only a fool would cross the Yth without need.”
“Your concern for me is most touching,” Nyctasia said cheerfully, pulling on her traveling clothes. “I’ll be grieved to part with you, but I suppose I must bear it somehow.” In truth, she was rather relieved at Corson’s decision. Where Nyctasia was bound, Corson’s company might well be more of a hazard than a help.
The dangers of the Yth could not be met with a sword. “According to the most respected authorities, werewolves do not eat human beings,” she remarked.
“They’re said to regard it as a sort of cannibalism.”
“If the werewolves don’t kill you something else will.”
“I never said they don’t kill people, I said they don’t eat them.”
Corson raised herself on one elbow. “Nyc, do you know what you’re doing?”
Nyctasia perched on the edge of the bed and tugged on her boots. After a moment’s thought, she said, “Yth means magic, did you know that? ‘Yth Wood’ wasn’t really a name at first-it simply meant, ‘the enchanted forest.’”
“Interesting,” said Corson, “but not an answer to my question.”
“Patience, if you please. I can explain. Do you remember when I told you that magic is a difficult art, that it takes time and study to effect the simplest spell…?”
“You were lying?” asked Corson without the slightest surprise.
“Well, not altogether. The power of the vahn is only won through toil and discipline, as I said, and it is limited by one’s own strength. My power is slight because my spirit is weak and undisciplined.
“But, yth is that power drawn from outside oneself-from sources so much greater than the paltry human spirit!” She began to pace about the room excitedly, and Corson thought she must be telling the truth. Nyctasia was always quite at her ease when she was lying.
“You remember the sea spell I tried when we walked to the Windhover?”
“I remember that you half-killed yourself with it!”
“Yth can be dangerous and unpredictable. I tried to take power away, to make it part of myself when I was not part of it.,. You see, a spell of Perilous Threshold draws upon the power of yth swiftly-there’s no chance to prepare oneself. It must be done blindly, without knowing what the cost will be, and one can only hope that the power will be worth the price. It’s a reckless measure-I only tried it because I was desperate. Oh, I asked little enough, so the risk was not very great; but if much is demanded, the sacrifice to Balance may be anything-even life itself.”
“And the forest?” Corson prompted her.
“The forest was called Yth because it is a source of magic-a source that can be drawn upon if one knows the way.”
“And at what price?”
“When nothing is taken away, there is nothing to pay. When nothing is lost what is the cost? What does a mill wheel take from a river? Turn as it may, there is yet as much water as ever”
“Rhymes and riddles!” said Corson with contempt.
“Corson, I am trying to answer you. Don’t you see, I have nothing to fear from the Yth because the power belongs to those who belong to it. It cannot be a danger to itself.”
“You can’t mean to become part of that cursed forest!”
“No one can become one with the Yth itself and remain human… but there are places near the forest so steeped in its Influence that those who hold them have vast powers at their command.”
“So that’s where you’re going. Not to Hlasven.”
“I don’t know exactly where I’m going, yet, but Hlasven is the nearest place with a name. The land belongs to ’Ben now-or he to it. When I’ve joined him that power will be mine as well, and we shall both be stronger.”
“But only as long as you stay there?”
“If we left, we would lose the land to others, as the mage Vhar Kastenid lost it to ’Ben. There are those now who would wrest it from him if they could-Kastenid himself has tried to reclaim it more than once.” She shrugged. “If you would have a water wheel, you must dwell at a river, but a miller doesn’t think that a sacrifice.”
Corson was dismayed at the idea of being bound to one place for any reason.
“It’s madness! You’ll be the prisoner of your own power!”
Nyctasia smiled. “I shall be free, for the first time in my life.” She bent over Corson and kissed her. “And if you’re ever bored, you’ll know where to look for me.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Corson, turning away and pulling the bedclothes over her head. She heard Nyctasia laugh and heft her satchel onto her shoulder, then close the door and start down the stairs.
Corson tried to sleep, She told herself that she was well rid of Nyctasia, that there was no reason to follow the witch any further. Not even to herself would she admit that she felt too weak to make the journey.
It was no great distance to Mehomne, and Nyctasia made the journey in two days.
She rode at a leisurely pace and spent the night at a farmhouse along the way.
There was no need to hurry, no need to look behind her. She felt that she was no longer running away, but traveling toward her destination.
It was midday when she reached the city and made her way to The Crossroads Inn.
According to ’Ben’s directions, this was the usual place to join a party of travelers bound for Yth Forest.
But the news at The Crossroads was disappointing. It might be a fortnight yet before their departure, since they were still too few in the company. Nyctasia only made the ninth, and no one would venture into the Yth with fewer than twenty together.
Nyctasia resigned herself to the wait, but found that her companions at the inn were either unfriendly or too friendly to suit her. She would have been graciously received by any of the local nobility, as a courtesy due to one of her rank, but she was unwilling to make herself known, even this far from Rhostshyl. The habit of secrecy was too strong for her and made her prefer the obscurity of the inn, though she had to share a room with a dealer in silks and spices, who talked too much, and snored. She found herself missing Corson.
Corson snored too, but she was never boring.
Nyctasia had no preparations to make in Mehomne, so she spent her time exploring the city, an amusement which soon wore thin. Mehomne was only a stopping place for travelers on their way inland, mainly tradesfolk carrying goods from up and down the coast. When Nyctasia visited the marketplace, she was pestered by a swarm of beggar-children who knew her for an aristocrat as surely as if she were attended by a large retinue. They could seldom be deceived on such a point, which was one reason that Nyctasia had often employed their like as spies.
Scattering a handful of coins among them, she escaped into the crowd. Though Nyctasia had long dreamt of traveling far from Rhostshyl, it seemed to her now that all cities were much the same.
“There you are at last, Lady!” said a voice just behind her. “I’ve been waiting for you. Don’t you know the danger-”
Nyctasia turned quickly, her hand on her sword hilt, and found herself facing a thin man wearing three hats, one on top of another, and carrying a long pole hung with a score of others. “… the danger of walking bareheaded in the sun?” he continued. “Now, ever since I made this hat I’ve been waiting for you to come along and buy it. Anyone could see that it was
made for you alone.” He deftly unhooked a broad-brimmed, grey hat from the pole and handed it to Nyctasia with a bow, somehow contriving not to lose any of the hats he was wearing.
She stroked the black plume pinned to the hat with a silver clasp. Nyctasia could be something of a dandy when she had the leisure. “How much?”
“Five silver crescents, mistress, since I’ve been saving it specially for you. I could have sold it a dozen times, but it would be a crime to let anyone else have it.”
“I’ll give you four because I won at dice last night,” said Nyctasia. “The hat isn’t worth so much, of course, but the performance certainly is.”
Her offer was promptly accepted-the hatter would have been glad to get three-and Nyctasia strolled off, equally pleased with the bargain.
“Perhaps some new boots,” she thought, but that could wait. Her instinctive lie about the gambling had put her in mind of another errand. She made her way to the artisans’ quarter and soon found a goldsmith’s shop. There was no mistaking the sign, with its great golden sun and stars.
As she entered the shop, the goldsmith turned from the fire holding a small crucible with slender tongs, and carefully poured the molten gold into a clay mold. A young apprentice laid aside the bellows, brushing the hot hair back from his face with one ringed hand. Both he and the smith were covered with golden jewelry and trinkets. Their bare arms were decked with golden bracelets, and bright pendants swung from their ears. There were gold beads threaded in their hair, and even the heavy work aprons were stitched with flat stars of gold foil.
The apprentice came up to Nyctasia. “How may we serve you, mistress?” he asked politely.
Nyctasia shielded her eyes, as if dazzled by his glittering splendor. “Well, I was wanting a locket, but perhaps I’ll buy you instead.”
The boy chuckled. “I daresay Desskyres would gladly sell me, but I’ll fetch some lockets for you anyway, shall I?” He set a stool at the table for Nyctasia and went into the back room of the workshop.
The smith, Desskyres, eyed Nyctasia with unconcealed interest and smiled, revealing a gold tooth, “You can have him for a copper penny and welcome, lady!
In truth, I’d pay you to take him off my hands.”
The boy reappeared with a tray, which he set before Nyctasia. “That one mistreats me something dreadful,” he told her in a loud whisper. “Starves me and beats me-it’s a wonder I can stand!”
“You look like it,” laughed Nyctasia.
Like the rest of the market folk, these two took her for a trader-as she intended-and called her ‘lady’ simply to flatter her. Had they guessed at her real title, neither would have dared to joke or flirt with her.
She was intrigued by the pair-and especially by the beautiful, dark-skinned smith. She could hardly take her eyes from those lean, muscled arms, ringed with gleaming gold.
Glancing at the tray of jewelry, she saw what she wanted at once. “This one,” she said, holding up a highly polished, heart-shaped locket. “This is perfect.”
The smith came over to inspect her choice and nodded approval. “That’s a fine piece of work. Feel how smooth it is-burnished with soft sand for hours. It’s costly, you know.”
Nyctasia only smiled. “Can you engrave a name on it?”
“Surely. Write it out, if you will.”
The apprentice fetched a slate covered with designs and words, and offered Nyctasia a piece of chalkstone. She handed the locket to Desskyres, letting her fingers brush lightly across the smith’s warm palm. Then, taking up the stone, she scratched out, “MELLIS.”
“That’s easily done,” said Desskyres. “I could have it ready tomorrow, if need be. Or the next day.”
“There’s no great hurry-just let me know when it’s finished. I’m staying at The Crossroads.”
The smith frowned. “Vahn, lady, you don’t want to go among such people.
Criminals, the lot of them!”
“Indeed?”
“Don’t you know? That’s where folk gather who want to travel through the Yth.
Who’d be so desperate as that if they weren’t pursued for some crime?”
“I would, for one,” Nyctasia said mildly.
“Are you mad?” the smith cried, then looked at her sharply, “or are you a witch?”
“Oh, a bit of both, perhaps. But what of you-are you a man or a woman? I’ve been wondering all this while.”
The apprentice snickered. “A bit of both, perhaps?” he suggested.
“Clear those things away!” ordered the smith. “And go buy some lamb’s wool. I told you yesterday we’ve need of more.”
“I’m going!” The boy winked at Nyctasia and went out.
Desskyres sat on the table, leaning toward Nyctasia. “As to your question, pretty one, if you were very curious, I could suggest an excellent way for you to find out.”
“A fair answer,” murmured Nyctasia. She too leaned forward, tracing one finger along the prominent cheekbone that reminded her of Erystalben’s. “Alas that there’s no privacy to be had at The Crossroads.”
“The Crossroads is no place for you, and neither is the Yth. You’d do better to stay here-you’re such a tiny thing you’d not take up much space.” The smith’s lips brushed her ear, whispering, “I’d make you forget that nonsense about the forest.”
Nyctasia shivered. A fortnight in Mehomne no longer seemed such a tedious prospect.
As she left the smithy, Nyctasia met the apprentice returning. He bowed. “What, leaving so soon, mistress? Were you not pleased with our wares?”
“I mean to return later,” said Nyctasia, “when I can study them at my leisure.”
“You’ll not be disappointed. ’Kyres was smitten with you, plain to see! I fear I’ll have to sleep on the hearth tonight.”
“Not you, lad. I’ll wager you have a dozen other lovers who’d be glad to take you in.”
“Oh, well, if you’ve heard my reputation-!” he replied, with a modest shrug.
“You mustn’t believe all that folk say.”
“I believe very little of what I hear,” Nyctasia said drily. Reputation indeed, the puppy! All the same, he was nowhere to be seen when she returned that night to the smithy.
The room over the workshop was surprisingly comfortable. The furnishings were dark, carved oak of fine workmanship, and intricately wrought lamps stood on brackets in the corners. One wall was draped with a tapestry of a great tree with bright leaves of all colors.
As Nyctasia admired it, Desskyres came up behind her and clasped her around the waist. “What are you thinking of, little one?”
She leaned back and drew the smith’s gold-ringed arms around her. “I was thinking,” she lied, “that although I never wear gold, tonight I shall make an exception.”
“Never wear gold-what blasphemy under my roof! Then you yourself are not Mellis?”
“By no means. I’m Nyc.”
“And who’s this Mellis, then?” Desskyres demanded, pretending jealousy.
“Why, no one at all, just a child,” said Nyctasia, beginning to unfasten her shirt.
“That’s what you like, eh?”
“You’re what I like. Whatever you are.”
“What would you prefer me to be?” whispered Desskyres, slipping the shirt from Nyctasia’s shoulders. “I like to please.”
“Hlann! I don’t care!” exclaimed Nyctasia. She tilted her head back and kissed the smith under the chin. Strong hands pressed her breasts and gently caught the swelling nipples between thumb and forefinger. Nyctasia drew a sharp breath.
Desskyres kissed her temple.
Nyctasia started to turn, but felt a painful tug at her neck. One long, gold earring had caught in the soft hair at her nape. Desskyres carefully pulled it free. “There now.”
“Those are dangerous, smith. Traps for the unwary!”
“Of course they are-anyone who wears my jewelry is irresistible.” Desskyres laughed and set the gold pendants swinging, burning as they caught t
he candlelight.
For a moment, the sight struck Nyctasia as strangely familiar… then she remembered-Corson, at the inn in Lhestreq, shaking her head in the same way, the candlelight gleaming on the gold Edonaris earrings. But Corson had not laughed.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she’d said. “One moment I feel fine, then I’m dizzy…”
Nyctasia’s heart froze in horror. She knew those signs. The headaches, the sudden fever… but only now did she realize when they’d begun.
Desskyres touched her cheek. “Nyc, what’s the matter?”
“No, nothing. I-” Nyctasia began to pull on her shirt.
“Where are yon going?! You are mad!”
“Vahn! I hope so,” cried Nyctasia. She flung her arms around the smith for a swift kiss. “I’ve no time to explain-I’ll send a message. I’m so sorry!”
Within a moment she was down the stairs and out of the smithy. Before nightfall the next day she was at the gates of Lhestreq.
28
“what would you have me say?” asked the host of The Crown and Peacock. “I know nothing more about it. As I told you, she went on her way days ago.” He looked as if he wished that Nyctasia would do the same.
It was not easy to get a lie past a practiced liar like Nyctasia. “I see,” she said coldly. “The truth of it is, you threw her out because she was sick.” But she could get nothing more from the landlord, and she was at a loss as to where to look next.
As she paced back and forth in front of the shops on High Street, the serving-girl from the inn darted up to her and curtsied hurriedly. “M’lady, you might find her on Cobble Row-there’s places there anyone can stay.”
“How sick was she?” Nyctasia asked, anxious.
“Well, she could ride, m’lady, but she looked very poorly. The master was afraid to let her stay lest it spread to others.”
Nyctasia paid the girl for her information and let her go. She knew now that she must find Corson at all costs. If what she suspected was true, there might not be much time left.
After hours of fruitless inquiry among the denizens of Cobble Row, and a good deal of money wasted on false clues, Nyctasia was discouraged, tired, and no nearer to finding Corson. Only at a seamy tavern called The Wanton Mermaid had anyone even admitted to having seen Corson, but they could not (or would not) tell her anything helpful.