Silverglass s-1

by J F Rivkin

  “You are?!”

  “Yes, I was wrong. It was far more dangerous than I expected.”

  Corson was dumbfounded. Nothing she had anticipated was as unsettling as winning an argument with Nyctasia.

  “It takes a witch to enter the Yth and return, so be thankful you have a witch with you!” Nyctasia said defiantly. “If I hadn’t gone she would have, and we’d have lost her as well.” She pointed at one of the guards. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”

  The woman nodded. “He wouldn’t speak to me,” she said softly.

  “We wouldn’t let her go to him. She wanted to,” one of the others volunteered.

  “I thought as much. Listen to me, I found him-he’s dead, you must understand that. Here, I brought you this as proof.” Nyctasia handed her a brass armlet. “I don’t think you’ll see him again.”

  “Thank you, lady,” the woman sobbed.

  “Now, if you’re all satisfied, I should like to get some rest,” Nyctasia said scornfully.

  No one answered her, but when she was out of earshot someone muttered, “We ought to kill that one, if you ask me.”

  “No one’s asked you!” Corson snapped, loud enough for the rest to hear. “If anyone’s to kill her, it’ll be me. I’ve earned the pleasure!”

  34

  Nyctasia had put on her new suit of black velvet for the first time that morning, and she looked more the lady than Corson had ever seen her.

  But Corson was haggard and worn, and she didn’t even try to conceal it. “What are you waiting for?” she asked Nyctasia impatiently.

  Nyctasia had reined in her horse at the crossroads and was letting the rest of the party pass her by, “I’m not going into Hlasven itself. The other road leads closer to my way.”

  “You go where you like. I want to spend the night at the inn. I’m tired, Nyc.”

  “I know. You’ll find a bed sooner if you come with me. We’re closer to ’Ben’s home now than to the hostel.”

  Corson turned her horse. “All right then. I’d like to see if he’s as beautiful as you say.”

  Nyctasia took the lead. The road gradually gave way to an overgrown track which branched and meandered, sometimes disappearing completely-but Nyctasia never hesitated. She rode through pathless fields and stretches of dense woods as confidently as if the way were clearly marked before her.

  “You must have been here before!” Corson accused. “You know the way too well.”

  “’Ben gave me very careful directions. I’ve studied them so often, I know them by rote.”

  “That won’t do.” Corson halted her horse. “I know you think me a fool, but even a fool knows that no one could travel so surely through land unknown to them-not even with a good map in hand. You’ve lied to me all along.” She did not sound angry, only resigned and weary.

  “Corson, no… I’m sorry… I didn’t think you’d care to hear the truth. I’ve not been here before, but I don’t have to look for the way because the way is looking for me.”

  “You’re right, I don’t want to hear this. I’d rather you were just lying. How much farther is it, can you tell?”

  “We’re close, Corson, I feel it!” She laughed excitedly. “Close to home!”

  Soon the path reappeared and widened to a broad track that led through cleared ground. Nyctasia suddenly spurred her horse to a gallop.

  Corson followed more slowly. Far ahead of her, she saw Nyctasia race to meet another rider. He lifted Nyctasia onto his own horse and, to Corson, they seemed to become one figure.

  As she approached them, he was saying, “’Tasia, how could you cut off your hair?

  You look like a street urchin.” He held the reins with one arm and Nyctasia with the other.

  “Or a vagabond student?” suggested Nyctasia. “But perhaps I’ll let it grow again, now.”

  Corson had never seen her so carefree and elated. “She’s beautiful,” Corson realized, trying unsuccessfully to picture Nyctasia with long hair.

  Watching them, Corson had to admit that for once Nyctasia had been telling the truth when she’d boasted of her handsome lover. He was all she’d claimed-lean and graceful, with a tense, whiplike frame that suggested carefully controlled power. Intense blue eyes burned against his dark skin, and thick black hair framed the sculpted planes of his face. Corson could well understand Nyctasia’s passion for him.

  “And this is Corson,” Nyctasia was saying. “I’d never have reached the coast alive without her.”

  Lord Erystalben looked at Corson for the first time. “Then she is welcome,” he said. Without waiting for a reply, he wheeled his horse about and rode ahead, leaving Corson to follow with Nyctasia’s mount. She had only to ride straight before her, for the walls of the keep could now be seen in the distance.

  Corson was not offended by his treatment of her. He and Nyctasia had been parted for so long-how should he spare a thought for anyone else? And in truth, it was a relief to be spared further courtesies when all she wanted to do was rest.

  She was met at the gates by a groom who took charge of the horses, while another servant offered to show her to her quarters. Corson gratefully followed.

  Even when she found herself assigned to cramped servants’ quarters, Corson made no objection. She fell onto the narrow bed and was asleep at once.

  Corson woke suddenly, confused, and for a sickening moment thought that she was still in the forest. Yet even as she realized where she was, the feeling persisted, like a dream she could neither quite remember nor quite forget. She would not have admitted to being frightened, but she rose at once and went in search of company.

  Everyone fell silent as she entered the kitchen.

  “Good day to all. My name’s Corson.”

  No one offered a name in return. Finally, one of the women said, “You’ll have something to eat? Some ham and dripping-bread?”

  Corson remembered that it was said to be unwise to speak one’s name in an enchanted place-or to eat or drink anything offered. She’d never put much faith in such tales, but she found that she had no appetite now. “No, I thank you. Let someone tell the Lady Nyctasia that I want to see her.”

  “She’s with His Lordship.”

  “I don’t care if she’s with all the gentry of the Maritime Alliance-she’ll see me! Take me to her!”

  But they paid no attention to her demands. The woman went back to rendering ham fat in a pan. Scullions continued their scrubbing, and cleared ashes from the hearth.

  “If you’re sent for, you’ll be told,” said a man whom Corson took for the steward.

  That Lord Erystalben should think her a lackey was understandable, but why had Nyctasia sent her no word? She glared at Shiastred’s people, whose very calmness was unnerving. “Are you folk of flesh and blood, or of sand and smoke and spells?! This place reeks of magic. I’m leaving! Tell Her Ladyship I’d better things to do than wait on her pleasure. Tell her I’ve gone, if she thinks to ask!”

  The steward rose. “You are free to go. We’ve no orders to hold you here. I’ll have your horse brought. Follow me.”

  Corson lost most of that afternoon searching for the elusive path that led back to the road, and it was late in the day before she came upon familiar landmarks.

  Knowing that she would lose her way again if she traveled by night, she resigned herself to sleeping in the open.

  As daylight faded, she made a tidy pile of dry twigs and bark for a fire, Flint and steel were in her pack, and she soon coaxed the spark into a small but comforting blaze that allayed her solitude. If she set out at first light, she could reach the crossroads by noon. Soon she would be on the great trunk road that skirted the Yth and led back towards Mehomne. She was going home-and with enough money in her pockets to set the folk at Steifann’s back on their heels.

  Corson stared into the fire, wondering, not for the first time, if the real reason she continued in her restless, wandering ways was the pleasure she took in coming home to the Hare. She always reveled in the
commotion she caused when she arrived, unlocked for, loaded with gifts and full of wild, exaggerated tales about her daring exploits. Naturally, no one believed these stories-except for the cook’s children, who could never hear enough of her adventures. They’d run about waving wooden swords, playing at warriors, until Walden threatened to use Corson for stew-meat if she didn’t stop filling their heads with her rubbish.

  But after the excitement of her homecoming had waned, Corson would soon begin to tire of the familiar pattern of life at the Hare. There was plenty of work to be done, and Corson did her share, but she could never get used to the monotony of doing the same chores day after day.

  Steifann always gave her a hearty welcome and urged her to stay, but his time was largely taken up with the responsibilities of keeping the tavern. He never seemed to tire of the endless round of marketing and cooking, overseeing both the help and the customers, and studying his account books. Despite his generosity and good humor, Steifann was known as a shrewd man of business, and the tavern turned a tidy profit under his direction.

  “You’re a slave to this place!” Corson had once complained. “You won’t even come on a fortnight’s journey with me. What good’s all this to you, if you’re just a drudge?”

  “At least I know where my next meal’s coming from, which is more than you do-except when you’re cadging from me!” Though Corson earned her way at the Hare, Steifann always joked that she ate enough for three. “I’ll probably end my days in the alms-house from feeding you.”

  Corson tugged playfully at his beard. “I do well enough on my own.”

  “So does a stray dog, but that doesn’t mean that you should live like an animal.

  And die like an animal,” he added soberly. “You’ve never had a home, Corson, but if you live long enough to learn common sense you’ll be glad of a roof over your head.”

  “And just remember,” he teased, “if you don’t choose to settle down with me, there are others who’d be glad of the chance-”

  He got no further because Corson gave a yell of outrage and shoved him out of the bed, which put an end to the argument for then.

  Though Corson’s carping about Steifann’s other bedmates was mostly in jest, she did worry that he might find someone else better suited to his way of life. When the boredom of chopping wood and peeling vegetables grew too great, she sometimes hired on with the city guard of Chiastelm just to be near him, but her days in the army had left her with little taste for routine and regimentation.

  Anything that curbed her freedom felt like a trap to Corson, even Steifann’s concern for her.

  Still, looking back over her bleak and brutal past, she could see that what Steifann offered her was better by far than any life she had yet known. In the army, she’d only been marking time until the moment when a sword or spear would make her food for the crows. When she was forced to fight, she fought with ferocity and cunning; she ate whatever was doled out to her, then stole from those weaker than herself; and, hardest of all, she learned to obey her superiors’ orders well enough to avoid being beaten into the dirt.

  When her term in the army was over, Corson had set out on her own, determined to live as she liked and let nothing hinder her. She went wherever a skilled sword was needed, traveling from place to place, squandering her pay on gambling and ale. Her newfound freedom often brought her nights in prison, where she lay sick with drink until the magistrates saw fit to release her-taking whatever money she might have left. It was only through good fortune that Corson had so far escaped the early death that was the common fate of her kind.

  Her first piece of luck was Desmalkin, a young student, who was thrown into her cell one night for trying to cheat an innkeeper. They’d taken up with each other for a few months, and his company had been a civilizing influence on Corson. She was in awe of his sophistication and learning, and he was gratified by her obvious admiration. She had insisted that he teach her to read, more to gain his respect than from a desire to better herself. But ’Malkin was pleased with her progress, and even Corson began to suspect that there might be more to life than mere survival.

  ’Malkin had his own ambitions, however, and when he entered the service of a provincial nobleman as a scribe, he found that it no longer suited his position to be seen with a common ruffian like Corson. She was hurt and bitter, and before long had fallen back into her old habits.

  Corson’s second piece of luck had been Steifann. Unlike the polished ’Malkin, he genuinely cared for Corson, but he couldn’t afford to harbor troublemakers at the Hare and he would make no exceptions for her. Time and again, Corson would ride off, swearing never to return. She would be again as she had been, free, with no thought for anyone but herself.

  But wherever she went she found herself thinking, “What would Steifann say to this?” and “Wait till Steifann hears about that!”-and in time she’d find a reason to return to Chiastelm. Steifann’s hold on her was frightening, but Corson wasn’t sure she wanted to break free. Often, while he slept, she would study his face as though its features held the answer to a question she had not yet learned to ask. Had all her traveling been in search of that answer-and had she now found it only to lose it again through her own blindness? Was her vaunted freedom really no more than aimlessness and license?

  Corson picked up a twig and began to strip off bits of bark. “After all, what freedom do I really have? Always following someone else’s orders-‘Very good, my lord… Yes, my lady…’ bowing and scraping and maybe dying for some nasty little aristocrat who can’t even be bothered to bid me farewell-!” She snapped the twig in two and tossed it into the fire. “Steifann’s worth the lot of them!”

  The vision conjured up by the mirror spell continued to haunt her. She should be in Chiastelm with Steifann, not traipsing about like a tinker! Why couldn’t she make up her mind to stay with him, then?

  If her life had been crueler before she met Steifann, at least it had been simpler, Corson thought ruefully. In those days she had been all of a piece-she had acted without hesitation and suffered no afterthoughts. But now there seemed to be two Corsons, each clamoring for something different. One wanted the affection and security that Steifann could give her, while the other still feared confinement more than loneliness, still drew her strength from a black pool of hatred and anger. Would that demon never let her rest?

  Corson yawned and moved closer to the fire. The night was turning cooler and a light breeze had come up. “What’s the good of maundering on like this?” she chided herself. “I’m just tired and hungry, that’s what ails me.” She made a poor meal on the remains of the provisions in her saddlebag, and wished that she’d accepted the offer of food from Shiastred’s cook. Now that she was well away from the place her qualms seemed like foolishness, and the sense of shadowy menace had left her. Sighing, Corson stood and began to scuff out the fire, then lay down and shifted about, trying to find a softer spot of ground. “Asye, but I must be getting old. Time was when I’d sleep in the mud for weeks and not give it a thought.”

  Overhead, the stars burned clear as candles in the cloudless night sky. “A fair day tomorrow and good traveling.” Corson pulled the saddle blanket over her shoulders and slept soundly until dawn, undisturbed by sinister dreams.

  35

  A day’s easy ride brought her to the roadside hostel. A meal and some strong ale was what she needed now.

  A few of her fellow travelers from the merchant troupe were sitting together at supper, but when Corson greeted them she was met with a hostile silence.

  Bewildered, she turned to one of the guards who’d stood watch with her. “What’s the matter here?”

  He gestured toward a corner table where someone sat slumped over a tankard of ale. “Everyone knows you’re her friend. I’d get her out of here if I were you,” he said, and turned his back on Corson.

  “Oh no,” said Corson. “It can’t be!” But there was nothing for it. She crossed the room to Nyctasia’s table.

  “Corso
n! How delightful! Will you have a drink?” She leaned back in her chair and waved for more ale. “Did I ever tell you that your name is a corrupt form of

  ‘Corisonde’? At least I think it is.”

  “You’re drunk!”

  “I looked for you when I left, but you’d already gone-and very sensible of you, too. I thought I’d pass you on the way here.”

  “I lost my way. What are you doing here? Where’s Lord Collarbone?”

  Nyctasia looked at her dully. “’Ben? He’s-he’s dead, I think… I don’t know.”

  She shuddered and took a long draught of her ale.

  Corson sat down. “What are you talking about?”

  For a moment, Nyctasia’s eyes held a terrible clarity. “Everything that is taken must be paid for,” she said. “But there are ways of making others pay for what one takes. The vahn forbids such a thing

  … I can never return to him now, I must not!” Staring into her empty tankard, she said softly, “I might better have stayed in Rhostshyl to be murdered, what does it matter?” She began to rock back and forth, her face in her hands. “Kastenid tried to warn me, but how could I believe him? I want more ale.”

  “You’ve had your fill. You’re not used to drink.”

  Nyctasia laughed wildly. “That’s because I never knew it was such an effective Consolation!” She seemed to find this extraordinarily funny. She reached for Corson’s tankard and, as Corson snatched it from her, she tossed a gold coin into the ale. “Look!” she said proudly. A goldfish was swimming in the dark liquor.

  Corson gasped and dropped the tankard. Ale spattered their boots, and the coin rolled across the floor. No one picked it up. “Nyctasia,” Corson said tensely,

  “a lady does not make a spectacle of herself in public!”

  Nyctasia giggled. “So beware, my Lady Alys,” she sang tipsily. She threw back her head and drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly with a look of intense concentration. To Corson’s horror, three large, pale moths drifted from Nyctasia’s mouth, one after another. They fluttered about erratically then dissolved in the air like smoke.