Silverglass s-1

by J F Rivkin

  “That tickles,” Nyctasia remarked, laughing.

  Corson now understood the suspicion that surrounded them. Those who lived near the forest mistrusted magic, and the travelers had been wary of Nyctasia from the start. They took her for some creature of the Yth-and Corson was not quite sure that they were wrong.

  Nyctasia had begun to trace patterns on the tabletop with the spilled ale, muttering to herself in some foreign tongue. “I think I’ll summon a demon,” she announced loudly, raising one arm in a dramatic gesture. A serving-girl shrieked and dashed for the kitchen. Several people started to their feet, seizing knives or staffs. A heavy earthenware pot struck Nyctasia’s shoulder.

  Corson grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her to the door. They were both thrust roughly into the yard amidst shouted threats and curses. Someone threw Nyctasia’s satchel of books out after them, and the door was slammed and bolted.

  Nyctasia sat up and tried to wipe the mud from her face with an equally muddy hand. “I’m an Edonaris,” she protested, slurring her words slightly, “and a Rhaicime! How dare they!”

  Corson kicked her. “Get up, lady,” she spat. “Rhaicime! Rutting half-wit! You almost got our throats cut for us!”

  Nyctasia rose unsteadily to her feet and regarded Corson with wounded dignity.

  “You are forthwith dismissed from my service. Leave me!”

  “I ought to! I don’t know what stops me-I must be bewitched. Come along!” She led Nyctasia to the stables and heaved her, none too gently, onto her horse.

  Even drunk, Nyctasia instinctively gripped with her knees to keep her seat.

  “Where are we going, love?” she asked amiably, following Corson out of the courtyard.

  “There’s a village about a league down the Hlasven road. We’ll find some sort of shelter there.” Corson thought resentfully of the lost comforts at the hostel.

  “I didn’t even get a meal. You and your stinking sorcery! Moths

  …! It’s disgusting!”

  “I don’t think I could really summon a demon,” Nyctasia said wistfully. “Of course I’ve never tried it so close to the Yth.”

  Corson rode closer to her and took her roughly by the arm. “You’re not about to try it now, either-I’ll break your arm first!”

  Nyctasia smiled blandly at her. “Yes, Maeg.”

  “Asye…!” sighed Corson, and rode ahead. They went on in silence broken only by snatches of songs and spells from Nyctasia.

  “Behold in this enchanted mirror

  Images reversed but clearer.

  Patterns of shattered shadow yield

  Their mysteries in silverglass revealed.

  Read if you will the gleaming’s meaning,

  Pierce the… something… mmm… seeming.

  Deep in…”

  “I forget the rest,” she yawned.

  “Good. I don’t want to hear that. Sing something else.”

  “‘The Cold Ballad’?” suggested Nyctasia.

  “And some folk said that she had died

  Through working of a curse.

  A doll, a needle in its side,

  An image shrouded in a band?

  And others whispered worse.

  Had she not enemies in the land?

  Forbidden rivalry, bitter scorn-

  They guessed at poison in her wine.

  A venom’d thorn, A length of twine,

  A sudden, smothering hand?

  But no one ever shall discover,

  Nor guess, what she walked out to find.

  A rose, a shell, her demon lover

  Perhaps her peace of mind…”

  Nyctasia stopped abruptly.

  “Is that the end?”

  “No, there’s another verse, but I’ve never understood it. I don’t even like that song,” she said petulantly.

  “Oh, hold your noise. There’s someone coming. We must be near the village.”

  Peering into the darkness, Corson could make out two figures approaching on foot, one holding up a lantern. “We can ask them about lodgings.”

  “You there-” she called, but the man in front went straight to Nyctasia and took the reins of her horse.

  “’Ben!” she exclaimed happily, leaning over to caress his cheek, “I’ve missed you terribly…” She reached down to him and he caught her by the waist and lifted her from the saddle. “I can’t walk,” she laughed.

  “No matter, ’Tasia, we’ve not far to go. I’ll carry you.” He picked her up easily, cradling her in his arms, and started back along the dark road.

  Corson dismounted hastily. “My lord, where are you taking her? Wait!”

  Shiastred’s servant laid a warning hand on her arm, but she shook him off and followed. Nyctasia had not made much sense that evening, but she had certainly meant to break with Lord Erystalben, Corson stepped in front of him, barring the way.

  “Stand aside,” he commanded. Nyctasia looked on curiously, her head nestled against his throat.

  “Let her be, she’s out of her senses with drink. I can’t let you take her off-”

  Shiastred laughed. “Your sense of duty does you credit, woman, but I assure you, your mistress is not in danger. I have told you once to stand aside.”

  “She’s not my mistress, and I’ve told you once to let her go!” But as Corson stepped towards him, she was stricken with a sudden irresistible weakness that left her helpless. Overcome by dizziness, she fell to her knees at Shiastred’s feet. Raising her head with an effort she met his cold blue eyes, narrowed in anger.

  “Call off your watchdog, ’Tasia. She’s liable to bite someone.”

  Puzzled, Nyctasia looked down at Corson crouched in the road, her face mad with rage and hatred. “Not a watchdog, a wildcat,” Nyctasia said solemnly, “Killed three of my best hunting dogs.” She laid her head back on his shoulder and closed her eyes, sighing deeply.

  “See to her,” Shiastred ordered his man, nodding towards Corson. He walked past her indifferently, bearing Nyctasia off into the darkness.

  “The weakness will pass soon,” the servant said. He helped Corson to rise and mount, then led away Nyctasia’s horse. Corson could only follow.

  She asked no questions, and did not look up until they halted in the yard of a great stone hall. “But where are we?” She knew of no manor house this side of the village.

  “Why, at my lord’s holding, of course. He never goes far hence.”

  Corson recognized the place now, and her senses reeled in protest. “But I took the Hlasven road,” she cried. “I know I did!”

  36

  The chamber had been arranged entirely to Nyctasia’s taste, as only one who knew her well could have done it. The furnishings were sparse but rare, of marble and oak and ivory. In the center of the carpet there stood a round table of petrified wood, and the bed filled a niche draped with curtains of dark brocade, shot with silver threads. A mirror in a silver frame hung on one wall, flanked by brackets holding silver candlesticks.

  The deeply arched window overlooked a pool amid overgrown gardens, and on the window seat stood a small, silver-stringed harp of black ebon wood. Shiastred set it aside and laid Nyctasia, half-asleep, among the cushions.

  Not until he had left her did she open her eyes and try to sit upright. Her head ached cruelly, and the sight of the chamber sobered her still more, as she began to remember her reasons for leaving it the day before. She took up the black harp and very lightly brushed the strings, but set it down again when she heard Shiastred’s footsteps in the corridor.

  He handed her a heavy goblet of a steaming, fragrant liquid which she accepted gratefully, knowing that it would ease the throbbing pain behind her eyes.

  “And since when have you taken to drink?” he asked.

  Nyctasia looked at him over the rim of the goblet, “Since when have you taken to human sacrifice, ’Ben?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, ’Tasia! You too have destroyed your enemies-”

  “To protect myself, not to increase
my own power!”

  “Which of them would not do as much to me if they could?” he demanded angrily, but then said more gently, “Sometimes that is the only way to protect oneself.

  You do not yet know the Yth as I do.”

  Nyctasia shook her head, still too tipsy to argue. She knew there were reasons, but it was so hard to arrange her thoughts. “I don’t care what you do to your enemies, ’Ben. I care what you do to your own spirit.”

  Shiastred stood over her, as if undecided whether to stay or go, but now he sat at her side, looking out over the dark gardens. “Are you so changed to me

  ’Tasia? I would not have believed that you could mistrust me, turn from me…

  To what end have I won this safe hold if not for you-that we might be together, beyond the reach of any enemy?”

  “It is not I who have changed. We never thought to pay such a price for our freedom.”

  “We were children then! Yth-land is not won for the asking, or held by the weak.

  Kastenid lost this place because he would not do all in his power to keep it.

  But together we would be proof against any challenge. We’d have no need to use our enemies’ ways to defend ourselves. That is what we wanted!”

  He drew her into his arms, caressingly massaged her aching temples with strong, knowing fingers. “But if you would renounce our plans now, ’Tasia, we shall leave here together. Let Kastenid take back his own-what can it mean to me if you no longer want it? We will travel if you wish. Only tell me what you want me to do!”

  Nyctasia closed her eyes. “I want you to hold me, ’Ben.” She knew that she was vulnerable, in her confusion, to Influences she should resist, and that lovemaking would only weaken her further. She knew that there were questions to be asked, plans and promises to be made. Yet she told herself that they would wait, that her desire would not. A chill went through her as Erystalben lightly kissed the back of her neck. “I want you to hold me,” she said.

  Corson was awakened next morning by a servant who informed her that she was wanted by Her Ladyship and must come at once.

  She had not spent a peaceful night. Too weak to seek other shelter, she’d had no choice but to remain under Shiastred’s roof. The sickening dizziness had gradually left her, but sleep had not brought her rest. In her dreams, she was harried by a great hawk that circled about her, raking at her with its talons.

  Each time she tried to strike down the raptor it swept out of reach of her sword, letting her wear herself out with useless blows, biding its time to strike. She woke still exhausted from the losing battle.

  She was suspicious of the summons. Suppose it were a trap? She knew she was at Shiastred’s mercy as long as she was within his walls, but how could she get away if every road only led her back to this cursed place? The sense of confinement struck her with a cold panic terror. All her prowess would be unavailing against Shiastred’s sorcery. Would she really be allowed to see Nyctasia?

  She followed the servant up a long staircase and through a series of winding corridors. He left her at the curtained doorway of Nyctasia’s chamber.

  “Good morning, Corson. I trust you’ve been well looked after?” Nyctasia said graciously. She was sitting in bed, wrapped in a robe of silver-grey watered silk.

  At first Corson was dumbfounded by Nyctasia’s distant manner, but then she saw Lord Erystalben watching them from the alcove window.

  Corson stiffened. “I want to talk to you alone.”

  “Do you hear, ’Ben?” laughed Nyctasia. “You are dismissed!”

  He shook his head, smiling tolerantly. “You were always too familiar with your servants, ’Tasia.”

  “Oh, but one must allow for some spirit. One doesn’t want a bodyguard with the gentle temper of a ewe-lamb.”

  He came to Nyctasia and, leaning over her, lovingly raised her head. “You’ve no need of a bodyguard now.” Pulling her close, he gave her a lingering kiss.

  Corson moved well out of his way as he went to the door, but he passed her as though she weren’t there.

  “You’ve changed your mind again?” Corson asked, feeling like a fool. She sat down on the bed by Nyctasia, uninvited, “When I found you at the hostel you said you would never come back here.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember much of what I said last night,” Nyctasia admitted ruefully. “I ought not to drink. ’Ben had insisted that we make a marriage pact, and we quarreled-but as you can see, I gave way in the end.” She held out her hand to show Corson the slender golden band.

  “But what of you, Corson? I thought you were eager to return to Chiastelm.” She pointed to a well-filled purse on the table at her bedside. “That will more than meet your needs, though of course you are welcome to stay. You will always be welcome here. I know what I owe you.”

  Corson did not dare to slap her. “You owe me nothing, lady,” she said, rising.

  “I want to reach the crossroads before dark-have I your leave to go?”

  “Of course. A safe journey to you, Corson.” She summoned a servant to show Corson out.

  37

  This time, corson had no difficulty finding her way to the hostel. “If that Yth-taken friend of yours-” the host began.

  “She’s not with me! And she’s not my friend. I want a room!” Corson looked around defiantly, daring anyone to try and put her out. Today she’d give them a fight, and welcome. But no one challenged her, and she was shown at once to a small bedchamber. She ordered some ale and dropped wearily onto a bench by the window overlooking the moonlit roadway.

  Corson knew that no one at the inn wanted anything to do with her, and she could hardly blame them. “That ungrateful bitch!” she thought, leaning her arms on the windowsill and staring out into the night. She cursed the day she’d met Nyctasia, she cursed all magicians and then all the aristocracy for good measure. On an angry impulse, she took off the earrings Nyctasia had given her and pushed them into her pouch, “I’ll sell the filthy things. I don’t want her cast-off trinkets.”

  “Gold doesn’t suit me,” she said prissily, mimicking Nyctasia’s high voice and aristocratic accent. “Gold’s not good enough for her!”

  Corson frowned. Some notion seemed to leap out at her like a startled fox, plain in the moonlight for only a moment, then scuttling back into the shadows. Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the hesitant knock at the door, and she was startled when the serving-maid appeared with her ale. The girl approached timorously and set a pitcher and mug on the bench next to her. “I don’t have any demons in my pockets!” Corson snapped, and the child hurried off in confusion.

  “I might as well be a leper, thanks to Her Ladyship!”

  Corson shook her head, still vexed by the memory of Nyctasia’s indifference. She knew what an accomplished actress Nyctasia could be, but she could not persuade herself that Nyctasia’s familiarity with her had all been feigned. If Nyctasia were really as haughty and proud as all that, she would never have taken so much trouble to nurse Corson back to health. She’d have thought it beneath her to cosset and humor a lowly servant like Corson, to wait on her with her own hands.

  Had she been acting when she’d dismissed Corson with cold formality? Why should she perform such a masquerade for Corson’s benefit-was she afraid of Lord Erystalben?

  Corson downed a mug of ale and poured herself another. No, Nyctasia had been more than willing to throw in her lot with that bloodless, spindle-shanked bastard, of that Corson was certain. She slammed her fist down on the windowsill. If only there were some way to settle her score with Shiastred! He’d called her a dog, and she’d slunk off like a whipped dog, too. If she could just fight him on her own terms-! She gulped down the last of her ale and went downstairs for more. Though no one was likely to drink with her, she preferred the busy taproom to her own chamber just then. She fetched a fresh pitcher and took a seat at an empty table.

  To her surprise, someone did sit down across from her before long. She looked up from her drink. “You again! Let
me be-Lady Nyctasia’s not here.”

  “So I see,” said Vhar Kastenid. “Where is she?”

  Corson took a long pull at her ale. “She’s dead.”

  “Dead-how? What do you mean?”

  “You ought to know what it means. She said you were right about him-that he was dead. I wish he was!”

  “Then she has left him?” he asked eagerly.

  “Well, she did, but she went back again. Of course, she was sotted,” Corson snickered.

  “Impossible-Lady Nyctasia observes the Discipline. You’d best tell me everything from the beginning.”

  Corson fell silent. Her wounded pride rankled too keenly for her to tell of her humiliation at Shiastred’s hands. “It’s none of your affair.”

  “You don’t understand. She’s in grave danger.”

  “She’s always in danger!” Corson exploded. “What’s it to me? I don’t care what becomes of that high-handed, treacherous vixen!”

  “But I care what becomes of her, and I need your help. You want vengeance on Shiastred. Don’t deny it. This is no time for your cursed sullenness!”

  Corson started to her feet, fists clenched. “You-!” But at a look from Kastenid she suddenly caught her tongue. Shiastred had looked at her in that way.

  “Sit down,” he said quietly.

  Corson obeyed. “You’re no better than he is,” she muttered.

  “That’s as may be. We want the same things, he and I, but I perhaps am more particular as to how I get them.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “What would I want with a mercenary but to buy her services? And I pay well,” He studied Corson for a long moment. “What is it you fear?”

  “I’m no coward!” Corson hesitated, toying with her empty mug. “But I’m… helpless. I can’t fight Shiastred.”

  “I don’t want you to fight him. That is for me to do. But I cannot challenge him at the source of his power. If he’s drawn off his own ground he’ll be weaker, and with Lady Nyctasia’s help I could defeat him.”