by J F Rivkin
42
The farther they traveled from Hlasven, the higher Corson’s spirits rose. The cool weather was beginning and the morning was bright and clear. Even Nyctasia grew less subdued and moody as they rode through the ripe, sunlit countryside.
“That fortuneteller wasn’t far from the mark after all,” Corson remarked. “I’ve made a dangerous journey, and I’m much the richer for it, but what of the titles and honors he promised me? Why don’t you make me a Lady for saving your useless life, you ungrateful whelp?”
“Only the majority of the Rhaicimate can confer a title-and at present I am unfortunately a weak minority. But if ever I regain my authority in Rhostshyl, you’ll get all that you deserve, never fear. I’ll have you flogged from one end of the city to the other to teach you your place!”
Corson shouted with laughter. This was more the Nyctasia she was used to. “I know what place fate intended for me. The fortuneteller said I’d become a lady of title and influence at the end of the journey.”
“Then perhaps the journey isn’t over yet,” said Nyctasia. “Where are we bound now, oh Lady Corson, favorite of fortune?”
“Time enough you took heed of that! Do you know of the harvest fair at Osela?”
“No. Is it an important market?”
“Asye, what a mooncalf!” Corson said with exasperation. “Don’t you know anything but spells and schemes? The Osela fair is famous-there’s nothing to match it on the coast. It lasts for weeks, and we’ll be there in good time to see everything-dancers, acrobats, troupes of players and mummers, jugglers and conjurors. And there are games and contests, races, wrestling, archery matches
…”
“And minstrels, I suppose?” Nyctasia unstrapped her harp and opened the sound-box at the back. She took out the silver key and began turning the pegs to tune the strings.
“Oh yes, singers and harpers and beggars and pickpockets-all the usual rabble.”
Nyctasia gave her a dark look. “If I never make a lady of you, Corson, you may yet succeed in making me forget that I am one.”
“So much the better for you. What good is a title to you now?”
“What good has it ever been to me, for that matter?” said Nyctasia. She sighed and plucked a chord on the ebonwood harp.
“Oh, I could complain
That my life is a curse.
The grief and the pain
Would fill many a verse.
But it’s best to refrain-
Things could always be worse!”
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