by J F Rivkin
Raphistain performed introductions, but Nyctasia soon lost track of the names and the web of kinship. She gathered that the grey-haired Diastor was Raphistain’s father and Mesthelde’s brother by marriage, that Leclairin was away on business, and that Tepicacia was someone’s younger sister. She met Mesthelde’s cousin Nesanye, his wife Ancelin and their son Nicorin. There was a Great Uncle Anseth and an elderly cousin by marriage named Heronice, but Diastor and Mesthelde seemed to be the heads of the household.
“I was told that Lady Nocharis wished to see me,” said Nyctasia, puzzled.
“So she shall,” said Diastor, “but you’ll hear what we have to say, first.”
“Willingly, sir.” She gratefully sank into the chair that Raphistain placed for her.
Diastor frowned. “For generations the Edonaris of Rhostshyl have refused to acknowledge us because we dealt in trade. All of our advances to them were met with threats or with silence, and the family gave up the attempt long ago, before my time.”
“I know nothing of that,” said Nyctasia. “I was never told that there was another branch of the family. Perhaps my parents didn’t even know it.”
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “we hear news of the coast from time to time, through travelers’ tales. We know that the House of Edonaris is at war with the Teiryn, and we’ll have no part in it, mark me well. You’ll find no allies here for your blood-feud. If we’re not good enough to mix with the noble Edonaris of Rhostshyl, we’ll not send our young folk there to die for them!”
“That’s for us to say!” One of the younger men spoke out boldly. “Some of us want to see Rhostshyl once in our lives. We’ve the right-it’s our heritage.
Rhostshyl’s our homeland as much as the valley is.”
“Oh, but-” gasped Nyctasia.
“’Corin’s right,” said a girl who looked no older than sixteen. “We’ve no call to turn our backs on our kin just because their ancestors scorned our ancestors.
It’s our duty to defend the House of Edonaris, with our blood if we must!”
“Nonsense!” thundered Diastor. “Children’s notions! Hold your tongue, ’Cacia, you know nothing about it.”
“You youngsters only want some excitement,” Mesthelde said witheringly. “You think you can be lords and ladies and live at court instead of doing honest work in your own home. But you’ll only make fools of yourselves, if you’re lucky, and get yourselves killed if you’re not-all for a lot of strangers who care nothing for you!”
Nyctasia was aghast. “But I’d never-”
“Why didn’t you send her away before they heard about her?” Diastor demanded of Mesthelde.
“Too late for that, others had already seen her. And what was to keep her from coming back? It’s best to have it out now and be done with it.”
“True,” he said, glaring at Nyctasia. Everyone was now looking at her.
Raphistain caught her eye and grimaced ruefully.
Nyctasia took a deep breath. “You mistake me, I assure you. Never would I counsel you to take part in the madness that afflicts Rhostshyl! I myself am in exile because I opposed the feud.” She turned to the youth who’d spoken before.
“Believe me, the Teiryn are not the enemy-it’s the feud itself that will destroy the House of Edonaris, and the city with it. You must have nothing to do with it, I beg you!” Her voice trembled with undisguised passion.
There was a stunned silence on all sides, but at last Diastor said, “Come, it’s time you met the Lady Nocharis.”
9
a girl sat sewing in an alcove window, while a young child crawled at her feet, playing with a wooden horse. But when Nyctasia and the others entered, she picked up the baby and quietly left.
Lady Nocharis received them sitting up in bed. As the eldest in the family, she held the purely ceremonial title of matriarch. She was a small, frail woman, almost ghostly with her pale skin and stark white hair, but the warmth of her smile and the wisdom of her clear grey eyes dispelled all suggestion of lifelessness.
Nyctasia bowed respectfully and kissed her hand. “Madame,” she said, “you do me honor.”
The old woman smiled, amused at Nyctasia’s stately courtesy, which seemed quaint and old-fashioned to her. “What pretty manners you have in Rhostshyl,” she murmured.
Nyctasia realized her mistake at once. This was not the court. “We’re a formal lot, I’m afraid,” she apologized, “but I mean to leave that behind me now.” She bent and kissed Lady Nocharis on the cheek instead. The others withdrew, leaving them alone, and the matriarch patted the edge of the bed, inviting Nyctasia to sit near her.
“So you’ve come to stay with us, instead of taking us away with you?” she asked gently. But it was not truly a question.
Until this moment, Nyctasia had not dared to think seriously of settling here in the valley, but suddenly it seemed to her to be possible. To one of her station, kindred was all-important, and the bonds of blood were the hardest to break. “I hardly know why I’ve come,” she said slowly. “It matters little where I go, since I cannot go home. When I heard there were Edonaris here, I was curious to know whether they were kin to me. It was no more than that.”
“And now you know.”
“Yes indeed. You resemble my great-aunt, the matriarch Mhairestri.”
“And you, truly it is remarkable, child. You could be one of my own daughters.”
Nyctasia smiled sadly. “I wish I could,” she said.
“That place is still in your heart. But you were in danger there, I think.”
Nyctasia looked away. “Yes…,” she said, faintly disturbed by a shadowy memory she could not quite capture. Why did she feel that Lady Nocharis’s words held a warning for her? Did these folk know more about her than she had supposed? She shook her head, impatient with herself. What did it matter? They had every right and reason to be wary of her-but she must trust them, if she was ever to learn to trust anyone. She had not come away from Rhostshyl only to continue in her devious and suspicious ways.
“Yes, grave danger,” she said simply, “and the greatest of all was the danger to my spirit.” For the first time, Nyctasia saw that the true danger had never been that she might be killed, but that she might live to become more and more like Lady Mhairestri with every passing year. She shuddered.
Lady Nocharis stroked her hand. “My poor child, I think you had best stay here for the time, don’t you?”
“If you’ll have me,” said Nyctasia, with unwonted humility. She felt close to tears, but instead she returned the old woman’s smile. A Vahnite ought never to weep.
Raphistain arrived to escort Nyctasia to dinner, and the serving-girl followed with a tray. Lady Nocharis, who was lame, and bedridden much of the time, often did not dine with the rest.
“You must come and chat with me again, my dear. Perhaps between us we can discover what our degree of kinship is.”
“I shall,” said Nyctasia. “I’d like that.”
She felt unusually carefree and lighthearted, as if relieved of a crushing burden. At last she truly believed that she had been right to leave Rhostshyl, whatever the cost. It seemed a long time since she’d known such well-being and freedom from doubt.
Raphistain too was relieved. If Mother ’Charis accepted Nyctasia, the others would be satisfied. He led her on a tour of the parts of the house she’d not seen before, and Nyctasia was pleased with everything she saw.
“Nyctasia, I…”
“Please, call me Nyc.”
“With pleasure. And I’m Raphe, if you will. Nyc, I must apologize for the reception you’ve had here. You see, ever since we learned of the feud in Rhostshyl, there’s been mad talk among the youngsters of going to the defense of the House of Edonaris. And now the rumors of war are wilder than ever, so when you appeared everyone was sure you’d been sent to make allies of us. I did suggest to my father that we might ask you your intentions, but the day he heeds my advice will be the day it rains roast potatoes. I hope we’ve n
ot offended you beyond redress.”
Nyctasia laughed. “We trust no one, and we don’t expect to be trusted. I quite sympathize with your suspicions, I assure you, and I share your apprehensions as well. I’ll do all I can to discourage your young folk from running off to Rhostshyl.”
“For that my elders will call you daughter-but I fear my young cousins may call you traitor.”
“I’m accustomed to that. My own family called me so, because I wanted to settle the feud by treaty.”
He shook his head. “They want us to muster an army and march to the coast, all to prove to our Rhostshylid relations that we’ve true Edonaris blood in our veins.”
“I fear they are right about that, at least, cousin. In Rhostshyl they say that all the Edonaris are crazy.”
Corson’s gown was really no more than a long, straight sheath that fell to her ankles and gathered at her waist with a sash. Nothing more elaborate could be stitched together in so short a time, even with the seamstress and two maids all working together. But the richness of the heavy, cream-gold silk was shown off all the better for the simplicity of the garment. No sleeves were needed in the late-summer weather, but an edge of the cloth was draped in graceful folds over Corson’s wide, proud shoulders. The maids insisted that she leave her hair down, though they fastened it back with the ivory clasp and wove it with ribbons cut from the same gold material.
Corson accepted a pair of sandals that laced up above her ankles, and she strapped a small knife to her calf, among the leather thongs. She could not very well wear her sword-belt, but the gown would hide the knife from sight. The thought of going about almost unarmed made her uneasy, but she reminded herself firmly that she was a guest, not a guard. She need not hold herself ready to attack or be attacked at the blink of an eye.
When she was summoned to dinner, Corson found it almost as hard to leave behind her money-pouch as her weapons. In the sorts of lodgings she was accustomed to, she would never have let it out of her sight for a moment. But to carry it with her would look like mistrust, and she had been long enough with Nyctasia to know that these folk would take it amiss, “Well, if I’m robbed, someone will pay for it,” she thought grimly. “I wish this wretched rag had some pockets!”
She dropped her belongings in the chest with feigned indifference and strode to the door, but her swaggering gait was much hampered by the long skirt. Before she could catch her balance, she fell heavily to the floor and lay sprawled in a tangle of honey-colored silk.
Corson forgot her fine manners. “Curse this rutting cocoon and the dung-worms that spun it and the bitch’s whelp who wove it!” she stormed, struggling to her feet. She glared at the waiting-maids. “Laugh at me and I’ll tear your tongues out!”
“Oh, no indeed, mistress,” said one respectfully. “Are you hurt? Let me just tidy your hair.”
“There, the seam’s not torn a bit,” said the other with satisfaction, straightening the folds of the gown.
“Don’t fuss at me!” Corson growled. She felt pinioned and harried and defenseless, but she took a deep breath, drew herself up to her full height, and said with dignity, “I’m ready, lead the way. I mustn’t keep everyone waiting.”
She proceeded down the corridor at a rather more restrained and ladylike pace.
10
the whole company rose to its feet when Corson made her entrance, though most of them had no idea who she was. Even Nyctasia did not recognize her, for a moment, in her finery and her dignity, The elegant cut of the gown gave her height new stateliness, and the pale gold silk perfectly graced her dark gold skin and the red-gold glow of her hair. The golden earrings she always wore might have been meant for just this occasion. By torchlight and candlelight Corson was a glorious golden candle herself, and all who saw her rose instinctively to do her honor.
She was absolutely terrified.
How was she to acknowledge this unexpected reception? Should she curtsy? How? It was all she could do to walk in this dress without falling on her face!
Petrified, she looked desperately to Nyctasia, who came forward at once to her rescue. “Allow me to present my companion,” she said, taking Corson’s hand,
“Corson brenn Torisk, the most beautiful mercenary on the coast, and the most dangerous.”
“Most beautiful in the Midlands as well!” someone called from the foot of the table.
“Most dangerous too-she has conquered me without striking a blow.”
Nyctasia led her to the table, and Raphistain made room for her to sit between them, “I saw her first and am already captive to her charms. You are too late,” he declared, winking at Corson.
“Indeed, we all surrender,” said Diastor. He bowed to Corson, and the company resumed their seats, still showering her with welcome and flattery.
Corson began to feel much more at her ease.
Then another latecomer suddenly claimed their attention. She came dashing into the dining-hall, shouting, “Listen, Cloud’s had twin calves-two beautiful little heifers! It must be a sign. We’ll see marvels this season!” Two large dogs had run in with her and were racing around the table eagerly, thrashing their huge tails and greeting the family with noisy enthusiasm.
“’Deisha, take those creatures out of here at once,” snapped Mesthelde. “And go get yourself washed. You’re late already, and you stink of the barnyard.”
“At once, Aunt,” laughed ’Deisha. “but first I must see the mysterious visitor everyone’s talking about. Where-” She stopped short and gazed at Nyctasia, openmouthed.
Nyctasia too stared, forgetting everything else. The two were identical, save that Nyctasia’s skin was ivory-pale, ’Deisha’s dark from the sun. And ’Deisha’s hair was not cut short but plaited in a long, untidy braid.
“My sister Frondescine,” said Raphe. “’Deisha, this is our cousin Nyctasia from Rhostshyl.”
“Vahn, as if ’Deisha weren’t trouble enough, now we have two of them,” someone groaned.
“And she’s a ’Tasia, too. We’ll go mad.”
“Why, call me Nyc, then,” said Nyctasia. She rose and turned to ’Deisha, smiling. The dogs sniffed her and Corson and barked, excited by the unfamiliar scents. One tried to climb into Corson’s lap, which it was much too large to do, and only succeeded in sweeping a few things off the table with its wildly wagging tail. The other reared up on its hind legs and planted its paws on Nyctasia’s shoulders, almost knocking her over, and thrust its great muzzle affectionately into her face.
“Be quiet, you curs! Get down!” Raphe pushed them away, and ’Deisha swatted each on the nose sharply, ordering them to lie down and be still. They collapsed to the floor at once, tails thumping, and looked up worshipfully for her approval.
Blushing brightly. ’Deisha faced Nyctasia, stammering apologies. “They’re very well-behaved as a rule…”
“They’re nothing of the sort, they’re wild beasts!” said Mesthelde indignantly.
“I’ve told you dozens of times not to bring them in-you can take your meals in the kennels in future, if you can’t bear to be parted from them.”
“Just the place for her,” agreed one of the older men. “The little mongrel’s not properly house-trained.”
The youngsters were delighted. “She-wolf, you mean,” one shouted.
“What he means’s bi-”
“Enough! We’ve guests at table!” roared Diastor, slamming his fist on the table.
Nyctasia stifled her laughter. “But they’re beautiful animals!” she cried, holding out her hands to the disconcerted ’Deisha. “I used to raise hounds myself.”
’Deisha approached her, but then, seeing her own grimy hands, she thrust them behind her and mumbled, “I must go wash, I’m filthy, excuse me. I won’t be a moment…” She fled, abashed, with the dogs galloping after her. Mesthelde sighed and signaled the servants to bring in the dinner.
Corson decided that her manners would be quite adequate to the occasion, and enjoyed her meal thoroughly, though many of
the dishes were strange to her. She was accustomed to much plainer fare, but it was not difficult to appreciate the rich sauces of cream and wine, the fowls stuffed with sausage and berries, or the pork baked with plums, She felt that she could easily get used to food like this, and it was a simple matter to imitate the way the others used their tableware. Corson took note that one only picked up a bone to gnaw at it after cutting away the meat that could be reached with knife and fork. And one wiped one’s mouth with a napkin afterward.
Nyctasia too followed her hosts’ manners-it wouldn’t do to show that her own were considerably more refined. These folk would never learn from her that their behavior would be thought low-bred at court.
A very rare old vintage wine was served in their honor, from a lot laid down by the Edonaris lord who’d come from Rhostshyl long ago to settle in the valley.
But its subtle savor was wasted on the guests, for neither Nyctasia nor Corson had a taste for fine wines. Corson heard Nyctasia’s hissed whisper, “Sip it slowly!” in time to prevent her from emptying her glass at a gulp, but she found the drink bland and tasteless compared to the cheap, harsh wine served in taverns. “I’ve never had wine like this,” she said quite truthfully, wishing she had a strong ale instead.
Nyctasia, in accordance with Vahnite Discipline, rarely drank spirits at all.
One wine was the same as another to her, and plain water would have suited her better. But she smiled and declared the vintage “worthy of the name of Edonaris,” much to the satisfaction of the household.
They did not guess how shamed Nyctasia felt, to think of her family’s name sullied by commerce, branded on kegs that anyone might buy-as if the House of Edonaris were no better than a dramshop. But she pushed away such thoughts and forced herself to ask her newfound kin about their Edonaris ancestor.