by J F Rivkin
Nyctasia could not blame it. She blamed only herself, for her reluctance to release the One that awaited her command, the temptation to turn its power to her own purposes. For the demon, believing that it could win its freedom in no other way, ceaselessly demanded that she yield to that temptation.
Among the rescued volumes of the Cymvelan library, Nyctasia had found certain works that she knew would be there, and she studied them carefully-not for the first time-before she set out to confront that which awaited her at the temple.
But most especially she devoted herself to the First Book on the Nature of Demonic Spirits.
“There are other worlds than our own,” she’d read. “And that which we call a demonic spirit is no more nor less than a denizen of another world who has become ensnared in this world of ours, through magic or mischance. And if beings such as ourselves were to be drawn into the world whence such Ones come, we should ourselves be as demons to those who dwell there, and it may be that this has come about, betimes, and none returned thence to tell of it. Or mayhap some have returned but been accounted mad by their fellows when they spoke of the strange regions they had visited. And some of those whom we deem mad were perhaps made so by sights incomprehensible to humankind, witnessed in worlds beyond our own.
“Then it is little wonder if those beings known to us as Demons should be desperate and dangerous in nature, and unpredictable to deal with, as mad folk are. And this is seen in those who are possessed by them, such that the most skilled physicians are oft hard pressed to decide whether some certain unfortunates are in truth possessed by demonic spirits or have indeed simply lost their wits.
“Now such a One, being out of Its own rightful place, does in consequence forfeit its proper form and nature, and appear to mortal eyes insubstantial, as an Absence rather than a Presence. But by virtue of Its displacement and discorporate essence does such a Being acquire sundry Powers which in no wise answer to the Laws governing substance and matter, even as the Indwelling Spirit submits not to be thus constrained. And thereby It may assume what guise soever should serve Its ends, albeit in illusory wise.
“Only by the Laws governing Immaterial Influences may such a One be compelled, and Its powers made to serve the Will of another. But this ought in no wise nor manner to be attempted, for the Power thus won may well be beyond price, but will prove well beyond the price that any one alone can pay. For even as the Invited Power is drawn from Without, so must the recompense be made from without, if Balance is to be restored, and such a Sacrifice the Spirit of Harmony forbids
…”
Excellent advice, thought Nyctasia, if it did not come too late. For the recompense had been paid already, and now it remained for her to assign a service, as It demanded. But if she consented to take advantage of that sacrifice, then the blood of the Cymvelans would truly be on her hands.
“Balance must be restored.” It spoke to her, silently, wordlessly, but its meaning was unmistakably clear to Nyctasia. “Take what is yours! Ask! Command!”
What’s done is done, Nyctasia told herself. It will not be undone if I refuse, they will still be dead. If I accept, they cannot be more dead than they are.
And though this seemed like reason, yet even as she voiced her command to the demon of the hill, she knew that the vahn within her replied, “Not they, but you can be more dead than you are…”
But Nyctasia gave the one command she had known she must give, whatever the cost to her own spirit, “Tell me of my city. Will there be war?”
And before she had finished speaking, she saw the answer, inwardly, as one sees memories, not before her eyes but behind them. She could envision, as if she had been a witness, the burning buildings, the barricaded streets, already littered with the dead and wounded. Fire raged unchecked from house to house, and the gates of the palaces were broken and undefended. Rhostshyl, the proud city, the city of marble and silver…
“No more!” Nyctasia ordered, but she could not forget what she had seen.
She was offered other visions, then, which said as clearly as words, “By my power you could prevent this. Use it. Use it. You could have the power to impose peace on the city. Take it. Take it. Your enemies will do your will. You will be hailed as peacemaker and savior of the city. Rhostshyl need not perish. Do it.
Do it. You must. It is your duty.”
Was it not, in truth, her duty? If she could prevent the death and destruction she had seen, had she the right to refuse?
But these thoughts were not her own. They were the work of One who sought to serve her for Its own sake. “You lie,” she said. Power won at such a price could not bring peace, could not give life, could not-whatever her intentions-be used innocently. This Nameless Being knew her every weakness, she realized, knew her deepest desires and her very thoughts. Such a servant is too dangerous, she decided, and ordered. “Show yourself! Take a form that I can see. Speak in words that I can hear.”
Again it obeyed. In man’s shape it walked out of the shadows and approached her, stepping into the moonlight to reveal the form and features of Erystalben ar’n Shiastred.
“I can bring him back to you,” it said, in his voice.
30
“what makes you think she’s gone up there?” Corson asked, as she and ’Deisha climbed the cart-track up Honeycomb Hill, stopping occasionally to shout for Nyctasia.
“I don’t know… Nobody’d seen her at dinner, and she wasn’t in her room, or at the dancing or the bonfire. I just suddenly felt quite certain that she’d gone back to the temple, I can’t think why. Perhaps I’m wrong, I hope I am.”
“Oh, you’re probably right-it’s just the sort of mad thing she’d do, the rutting half-wit. Every time I plan to set off for the coast, that one gets herself in some kind of trouble! I swear, if she’s vanished into the earth now, I’ll leave her there to talk philosophy to the moles. I mean to be back in Amron Therain in two days, without fail, even if the ground opens up and swallows all of Vale.”
She called again for Nyctasia, but there was still no answer. “Curse her, if she’s hurt herself, I’ll throttle her!”
’Deisha reached for Carson’s hand and squeezed it. “No wonder Nyc’s so fond of you. And Raphe will break his heart when you go.”
“Did she tell you she’s fond of me?”
“Oh, anyone could see that, but in fact she did tell me so.”
“Ah… well, you can’t believe everything that little liar says. The Imperial Head Questioner couldn’t get the truth from her on the rack if his life depended on it. Sometimes I’ve come within a hair of-”
’Deisha laughed. “Corson, how do you deal with people you don’t like?”
“Ask Newt,” said Nyctasia out of the darkness ahead of them. “He can tell you all about that, but it’s not a pretty tale, I warn you.”
“He deserved it,” said Corson promptly. “Nyc, you fool, what were you doing up there?”
“Have you been looking for me? I’m sorry you had the trouble of coming out here-I was on my way back.”
Corson turned to ’Deisha in exasperation. “There, that’s what I mean. She can’t answer a plain question. It’s not in her nature. Oh, no, we weren’t looking for you, of course not. We climbed all this way in the dark because we wanted to fall in a pit and break our necks. Come along, scatterwit, let’s get back to the feast.”
“I really shall miss you, Corson. It will be rather a bore being among civilized people again, but I daresay I’ll get used to it in time.” She took Corson’s hand, then ’Deisha’s, and they started back down the path together.
’Deisha leaned across Nyctasia to say to Corson, “You’re right, she never did answer. And just now she tried to provoke you, to turn the subject. It’s remarkable.”
“Now you’re catching on to her tricks. She can talk you into swearing your hat’s a hen, and believing it too, if you don’t take care. But maybe you’ll prove a match for her-you’re of the same blood.”
“Yes,” said ’De
isha, “we’re of the same blood. Nyc, why were you at the temple?
It’s dangerous there, you said so yourself.”
“It’s not as dangerous now.”
“Hmmm, I thought as much,” said Corson. “It’s changed, I can feel that. What did you do?”
Nyctasia was silent for a time, but then said quietly, “I didn’t do it, but it’s done. That’s all that matters.”
For it was not she who had spoken, in truth, but the Indwelling Spirit which had spoken through her. Faced with a temptation which she could neither refuse nor receive, she had desperately thrust from her the very will and power to choose.
Guided only by the thought, “Don’t hesitate, act!” she had cried inwardly, “Let it be as it will, whatever may befall. Let it be as it will.” When she drew breath to speak she did not know what she was about to say, and then she heard her own voice commanding, “Begone. Return in peace to thine own place, and there remain. This and this alone I require of thee. Obey!”
She had no sooner ceased speaking than she was alone on the dark hillside, and only a fleeting sense of wild, inexpressible thanksgiving remained to mark the passage of the Cymvelans’ curse.
Nyctasia was past doubt or disappointment. If she had lost her only chance to save her city, to be reunited with her lover, yet she knew a great relief that the choice had been taken from her. She might so easily have made a mistake, but now she had only to trust in the vahn and believe that the right decision had been made. She had-thank the stars!-no choice.
She did not know how long she’d been away from the harvest celebration till she heard Corson and ’Deisha calling for her. Then she hurried downhill to join them, suddenly eager to be with the others, and to forget about what might have been.
“It’s done,” she said. “Done is the chase, and you’ll not have to come hunting for me there a third time, I promise you. I don’t mean to climb this hill again till next crush. And perhaps I won’t be needed then-I don’t think the workers will shun the place anymore, by then. But I will. Now I only want to have some of Raphe’s new wine. In fact, I want to have a great deal of it.” The first barrels of the golden wine had been opened on the first day of the Harvest Festival. The new vintage had been a great success, a striking blend of sharp and sweet that even Nyctasia had appreciated. Raphe had named it, in Corson’s honor, “Corisonde.”
“And some food,” Nyctasia added. “I’ve not eaten all day, I’m famishing.”
“What, not eaten a thing at the harvest feast?” cried ’Deisha. “That’s bad luck for the whole year to come! You must come eat plenty at once, or Aunt Mesthelde will never forgive you.”
“That’s right,” said Corson gleefully, “and she’ll surely be offended if you don’t have some of her own special traditional zhetaris, Nyc.”
31
the riverboat harbor lass tugged against the moorings as it rode at anchor between the wharves. It seemed to Corson that the boat was as eager as she to be free and on its way to the next port. She watched the crew loading the last casks of wine, under the direction of Leclairin ar’n Edonaris. It would not be long now before they cast off.
“If you ask me, the Cymvelans brought it on themselves,” she said suddenly to Nyctasia. “Maybe they did cause the drought, in a way, because they defied Nature. Everything they did was so controlled-making herbs grow in fancy patterns, making water flow in fancy patterns. Maybe the drought and… the rest… was Nature’s way of rebelling and showing them her power.”
Nyctasia smiled. Corson’s nature had chafed at military discipline all during her years in the army, and left her with an incurable distrust for any form of restraint or confinement. “I doubt it,” she answered, “but really you have a remarkable grasp of Elemental Balance.” Still, it might be as well not to restore the knot-gardens after all, Nyctasia reflected. “Well,” she continued,
“since you disapprove of interfering with Nature, perhaps you won’t want this little keepsake I made for you.” She knelt and looked through her satchel for her parting gift to Corson, a small parcel wrapped in a scrap of leather. She moved stiffly and painfully-the result of a final lesson in swordplay from Corson.
At first Corson was puzzled when she unfolded the covering and found only a simple wooden comb. But then she remembered that Nyctasia had once told her about a certain perfume of ancient Kehs-Edre-a perfume for the hair. She sniffed at the comb eagerly. “I don’t smell anything.”
“I told you, only men can smell it, and only when it’s combed through a woman’s hair. Don’t try it now, for vahn’s sake! Put it away-you must only use it when you’re alone with the man of your choice, and then only in a place where you can wash your hair afterward. I’m serious, Corson, I warn you. In your hair, the scent might even be dangerous.”
Corson believed her. When Nyctasia was lying she never seemed at all anxious to be believed. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, putting the precious comb safely at the bottom of her pack. “Thanks! I’ll write and let you know how I fare with it.”
“Yes, do. You’ve almost learned to write legibly. You should keep in practice.”
“And you, remember to use your shield arm. Always think of your shield as a weapon, not just a protection, even if it’s only a cloak wrapped around your arm. Never let your shield arm hang idle-if there’s nothing else to hand, grab some dirt and throw it.”
“I’ll remember,” said Nyctasia with a grimace, touching her left forearm, which was bandaged. But then she started to laugh. “You’re lucky ’Deisha didn’t take up arms against you for the way you misused me. She’d have minced you to bits and fed you to her dogs, she was that furious. Now she thinks you’re a brute.”
“Well, I think she’s a darling,” Corson said generously.
“And that puts me in mind of something else-when Raphe wished you a good journey, why did you say, ‘The same to you, and many of them’? What did you mean by that? He’s not going anywhere.”
Now it was Corson who laughed. “Why don’t you ask him to explain it? You Edonaris are great ones for explaining.”
“Never mind. I think I can guess… It looks as if they mean to weigh anchor soon. Perhaps you should get on board. Do you have the letters I gave you?
Remember, don’t take them to Chiastelm with you, Give them to a courier in Meholmne or Lhestreq, except the one for-”
Corson picked her up and hugged her roughly. “I won’t forget, don’t worry.”
“Put me down, fool!” said Nyctasia, and kissed her on the nose.
Corson obeyed, and took up her pack instead, slinging it over her shoulder. They started down the wharf to the gangplank of the Harbor Lass.
“Take care of yourself, Corson. And send me word if there’s… news… of Rhostshyl.”
“I will. Maybe I’ll bring you word someday. I’m bound to be in these parts again, sooner or later. I’ll come for a visit.”
“You’ll be most welcome-especially to our Raphe. But if you had any sense, you’d stop your vagabonding and settle down in Chiastelm, you know.”
“Sense! If I had any sense, I’d not have taken up with you in the first place.”
“True. But I didn’t hire you for your sense.”
“No, you hired me because you were so fond of me,” said Corson triumphantly.
Before her startled companion could reply, she raced up the gangplank to the deck of the Harbor Lass, well satisfied that she’d finally managed to have the last word in a conversation with Nyctasia.
When she looked back. Nyctasia had gone to join the other Edonaris. Leclairin was concluding their dealings with the trader who’d purchased their wine for shipment to distant markets, while her brother Aldrichas paid the hired wagoners. Nyctasia looked on patiently, without comment.
Soon the call was given to weigh anchor, and the lines were cast off, the plank drawn in. Corson watched the sails unfurl and swell as the Harbor Lass moved slowly away from the wharves. The sight reminded her of something, and she chu
ckled at the idea. The sails, the rigging-what were they but a web to catch the wind? “I’ll have to remember to write that to Nyc,” she thought. “She likes that sort of nonsense.”
Nyctasia waved to her from the dock. For a while she watched the graceful vessel sail out of the harbor and head downriver, then she turned back to her waiting kinfolk, ready to start for home.
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