by J F Rivkin
“amiable” and “gracious.”
Raphe applauded her, and ’Deisha cried, “Nyc, you were wonderful,” embracing her wildly, and tearing a seam in the green silk gown, Excited by the commotion, Greymantle jumped up on them, sending Nyctasia’s chain of office flying.
Raphe retrieved it, and returned it to her with a bow. “Tell me, Your Ladyship, how do you manage to bow, wearing this thing, without letting it fall off?”
“It’s not at all easy,” laughed Nyctasia. “Shall I give you lessons in deportment?”
“I should say not!” Mesthelde returned from escorting the guests out. “You did very well,” she conceded. “They took to it. But if you ever behaved to me like that, I’d slap your face for you, you conceited creature. ’Deisha, get out of that dress before you destroy it.” She paused and fixed Nyctasia with a shrewd look. “Is Marrekind really ill?” she demanded.
“I hope so,” said ’Deisha earnestly.
“‘Powerful will!’” snorted Mesthelde, before Nyctasia could answer her question.
“It’s folk with ungovernable tempers who suffer from the Surge.”
“That’s true, but it would be less than gracious to tell him so. I believe that he is ill, yes… or that he soon will be.”
“Hmmm… and what was all that nonsense about a red mist, or some such? I’ve never heard the like.”
“It’s rather an uncommon malady, but a very grave one. I’d best go see to the preparation of the specific. I suspect that he’ll be needing it quite soon.”
But though Nyctasia made ready the necessary remedy, she did not yet send it to Castle Saetarrin.
13
corson was nowhere in sight when Steifann came back, just past dawn, looking tired and a little tipsy. Walden had gone to market for the day’s supplies-usually Steifann’s chore-leaving Trask and his other underlings to finish the baking. Annin was already bustling around the kitchen.
“A most charming woman,” Steifann reported. “But not very encouraging, about Destiver.”
“What did she say?” Annin asked anxiously. “Can she do anything to help?”
“Oh, she sympathized, said she quite understood-old shipmates and all that-”
“But…?”
“But there’s nothing to be done at least till the Maritime Alliance meets, and she doubts that much can be expected then. She very kindly explained that this matter does not concern Chiastelm alone, but the whole enterprise of coastal shipping. The Guild means to raise its standing in the Alliance by showing the rest what Chiastelm has done to fight smuggling, and Destiver’s their prize.”
“She’s safe till late in the spring, then, that’s something gained. They won’t hold such an important council until the thaw’s well past, and the roads dry.”
Steifann pushed the hair out of his eyes and stretched wearily. “Maybe before then we’ll find a way. Where’s Corson?”
“Still abed,” said Trask.
“Lazy wench. I’ll join her for a while. I could do with some sleep.” He winked.
“Being persuasive is hard work.”
But he found Corson not only awake, but dressed and waiting for him. “Good,” he said, “since you’re up you can go help Annin. I’ll be out when I’ve had some rest. I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he teased, throwing himself across the bed beside her.
“Neither did I,” said Corson smugly.
Steifann sat up again, “Eh? Why not?”
“If you think I spent the night here alone, missing you, you’re sadly mistaken, my friend, I was out looking for another man. I found him too.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re just jealous.”
“Ask Annin, then. She knows, Annin!” she called, “come in here, will you?”
Annin looked in. “What is it, pet?” She no longer seemed at all angry with Corson.
“Was I here last night?” Corson demanded.
“Why, of course you were. You were with me all night, if anyone asks. You never went out at all.”
Steifann looked from one woman to the other in confusion. Corson laughed.
“That’s right, so I was, if anyone asks. But I shan’t be here tonight, that’s certain. One of the ’Vathid soldiers told me that the Border Guard of Tiereion is hiring people to train new recruits, and they pay well in the Gemlands. I’ll bring back diamond buckles for you all.” She stood and shouldered her pack.
Steifann hastily got up. “But you don’t have to go now,” he protested. “Wait a few days, why don’t you?”
“No sense in delaying. It will take a good while to get that far north, with the roads shin-deep in mud. I want to get an early start. I was only waiting to tell you good-bye, love.”
A hard hug and a hearty kiss were all of Corson’s farewells. She had never been one for prolonged partings.
Steifann held her back for a moment. “Corson, you’re not going just because I-”
“No, no, it’s not that. If I were jealous of your tryst with Eslace av Ondra-that scheming crone-I’d stay right here and see that you didn’t make a habit of it. And you’d better not,” she added, on her way out.
Steifann looked after her, angry and uncertain. “Then why in the Hlann’s name-!”
“Let her go,” Annin advised him. “It’s almost spring, and you know Corson can’t stay still with the spring fever in her blood. She’ll be back before long, I’ll warrant,” She pointed imperiously to the bed. “Sleep while you can, before the house is full of folk.”
Steifann sat on the bed and pulled off his boots, grumbling to himself. “Thinks she’s the only woman in the world, does she? Goes off for months at a time, never a thought for me… Well, one day…”
Annin shut the door before remarking, “Oh, I almost forgot-you were so busy all night, you haven’t heard the news, have you? Someone cut Hrawn brenn Thespaon’s throat last night, in the alley behind The Crow’s Nest.”
Steifann looked up sharply. “Is that so?”
“Yes, it seems he’d come by a good bit of money somehow, and of course the fool got roaring drunk with it. The talk is that he started bragging how he’d sold a pack of smugglers to the Guild for a pretty penny.”
“And does the talk say who killed him?”
“Not that I’ve heard. But they don’t take kindly to informers in that quarter, you know. It could have been anyone. And I don’t think the authorities will try very hard to find out, either. Hrawn was nothing but a troublemaker. The city guard will think themselves well rid of him.”
Steifann sighed. “And now Corson’s suddenly heard of a job in the far north.
Well, I hope you’re satisfied.”
“She’d have gone soon anyway. She left you this in the meantime.” Annin took a well-filled purse from her pocket and tossed it to him. “She says you’re to hire someone to help with the heavy work here till she comes back. She suggested that someone ugly and unpleasant would be best.” Annin grinned. “And preferably bald.”
14
true to nyctasia’s prediction, it was only a matter of days before messengers from the Saetarrin arrived to entreat her help for Lord Marrekind.
’Cacia interrupted her and Jenisorn at their studies. “They say the Red Veil’s come upon him, whatever that may be, and that you have a cure for it, Nyc, which His Lordship begs you’ll send at once.”
“I shall do better than that. I’ll go myself to tend to him, and bring the remedy with me. I have it right here.”
“Don’t you do it!” ’Cacia protested. “Let the bastard suffer. Let him die!”
“I know what I’m about, girl. Trust me. Run and tell them that I’ll set out at once.”
“What are you about, Nyc?” Jenisorn demanded, as soon as ’Cacia had left them.
“Why should you help him?”
“Why, Jheine. I’m surprised at you. It’s my manifest duty to heal Lord Marrekind.” Nyctasia grinned, and held up a small silver flask. “And when I’ve given him this, he’ll be so exc
eedingly grateful he may even keep his word to me about Lorr. One who’s been cured of The Red Veil doesn’t soon forget it.”
“You’re quite sure you can cure it, then? If you go there yourself, and fail-”
“Don’t worry, my lad. I cannot fail. I have only to give him this antidote to the poison I put in his wine. You’ll agree, surely, that it’s my duty to do so.”
Jenisorn dropped the vellum scroll he was holding. “Sweet vahn, Nyc!”
Greymantle watched in surprise as the scroll rolled across the floor toward him.
He stalked it suspiciously, sniffed it, then decided that it was unfit to eat, and sneezed disdainfully. Nyctasia took it away from him before he could change his mind.
“You’re not to tell the others, mind you, Jheine. I don’t know that Mother
’Charis would approve-and I think young ’Cacia would approve too much.”
“As you will, of course. But I’d not rely on Marrekind’s promises, even if he believes that he owes you his life. I think we’d best try to get Lorr away in secret, nonetheless.”
“By all means. It’s not only his promises I wanted, but his pain as well. Oh, not for spite’s sake-much as the prospect pleases-no, rather to create a certain Symmetry. Understand, Jheine, that Balance is the Principle that must be satisfied in order to bring about healing. To invoke any Influence, a sacrifice must be made, never forget it. I tried to give of my own strength to heal Lorr, but I feel that I was unsuccessful.”
Jenisorn nodded. “He’s been a little better since you saw him, but he’s still far from well.”
“That’s because he doesn’t want to live, you see. But it may be that I can find the power to overcome that Resistance, through the suffering of Lord Marrekind.
The vahn forbids, in the natural order of things, that one should win such power from the sacrifice of another-but, in this matter. Balance will be served because Lord Marrekind was the one responsible for Lorr’s suffering. Do you follow?”
“I think so. Is that why you must go to him now?”
Nyctasia hesitated. “No. Not for this Influence, but for another spell I mean to try. An older spell, and far more powerful. Perhaps the oldest spell of all-the blood of the guilty to heal the wounds of the victim. I shall order Lord Marrekind to be bled-which will do him good, in truth, though that’s by the way-and bring back with me a measure of his blood, to bathe Lorr’s back. It’s a primitive magic, and wild and wicked, according to some. It certainly has nothing to do with the Indwelling Spirit.”
“Let me come with you, Nyc. I can help. You could say you’re teaching me to be a healer.”
“So I am, but there’s something I want you to do here while I’m gone. Do you know of the hot spring that was found in the great crystal cavern of the Cymvelans? It should be possible to reach it now, through the tunnels, to fetch some of the water. Such springs often possess healing waters, or so it’s said.
We may as well try. Wash Lorr’s wounds with it, and give him some to drink.”
“I’ve done that already,” said Jenisorn proudly.
“Indeed? Then I shall take you along with me, if your elders don’t object. Here, put these books where they belong.” She paused. “I have read, though, that it’s best to partake of such waters at their source. Perhaps we could bring him to the spring one night, and keep him hidden there. It’s as secret as the cellars, and-”
Jenisorn laughed. “You are a witch, Nyc, and no mistake. That’s just where we moved him, once the way to the ruins was cleared. The air is pure there, and it’s warm near the spring. I didn’t mean to tell you unless it became necessary, but I see it’s no use trying to keep anything from you. He’s had the water in plenty, and bathed in the pool.”
“Well done, by my word. With you to look after him, he’ll have no choice but to mend.”
“Nyc… could I be a healer, in truth? Will you really teach me?”
“I intend to,” Nyctasia said seriously. “But you will be a far better healer than I, one day. If you can be spared from the vintnery, I’ll put you to work in earnest soon. Come along, now, ’prentice, we’ve kept His Lordship waiting long enough.”
But with the change of the seasons, her plans were changed as well. By spring thaw, Lorr was well enough to travel, and reached Amron Therain in safely.
Jenisorn was now free to apply himself to his studies, and the family was willing to let Nyctasia make a scholar of him if she could, But the opening of the Trade Road brought other travelers and a courier from Osela with news and messages for the household. Nyctasia’s letters from Chiastelm were finally delivered.
They were bound together in a packet, and neither bore Nyctasia’s name, but Mesthelde handed them to her at once when the messenger said that they’d come all the way from the coast.
“They must be intended for our westerner,” she said.
Nyctasia seemed to receive them with a certain reluctance. “Yes, I believe these are mine. This one’s from an old friend, an herbalist. She always seals her letters thus.” She showed the others the clear impression left by a leaf that had been pressed into the warm wax.
“Nightingale’s-tongue, the minstrel’s herb,” said Mesthelde. “A good choice for you. A tisane brewed of it is supposed to preserve a singer’s voice.”
Nyctasia nodded. “And I was born with the Nightingale in the ascendant, you see,” She examined the other letter, which was stamped with the seal of a crudely carved hare. “I don’t know this mark, but it must be from Corson. Only she knows that I’m here.” She broke open the seal and immediately recognized Corson’s untrained scrawl.
“Ah, my adored Corson,” sighed Raphe. “Goddess of Danger and Desire. How fares the glorious warrior, Nyc?”
“Nyc…?” said ’Deisha anxiously.
Nyctasia had read the beginning of Corson’s letter, gasped sharply, and suddenly turned a deathly white. In a choked voice she whispered, “Forgive me, I must-I can’t-” and hurried from the hall with the letter crushed in her hand.
Greymantle loped after her.
“I fear I’ve brought ill tidings,” said the courier apologetically.
“Were those letters from Rhostshyl?” Jenisorn asked him.
“Chiastelm, I was told, though Rhostshyl’s not far from there. But if it’s news of Rhostshyl you want, there’s plenty, and none of it good. Outright war broke out a few months ago, between the two ruling families. I forget which side won, but it was a doubtful victory either way. Fires destroyed half the city, and hunger and sickness followed, as they always do. Rhostshyl’s a ruin, hadn’t you heard?”
Nyctasia sat staring at Corson’s letter without seeing it, as the words she had read seared her spirit and her understanding. She had known that war must come, of course she had known. Even here in the Valley folk had heard rumors from the coast, leaving little doubt that the fragile peace in Rhostshyl could not last.
Yet she was unprepared for the news, now that it faced her at last, no longer a fear for the future, not a rumor or a vision, but an inescapable fact. No warning could have prepared her to accept the reality.
Winter in Vale had been so still, so changeless, that time might have been frozen like the mountain lakes, like the wagon-ruts of the great Southern Trade Road. With news of the lands beyond the valley walled out by snow, and travelers almost unknown, it had seemed as if nothing could possibly be taking place anywhere in the world. Lost in her studies, sheltered and cherished by her newfound kinsfolk, Nyctasia had almost ceased to feel herself an exile and a stranger. But now as the land woke to spring she too was roused from her dreams to receive the thaw’s tidings. Rhostshyl in ashes…
She had been living as if she meant to settle permanently at Vale, and she had nearly deceived herself, but now she understood that beneath all her plans had lain the belief that one day she would live again in Rhostshyl, and someday die there. Only now did she realize that she had taken this for granted, for the future suddenly seemed to stretch before her empty a
nd meaningless. If Rhostshyl perished, she would be homeless forever. It was unthinkable.
“When feeling returns to the numbed flesh, there is pain,” she thought ruefully.
Did the earth too suffer when the winter ice melted away, and life seized the land again?
Shaking off such thoughts, she forced herself to reread Corson’s words, but could find no comfort in them. The offhanded hopelessness of “It’s over now” filled her with a sickening, chill despair. She read on, but Corson had soon lost interest in the subject and turned to her own affairs. She was enthusiastic in her thanks for the wooden comb. She complained that her life in Chiastelm was a bit dull at times. “Sometimes I even miss you, with all your endless nonsense,” she had written. “Charms and chatter and rhymes and riddles. But when I’m sober I remember all the trouble you put me to. No one here believes the half of it, and I don’t blame them much. I hardly believe it myself.”
She ended with fond greetings to the rest of the Edonaris clan-especially to Raphe-but she had no more to say about the plight of Rhostshyl.
But from Maegor’s letter Nyctasia learned all the particulars of the tragedy.
Corson had not exaggerated, it seemed. “My Dear ’Tasia,” Maegor began, “I have been tempted to spare you news that can only distress you, but your loyal courier shames me to the truth. It is, as she says, your right to decide for yourself what you must do. Yet if your spirit knows peace where you are, then you will bide, if you are wise. When you left, you told me that you’d be crazy to return to the city, and that worries me greatly, for you are an Edonaris, and therefore mad, as all the world knows. Consider well, ’Tasia-Emeryc and Lehannie were among the first to be slain, and not by chance, as you will well understand. Would you not be the next target, if you returned? And even if the enemies of your house are no longer a threat, can you be sure of a welcome from those of your kin who survive? You always opposed their claims to sole rule of the city, and now that they’ve achieved their desire at last, and done away with the only challenge to their power, will they allow you to share in that power?