by J F Rivkin
What will be gained by your joining the ranks of the dead?”
Nyctasia shuddered, remembering with cruel vividness her dream of Rhostshyl as the abode of the dead, a city of fallen stone and blackened timber, where only ghosts dwelt-ghosts who had invited her to become one of them. Now she recalled that her brother Emeryc and her mother’s sister Lehannie had been among them, though both had been alive when she left the city. Maegor’s warning seemed prudent indeed. Nyctasia read further.
“They came to me for news of you, not long ago,” Maegor had written. “I could tell them nothing, of course, but I think they believe that I could send word to you if I chose, for they left this message with me nonetheless. I would that I had burned it before the doughty Corson sought me out, for now I must, in all conscience, let her send it on to you. I have not read it, and it is my hope that you will not do so either. For the good of your spirit, ’Tasia, leave it unread, and destroy it.”
Nyctasia knew that she would be well-advised to heed this counsel, and knew just as surely that she wouldn’t. Maegor’s advice was always wise, and Nyctasia rarely followed it. She snatched at the other page and shook it open at once. It was unsealed, and bore neither salutation nor signature, but Nyctasia knew that the writer was Therisain ar’n Edonaris, one of her staunchest allies at court, who had joined with her in calling for a treaty of peace with the Teiryn, The others had not thought him a serious threat to their ambitions, since he was only of minor rank, but things had changed in the city now…
Not for the salvation of her life or her spirit would Nyctasia refuse his message while the faintest hope yet remained to her. For her dream had shown her another vision of Rhostshyl as well. She had seen herself as a young bride, heralded by horns and banners, leading the living back into the heart of the city. With that image before her, she did not hesitate to read Therisain’s words, and as she read she began to understand for the first time what these shadows might mean.
His letter repeated some of what she’d learned already from the others, though without referring to any person or place by name. But then, unlike Corson or Maegor, he spoke not only of the city’s present state, but of its future. “We have your letters of warrant, and by their authority we have thus far prevented the execution of the heir and many other prisoners. The matriarch is persuaded that more deaths might spur further uprisings among their supporters, but she will not be satisfied to hold her hand forever. She has been weakened, and this is the time to act. You must return to claim your prerogatives soon, if our plans are ever to hear fruit. We shall have the support of the populace and much of the nobility, I believe, for this conflict has devastated the high and the low alike, and folk remember that you sought to prevent it. Even the twins now oppose further bloodshed, and agree to await your word. They are still licking their wounds and are grown less bloodthirsty, having once tasted blood.
“I tell you, reconciliation may be within our grasp, but you must make your presence felt and establish your power beyond question. Only you are in a position to impose order and stability upon this chaos, and to assure that peace and mercy prevail in the city. Your duty is manifest.”
The hope he held out was a ray of light piercing the dark wilderness of Nyctasia’s grief. She could bear any bereavement, she thought, if Rhostshyl might yet be saved. She hardly knew what she felt about the death of her brother. He had been a follower of the matriarch Mhairestri, devoted to keeping Rhostshyl in the hands of the Edonaris at any cost, and he had condemned Nyctasia’s efforts at every turn. He had been as one dead to her for years, and she had long since ceased to mourn him. It was too late to regret their differences now. His death changed nothing between them.
But it changed the balance of power in Rhostshyl a good deal.
Neither Corson nor Maegor had realized the full significance of the news they’d sent, but Lord Therisain had understood it very well, and he knew that there was no need to explain it to Nyctasia. The titular lines of descent of the Edonaris were as familiar to her as her own name. Emeryc and Lehannie had both been of Rhaicime rank, which, as Maegor had suggested, was why they’d been marked for assassination as soon as hostilities had been openly declared. But the heir to Emeryc’s title was his young son Leirven, still a child, and Lehannie was to be succeeded by Nyctasia’s sister Tiambria-one of the twins-who would not come of age for another three years. With the heads of the House of Teiryn dead or defeated, there was no one at liberty who had the right to serve upon the council of the Rhaicimate. Nyctasia was entitled, quite legitimately, to declare herself the absolute ruler of the city of Rhostshyl.
15
anxious as she was to depart, Nyctasia would not have considered leaving without making her formal farewell to the Lady Nocharis. Indeed, when she presented herself, the matriarch seemed to be expecting her.
“Ah, here you are, my dear.” She beckoned Nyctasia closer, and looked searchingly into her face. “And so, after all, you found the treasure you came here to seek?”
“I did not know what I was seeking when I came, but I believe I did find it here. And I shall always be grateful.”
“Already you have flown in spirit. When will you start out?”
“Tomorrow, at first light, by your leave. But you will give me your blessing.
Mother, before I go?” She knelt by Lady Nocharis’s chair.
The old woman touched Nyctasia’s hair lightly with one frail hand, murmuring a ceremonial phrase, then took Nyctasia’s hand in both her own, “We shall be sorry to lose you so soon, but you must not stay here. You’re like an arrow shivering on the string, waiting to be released. How impatient is youth. Our poor Jheine will be a lost fledgling without you.”
Nyctasia sat on the floor at her feet. “Yes, I promised to speak to you about him. I do think he should he sent to study with the scholar-physicians of the Imperial University.” She sighed. “That’s what I most longed for, myself, when I was Jheine’s age. I even cast the lots about it once.”
“And how were you answered?”
“With ambiguities, as always. ‘You shall not have your desire, yet in a manner you shall’-or something of that sort. The fates never did reveal more than that to me. Perhaps it meant that Jheine would attend the university in my place.
He’d do well there, I’m certain of it, and his heart’s not in his work here.”
“I suppose we must see to his education, now that you’ve spoiled him for lesser things,” said Lady Nocharis with a smile. “But I thought you did not trust the skills of leeches?” It seemed that nothing was said or done in the household without Lady Nocharis’s knowledge.
“So I told Lord Marrekind,” Nyctasia admitted, “And it’s true that a false physician is worse than a murderer. But Jheine has the makings of a true physician and healer-and they are rare. He has the gift of compassion, which never should be wasted.”
“It never is wasted, my dear. It cannot be. But is compassion a gift? Or is it a responsibility?”
“To be kind is a duty, to be kind-hearted is a gift,’” said Nyctasia. “Well, it loses something in the translation. To those who do good and are good, there seems to be no difference, perhaps, but to the rest of us kindness is a Discipline.”
Lady Nocharis shook her head. “Philosophy,” she said indulgently. “Don’t fret too much over the heart’s secret reasons. Such scrupulous distinctions may cloud the judgment, and mike confusion of what is simple. Jheine is a good lad, yes, but you are not less good than he-you are simply less innocent. And that is to be expected of one who has more experience. There is no great mystery to it.”
She raised Nyctasia’s head and met her serious, questioning gaze. “Only remember that you are a healer. Let nothing persuade you to forget that. Then all will be well.”
“You have the second sight, Mother ’Charis, have you not?”
“Oh, my dear, everyone has, to a greater or lesser degree.” She sighed and released Nyctasia’s hand. “And now you must be gone, child. I shall re
st for a while.”
Nyctasia stood, and kissed her cheek. “I feel somehow that I’ve bid you farewell before.”
“Do you, daughter? You know that means we’ll meet again, so they say.”
“I hope so,” Nyctasia said. But she knew how very unlikely it was.
One of the most difficult lessons Nyctasia had learned in her exile was to moderate her habitual caution and suspicion. She had soon come to trust her second family as she had never trusted her first, but still it was some time before she could accustom herself to being without a weapon, or sleeping behind unbarred doors, with only Greymantle on guard. Such carelessness could have been fatal in Rhostshyl.
But now she had grown so well used to the free and open household that she was not at all alarmed-or surprised-when ’Deisha slipped into her room that night and perched on her bed, waking her. Greymantle only looked up and wagged his tail lazily, recognizing her familiar scent.
“Nyc, I know you want to make an early start in the morning, but I’ve had no chance to speak with you-it’s been so sudden, all of this. I still can’t believe that you mean to go off and leave us all heartbroken. How can you?”
Nyctasia chuckled and threw back the covers to allow ’Deisha to slip in beside her. “Lass, you are shameless.” It was not the first time ’Deisha had stolen into her room, and her bed.
’Deisha kissed her. “Shameless I may be, but not heartless,” she said reproachfully. She propped herself on one elbow and let her other hand rest gently on Nyctasia’s cheek.
Nyctasia turned her head and kissed ’Deisha’s palm, “’Deisha, my wanton dove, in a week’s time you’ll have forgotten me.”
But ’Deisha, suddenly serious, regarded her sorrowfully. “Don’t tease, Nyc. It’s you I’m worried about, in truth. I’m afraid for you. You’ve told us often enough how dangerous it is in Rhostshyl.”
“Sacrifices must be made,” said Nyctasia. “‘When a life is taken, it is lost, but when a life is given it is received.’”
“Well, it oughtn’t to be given, or bought, or bartered, whatever the philosophers say! Life’s not an outworn pair of boots.”
“Well said,” Nyctasia laughed. “But never mind-I don’t intend to be killed. I promise you. The city is changed now, love. Many of my enemies are dead or defeated, and my people are in power. I’ve nothing to fear.” Like most of Nyctasia’s lies, this one was partly true. There was less to fear, now.
’Deisha sighed. “I promised you, when you first came, that I’d never let you go back, Nyc. But how am I to stop you, when even honey-tongued Jheine can’t persuade you to stay?”
“You’ve kept your word,” Nyctasia said, after a silence. “I shan’t go back, not to the way things were when I left. I mean to go forward now, not back-to look to the future, and not repeat the past. It is not only Rhostshyl that is different now, but I too. And that is your doing. You’ve made it possible for me to return home, not because I need to be there, but because I’m needed there.”
“I? I don’t understand. What have I done?”
“You’ve set me an example-all of you, just by your way of life. Whether you’re caring for the grapes, or the animals, or the children, or one another, whatever you do is done only that life may continue and flourish. Your lives are not spent in the service of ambition or fear, but only of life itself. And that’s as it should be. You’ve taught me what peace means, and what it could mean to my city and my people. Knowing that, I could never go back to what I was.”
’Deisha found all this unintelligible, like most of Nyctasia’s explanations. But if Nyctasia was satisfied with matters as they stood, she would be content.
“Well, I insist that you take Grey-mantle with you, at least,” she said. “He’ll look after you in my place.”
Not long afterward she woke Nyctasia again, this time to rouse her from the nightmare that gripped her. ’Deisha had to shake her and call her name for a good while before she could make her awaken, and then Nyctasia only lay and stared into the darkness as if she saw her dreams anew with waking eyes.
’Deisha held her and tried to comfort her. “Nyc, it was only a nightmare. It’s over now.”
“No, no, he’s dead, but it isn’t over.”
“Dead? Who’s dead?”
“Thierran… my cousin. We were betrothed as children.” Nyctasia had begun to recover herself, and she did not tell ’Deisha that Thierran had once held her prisoner, or that it was Corson who’d killed him. “I was dreaming of a time, when we were quite young, and he was wounded in the hunt-vahn, how he bled! They all believed that he’d die, and at first they kept me away, but he called for me all that night, and finally they had to let me stay with him and tend him.”
(“’Tasia, don’t leave me,” he had whispered, and for days she had refused to move from his bedside.)
“And so you saw him die?” ’Deisha asked sympathetically.
“No-not then. He did recover, and I was exceedingly proud. I believed that I’d healed him. Perhaps I did.”
(But in her dream he was a grown man, and he whispered, “’Tasia, come back to me.”)
“It doesn’t matter,” said Nyctasia. “I’m all right now. Come, we’ll sleep a few hours more.”
’Deisha was too sleepy to question her further. They nestled together, and she soon slept like any healthy, hard-working farm girl. But Nyctasia lay awake for some time, haunted by the figure in her dream. He was Thierran, and yet she had somehow recognized in him the embodiment of her afflicted city. It was Thierran who called her, and yet it was Rhostshyl.
Her journey was uneventful until she reached Larkmere, where a great many things seemed to happen to her at once. First of all she was robbed, while watching the acrobats perform in the town square. They were the same troupe she’d seen at Osela the autumn before, and she was more impressed than ever at their mastery.
The rope-dancer had somehow stretched her rope between the two tall towers of the city hall, and her performance at that dangerous height drew all eyes irresistibly. The watchers gasped as she leaped and turned in the air, landing firmly on her feet on the quivering rope. Someone in one of the towers tossed gleaming gold-painted balls to her, and she juggled them deftly, capering back and forth along the rope.
Nyctasia was by no means the only spectator to have her pocket picked while gazing upward in rapt fascination. Indeed, she did not even discover the theft until the acrobats’ drummer came round to collect coins from the crowd. When she reached for her money-pouch, she found that the thongs had been cleanly cut from her belt.
But she had no time to consider how best to deal with this loss, for just then Greymantle gave a great tug at his leash and suddenly bounded off across the square, dragging Nyctasia after him. Nose to the ground, he galloped through the marketplace, following a chosen scent, and Nyctasia could barely keep up with him, much less stop him. But they did not have far to go.
Greymantle, followed by Nyctasia, ran into a long, open shed roughly divided into stalls. Wagging his tail wildly, he searched through these till he found Lorr and pounced on him to lick his face. Then he pranced proudly back to Nyctasia’s side, looking to her for praise.
“Lady!” said Lorr, astonished. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t know,” gasped Nyctasia, still trying to catch her breath. “How do you come to be here?” She looked around uneasily. Lorr was not alone. There were perhaps a dozen people in the shed, linked together in small groups by chains fastened to the wall or the roof-posts. Lorr was joined to a one-armed man and a middle-aged woman, neither of whom would fetch a good price in the slave-market, Nyctasia realized. The more profitable merchandise would be on display outside.
“By ill luck,” Lorr was saying. “Bandits attacked our party. They let the others go, but those who were marked they sold to bounty-hunters. We were… forced
… to tell whose we were.”
Suddenly he blanched and his voice rose in fear. “Lady, you said-if I was b
rought back-Lord Marrekind would give me over to you! But if you’re not there-”
“Hush,” Nyctasia warned him, as one of the guards looked in through the far door. Like everyone else, he and his cohorts were neglecting their business in order to watch the daring performance of the rope-dancer. There was little danger that the chained prisoners would escape in their absence.
But seeing Nyctasia within, he came in and swaggered unhurriedly down the length of the shed toward her, swinging his heavy whip at his side. Shrewdly appraising her patched cloak and worn boots, he assumed that she couldn’t afford to buy. A minstrel, most likely, with that harp slung at her shoulder.
But plenty of folk came in just to look-or to touch-and often they were willing to part with a few coins to satisfy their curiosity. And they were most generous, he had found, when he chivvied the prisoners about for their amusement. He had to take care not to damage his employers’ property, of course, for he was supposed to protect the slaves as well as guard them. He could claim that they’d attacked him, for his keys, and that he’d had to beat them off-no one would heed their denials-but that tale would wear thin with too much use. A little extra silver now was not worth a loss of pay later.
So he merely lashed out with the whip and kicked at a few of the prisoners as he passed, snarling, “On your feet! We’ve a customer here-look sharp.” As he approached Nyctasia, he seized one of the men and thrust him to the front of the stall, ordering the rest to show themselves as well. They shuffled forward, cowed and silent, and the guard looked down at Nyctasia with a leer. “Do you see anything you like, mistress?”
She glanced around briefly and shrugged. “Not a very choice lot, are they?”