Witch Of Rhostshyl s-3

by J F Rivkin

  “What, tonight?” Steifann objected. “You just got here. Wait till morning.”

  Corson hesitated. It was late, and she’d been riding since dawn. But Maegor’s words came back to her: “If she returns, she may well be assassinated.” Suppose Nyctasia had sought her out because she needed her services as bodyguard? Corson knew that she wouldn’t rest easy till she’d seen for herself that Nyctasia was safe. “You might have to make do without me tonight, poor creature,” she told Steifann vengefully. “That must be hard to bear. But I’d better go see whether Nyc needs me. She might be in danger. Asye knows she usually is.”

  20

  nyctasia was, as usual, in danger. But she knew nothing of her peril till it was past, till Greymantle roused her from her stupor, licking her face and whimpering. She clutched at him, struggling to rise, and felt that his coat was wet and matted. Her hands came away dark and shiny with blood. When she saw the still figure lying near her on the floor, she believed for one dizzying moment that it was Thierran, and she cried out in confusion and denial of the sight.

  She seemed to have stepped outside of time itself, and returned to the night of his death, as if everything that had happened to her since had been only a strange dream.

  But as she came slowly to her senses, the moonlight and the dim lamplight from the hallway revealed who it was who lay there, his throat torn open raggedly, not slashed by Corson’s keen-honed dagger. She reached out a trembling hand to stroke Greymantle’s massive head. “Good lad,” she whispered. “Well done.”

  Greymantle flicked his ears, listening, then trotted back out to the corridor on some quest of his own. But this time he wagged his tail in welcome. This was a scent he recognized.

  Corson laughed at the eager hound who greeted her like a skittish puppy, tugging at her cloak then running ahead of her and turning back to bark impatiently.

  “All right, beast, I’m coming. Get out of my way, then.” But when he came back a second time to herd her along, she saw that his muzzle and ruff were caked with blood, and her laughter died in her throat. Sword in hand, she followed him at a run the rest of the way, calling, “Nyc! Where are you?” But she knew, somehow, where she would find Nyctasia.

  Greymantle darted to Nyctasia’s side but Corson stood frozen in the doorway, faced with the ghost of the man she’d killed, and Nyctasia standing over him with the same half-dreamy, absent look she’d worn that night.

  “It’s not Thierran, Corson,” she said, in an unnaturally placid voice that Corson remembered.

  “I didn’t think it was!” Corson lied, beginning to breathe again. “He’s dead and gone, and good riddance to him. The dead don’t return.”

  “Our dead do not return to us,” Nyctasia agreed, “but we may go to them betimes, if we will. It is written, ‘To seek to commune with the dead is forbidden, but if the dead would commune with us, it is permitted to listen.’”

  “What are you babbling about?” Corson demanded. She strode over to the dead man and shoved him with her foot, angry at him for giving her a fright. “Who’s this, then?”

  Nyctasia did not seem to hear. “But why should it be easier to listen to the dead than to the living? If I’d listened to Thierran while he lived, perhaps he’d not be dead now.”

  Corson had been with her only a few minutes, and already she was exasperated.

  “Nyc, talk sense! Are you hurt?”

  Nyctasia looked at her blindly. “I? I’m never hurt. It’s those around me who suffer… Corson, the night we left Rhostshyl, he came to warn me about the attack waiting outside the city gates. Oh, but he was pleased with himself, that he knew something I didn’t-I with all my schemes and precautions. He’d defied Mhairestri to save me. Even Mescrisdan didn’t know his plans. He believed that I’d be forced to stay in the city, under his protection… that I’d be grateful to him. I, grateful!” She laughed bitterly.

  Corson shook her head. “He’d drawn on you, fool, don’t you remember?”

  “How else to make me listen, save at sword’s point?”

  “You’re dreaming, Nyc. He was a madman, that cousin of yours, and his brother no better. Now, what-”

  “Oh yes, he was mad. He had the madness of the Edonaris, and the pride, and after that night madness and pride were all that was left to him.”

  “If you mean to say that I shouldn’t have killed him, you’re crazier than he was. He was after your blood, and mine too!”

  “Of course you’d no choice. Corson. He might not have killed me, but he’d certainly have killed you. Not because you wounded him in my defense, not even because you killed Mescrisdan, but because you spoke to him with scorn. You sneered at him.” She seemed quite unaware that a dead man lay at her feet.

  Corson wondered whether it would do any good to slap her. Probably not, she thought glumly, but I’d feel the better for it.

  “Let be,” Nyctasia said, as if to herself. “I know now what he wanted to tell me.”

  Corson did not ask how she knew, and didn’t want to hear more. “Perhaps, if it’s not asking too much, you’d be good enough to tell me,” she began, making use of expressions she had learned from Nyctasia. “what you’re bloody, rutting well doing here with a corpse in the middle of the night, curse you!” she concluded, in her own words.

  Nyctasia seemed to see her for the first time. “How charming to meet you again, Corson. This-” she added, gesturing toward the body as if introducing it, “is one of the Lady Mhairestri’s henchmen, unless I much mistake. His name escapes me.” She sighed, sounding tired and vexed. “She must have set him to watching the house some time ago. She’s admirably thorough. I expected something of the sort, of course, but I searched and found no one. He must have entered afterward. I wonder that Grey let him come so close, though.”

  But Corson pointed to the open window. “More likely he came in that way. He might have been here all the while and climbed up to the roof to hide when he heard you coming. It’s easy to do.”

  Nyctasia nodded thoughtfully. Corson waited for her to say something about carelessness, but she only remarked, “I suppose he didn’t see Greymantle in the dark. That dog is almost as good a bodyguard as you are, Corson-and he has much better manners.”

  “But you enjoy my company, you know,” Corson reminded her with a grin. She handed Nyctasia her lantern, then bent and pulled the would-be assassin up by one arm, hoisting him over her back. “Over the cliff with this one, I think. The gulls and fish will make short work of him.”

  Something fell from his hand and lay gleaming on the bloodstained floor, catching the moonlight. Nyctasia picked up her silver earring, and Corson saw her face harden with a fleeting fury, but when she spoke her voice was still calm and flatly amused. “A token for Mhairestri that the job was done,” she said lightly. “I’ll send her this instead.” She took one of the plain brass earrings the dead man wore, and slipped it into the pouch at her hip. “She’ll understand.”

  She turned to the door, then, and called Grey mantle to her. “Thank you for disposing of the carrion, Corson. I must take Grey down to the shore and give him a washing. I could do with one myself, come to that, I’m filthy. Seawater’s as salt and sticky as blood, but cleaner at least. Cleaner…” Her clothes were bloodstained and dusty from the floor, and her hands were grimy with gore, though there was no longer a knife-wound slashed across her palm and fingers.

  Only the drying blood remained to show where the cuts had been.

  Corson followed with her lifeless burden, wondering what could possibly happen next. She could not remember that Nyctasia had ever before thanked her for anything, in all the time she’d known her.

  21

  corson found the new arrangement much to her liking. She was once again personal bodyguard to a Rhaicime-a position of some prestige for a mercenary, and one which she could at last boast of openly. Nyctasia made no secret of her rank and station now but rather made every effort to enhance her own dignity and authority. She had a company of guards
about her, as well as an entourage of servants-a steward, maids, pages, scribes, cooks, scullions and other menials, and people whom Corson classed vaguely as “courtiers,” whose duties were a mystery to her, although they always seemed to be extremely busy.

  And the cream of it was that, with Nyctasia in Chiastelm, Corson could watch over her by day and then spend her nights at the Hare, while sentries patrolled the Smugglers’ House, and Greymantle defended his mistress’s chamber.

  Nyctasia’s days were spent in a series of meetings with the lords and ladies who arrived from Rhostshyl to confer with her-meetings which took the form of furious disputes more often than not. Corson stood by, keeping a wary eye on these confrontations. It was plain to see that some of Nyctasia’s fellow nobles would have liked to kill her there and then, and even some of those she counted as allies condemned her plans as mad and foolish. And all were afraid of her, Corson thought, and trusted her no more than she trusted them.

  “You’ll beggar the city, do you understand that?” one nobleman or another shouted at her, pacing angrily about Nyctasia’s audience-chamber, while Corson watched his every move and kept her hand to her sword-hilt. Greymantle lay with his nose on his paws and looked on with disapproval, occasionally uttering a warning growl.

  But Nyctasia merely reclined in a cushioned chair and said slowly, never raising her voice, “The city is already beggared, from all report. What you mean to say is that I’ll beggar the nobility-and so I shall, for the present, so I shall. We are responsible for the condition the city is in. Would you have it said that we do not pay our debts?”

  Corson did not give much heed to what was said, but even so she gathered that Nyctasia meant to expend most of her personal fortune, and that of her House, to buy grain to feed the hungry of Rhostshyl-and she expected the other noble families of the city to do the same. The countryside around Rhostshyl had been nearly as ravaged by the war as the city itself, fields and granaries put to the torch, the harvest all but lost. Foodstuffs would have to be brought in from neighboring municipalities, perhaps shipped up the coast from the fertile lands to the south, at a cost which the City Treasury alone could not begin to meet.

  Nyctasia had already sent out emissaries to nearby courts to ask for terms, and she had seen to it that rumors of her plans were spread through Rhostshyl to folk of every degree. There was more of an outcry than ever for her return, and prophecies arose that the Witch of Rhostshyl would work her magic to save the city. If Nyctasia’s proposals failed to find favor with her peers, yet they had support enough among her people.

  But it was not only her designs upon the wealth of the city that outraged her friends and foes alike. Even more contention was caused by her insistence that she would declare a general pardon when she assumed power-a pardon which was to include the enemies of the House of Edonaris.

  “You’re mad, sister, to consider such a thing,” cried the Lady Tiambria, Nyctasia’s younger sister. She and her twin, the Lord Erikasten, spoke up boldly enough to Nyctasia, but Corson thought that they had the air of angry, frightened children, who wanted to be told what to do. The sight of them had startled her at first, for they looked much like Raphe and ’Deisha, though years younger. Not yet twenty. Corson judged them.

  “’Tasia, if we don’t put an end to this rivalry now, our victory, and our losses, will have been in vain,” argued Tiambria. “You’ve not seen the destruction in the city-”

  “I have seen it,” said Nyctasia softly. “And I tell you that all such victory is in vain. If we allow ourselves to profit from it, how are we to learn not to let it happen again? Perhaps we could destroy the rest of the Teiryn, and their followers, but in time another house would arise to challenge us. No, you need not repeat Mhairestri’s arguments to me. You may tell her that I shall give her views a respectful hearing when I return to court, at any time she may consent to receive me.”

  The twins looked at each other, mantling, shifting their shoulders uncomfortably. Corson half expected them to break into tears. “We may repeat the matriarch’s words, ’Tasia, but she didn’t send us,” Tiambria said at last.

  “She forbade us to come,” Erikasten put in wretchedly.

  Nyctasia regarded the pair thoughtfully, one eyebrow raised in mild surprise.

  “Could it be that you two are finally growing up?” she asked, almost smiling.

  Nyctasia was playing a new role, one that was unfamiliar to Corson, though she had seen Nyctasia in many guises and many humors. Was she at last seeing Nyctasia as she really was-an autocratic ruler, responsible and duty-bound, unyielding in her resolve, wielding her authority as readily as Corson wielded her sword? If so, Corson did not find it an improvement in her character. She was rarely alone with Nyctasia now, and when she was, Nyctasia hardly seemed aware of her presence. But Corson was not the sort to put up with that for long.

  “I’m leaving now,” she announced one evening. “Do you hear, Nyc?”

  It was much earlier than Corson usually left for the night, but Nyctasia only nodded, without looking up from the document she was studying. It had been delivered by messenger that morning, but she’d had no time for it all day. “Tell Ioras to post another guard at the door, then,” she said absently, frowning at the papers.

  “No,” said Corson.

  That drew Nyctasia’s attention.

  “You won’t need another guard,” Corson explained, “because you’re coming with me to the Hare.”

  “I haven’t the time for an outing now, I’m afraid.”

  “You’ll find time. You’ve not set foot out of this cursed house in a fortnight.

  The place is haunted, right enough, and you’re the ghost.”

  Nyctasia drew a sharp breath and remained silent for a time, but then said,

  “Corson, no doubt you mean well, but-”

  Corson paid no attention. “You can have a decent meal at the Hare, at least, and not fear that it’s poisoned. You don’t eat enough to nourish a gnat, when you remember to take a meal at all. You look like a half-starved beggar-brat, and you act like a queen, and I’ve had my fill of it!”

  In spite of herself. Nyctasia started to laugh, and Corson knew that she’d won.

  “But, Corson, I daren’t go there-what of that jealous giant of yours? He’ll tear me to pieces.”

  Corson grinned triumphantly. “He’ll be most pleased to make you welcome.

  Steifann’s no fool-he’s thought of the distinction it would bring his place to have the patronage of a Rhaicime. He never ceases to plague me about it. And Walden wants a chance to cook for the nobility, too, and Annin wants a better look at you, and Trask’s simply in love with you. I’ll have no peace till I’ve presented you to them.”

  “Well, I should hate to disappoint them. Perhaps another time.”

  “Now,” said Corson firmly. “Nyc, do you remember when we were in Yth Forest, and you all but changed into an Ythling yourself?” Giving Nyctasia no chance to answer, she continued. “Well, you’re even stranger now than you were then. It’ll do you good to get away from here. Here’s your cloak.” She whistled for Greymantle, who trotted to the door at once and looked back at Nyctasia expectantly.

  “Are you coming?” said Corson, “or must I throw you over my shoulder and carry you off?”

  “Greymantle wouldn’t let you lay hands on me.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t he though? Did he go for Raphe’s throat every time he and ’Deisha got to swatting each other? We’ll just see.” She started toward Nyctasia.

  Nyctasia hastily rose and grabbed her cloak. “Very well, we’ll go! Perhaps you’re right.” When Corson insisted on having her way, she was usually right, as Nyctasia had discovered-and it was always less trouble to give in to her.

  Nyctasia’s second visit to The Jugged Hare was less eventful, but more successful, than her first, and it was by no means to be her last. She found it a relief to escape her retinue for a while, and be again Nyc of the roads, the harper and minstrel. Her harp was the first
thing she’d had sent to her from Rhostshyl, and she often brought it to the tavern and sang for the entertainment of the house. Had Steifann not known who and what she was, he’d have offered her a job singing for her supper. She soon became something of a favorite at the Hare, once Steifann and the others had lost their awe of her lofty rank and title. Surely no one who was on such familiar terms with Corson could hold herself very high, they felt.

  Steifann forgave Nyctasia for everything once she told him that Corson had never ceased talking about him, the whole while they were journeying together. And it was thanks to Nyctasia, after all, that Corson’s work kept her in Chiastelm with him. He was disappointed that Nyctasia did not arrive in state, and that she usually ate in the kitchen, out of sight of his other customers, but she assured him that he could tell whom he liked that she frequented The Hare-after she’d returned to Rhostshyl.

  Annin too was well disposed toward Nyctasia because she had promised to lodge an appeal with the Maritime Alliance on Destiver’s behalf. As a mark of her particular favor, she took to scolding Nyctasia as freely as she did the others.

  Destiver had been more heartened by this news than by anything she’d heard since Annin had brought her word of Hrawn brenn Thespaon’s murder. If she was grateful for Nyctasia’s help, however, her appreciation did not manifest itself in any noticeable way, “Who would have thought that bothersome little chit was a Rhaicime?” she remarked. “I should have charged her more.”

  Trask was enthralled at the unheard-of opportunity to ingratiate himself with a personage of such undoubted influence and eminence. He made even more of a nuisance of himself than usual, pestering Nyctasia to take him to court, where he declared he really belonged, among people of polish and breeding. Everyone had other suggestions as to where Trask really belonged, from a barn to a brothel, from the gutter to the gibbet, but Trask was not easily discouraged.