by J F Rivkin
Nyctasia was of the opinion that there was indeed a place for him at court-a deep dungeon far below the palace, which she offered to make available for him at any time.
Walden also approved of Corson’s new friend, on the whole. She praised his cooking with obvious sincerity, and ate like a growing child whenever she came to the Hare, which was a sure way to Walden’s good graces. “Only those who eat heartily can be trusted” was his motto, and it had never failed him yet.
Nyctasia was too skinny, true, but no doubt she hadn’t been properly fed. And she might be a Rhaicime, but that was probably not her fault. He did not hesitate to swat her with a wooden spoon when he caught her stealing raisins from the barrel in the kitchen.
All in all, Corson was well satisfied with the way matters stood, and it came as a bitter disappointment when Nyctasia told her that she’d soon be returning to Rhostshyl.
“Is it safe for you to go there yet?” Corson asked.
“Not at all. But it’s time, you see. I’ve done all I can here-the nobility dare not defy me openly, now. I’ve seen to that. They fear uprisings in the city if it’s known that they oppose my plans. They’ll conspire against me, though.” She gave a sudden cheerless laugh. “And they’ve not heard the worst of it yet! When they find out what more I have in mind, the screams of rage will be heard all the way to Tierelon. Oh, no, it’s not safe.”
“I suppose you expect me to go with you, then.”
Nyctasia appeared to hesitate. “Well, no, I think you needn’t. Ioras can serve as my bodyguard at court.”
“Ioras! I could worst him with one hand, and my right hand at that.”
“I don’t doubt it, Corson, I’m well aware that I’d be better protected by you, but, after all, do you want to call me ‘my lady,’ bow to me, walk a pace behind me, stand while I sit…”
“I’m cursed if I will!”
“Well, there we are.” Nyctasia smiled, but her voice was serious. “I must command the respect of those around me, Corson, if I’m to work my will, in the days to come. You must see that I can’t have a bodyguard who undermines my authority by speaking insolently to me before others, Folk will say, ‘How is she to govern the city, when she can’t even govern her own servants?’ It would make me appear weak, and I cannot afford that. My people may not be your equal with a sword, but they know what behavior is expected of them at court.”
“Do you think you’re the first noble I’ve served? I know how to conduct myself in any household in the land-I’m not just out of the army! I can bow and grovel as well as another, when I choose.”
Nyctasia looked doubtful. “Perhaps… but if you attend the ruler of the city, there’s no choice about it. Formalities must be observed.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll remember my place,” Corson snapped. “I’ll stay till you have matters in hand there, at least. You’d only get yourself killed, without me.”
“Very likely,” Nyctasia admitted. In fact, she had never had any intention of returning to Rhostshyl without Corson, but, noticing her reluctance, she had immediately resorted to the surest way to make Corson do anything-which was to suggest that she couldn’t do it. “Well, if you insist on accompanying me, I don’t suppose I can stop you,” she said resignedly. “But you won’t like it.”
“I know,” said Corson. Steifann wouldn’t like it either, but at least Rhostshyl was within two days’ ride of Chiastelm. Corson privately resolved that she’d make Nyctasia pay dearly for every humble bow and dutiful show of deference.
22
nyctasia made a ceremonial entry into Rhostshyl not long afterward, riding at the head of a cortege of her followers, surrounded by a troupe of guards. She had sent heralds ahead to proclaim her coming, and to make known that a distribution of meal and flour would take place at mid-day in the city square.
Word spread quickly that well-guarded wagonloads of grain followed the procession, and cheers of welcome greeted Nyctasia on all sides. She was flanked by her brother and sister-in grim defiance of the matriarch-and Corson was not far behind.
The rest were dressed with splendor, as for a celebration, but Nyctasia wore mourning, her chain of office the only brightness about her. She sat straight, almost stiff, but she did not look proud to be returning to her city in triumph.
Somber and unsmiling, she was every inch the earnest, careworn ruler. Even Corson was impressed with her regal dignity.
She did not ride straight to the palace of the Edonaris, but insisted on making her way through every part of the city, to learn for herself what Rhostshyl and its people had suffered. The destruction was perhaps less extensive than she had feared, but it was nonetheless pitiful to see, and to one who loved the city as Nyctasia did, it was nothing less than heartbreak. The poorer sections of the city had fared the worst, of course, but fire had not shown mercy to the more prosperous districts either. Nyctasia was met by throngs of the hungry and homeless, some holding out their ailing children to be healed by her magic. The guards kept back the crowds, but Nyctasia would not spare herself the sight of her needy subjects. She looked into the eyes of those she passed, and held out her hands toward them in a Vahnite gesture of benediction. Tales of miraculous cures would soon begin to spread through the city, she knew, not because she had any such power, but because folk wished to believe that she did. They themselves would work the sorcery, by means of a powerful and mysterious Influence that no mage or philosopher truly understood. To Nyctasia it was but another deception, to be numbered among many. By the time she had turned toward the aristocratic quarter of the city, she felt far older than her years, and deeply shamed.
She had dreamed that the city’s great palaces lay in ruins, but now she found that they had in fact suffered least, being the best defended, and built of stone. Some roofs still gaped where wooden beams had fallen to fire, though the mansions of the victors had of course been set to rights. But Nyctasia was not comforted to see that the palace of the Edonaris stood whole again, in all its grandeur. She understood now that the fallen walls she had envisioned were emblematic of a more profound destruction, a loss that could not be repaired with timber and mortar. Her family’s honor was in ruins, the proud heritage of the Edonaris, and she doubted that it could ever be restored.
With a heart burdened by such thoughts as these, Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris returned to her ancestral home.
Corson decided to speak to Nyctasia about her guards. They were not alert enough to suit her. They watched Nyctasia attentively, yes, but what was the good of that? Nyctasia wasn’t a prisoner; it was not she who ought to be watched but those around her, any one of whom might be a deadly enemy. Corson looked everywhere, searching the crowd for any sign of danger, noticing every threatening glint of steel. Though she was satisfied that no one could approach Nyctasia, she also knew that she herself had never been prevented by mere distance from felling her intended prey. It was wisest to assume that anyone stalking Nyctasia was equally skillful, and Corson was not in the least surprised when she caught sight of a man crouching beside a chimney, with a knife poised to throw. She had pushed past Erikasten and caught the blade neatly on her shield before Nyctasia or her retinue realized what was happening. It was Corson who pointed out the culprit, who ordered the house surrounded before he could reach the ground and make an escape-and though she had no authority to give such commands, she was obeyed.
Nyctasia did not wait to see the capture. “A partisan of the Teiryn, no doubt,” she said indifferently, adding in a lower tone, “It doesn’t look like Mhairestri’s work. Not at all subtle.” Turning to Corson, she announced,
“Henceforth the palace garrison will be answerable to you in all particulars.”
Corson bowed, “As Your Ladyship wishes,” she replied.
Nyctasia dismissed everyone but Corson, and barred the door behind them.
Greymantle-who was groomed to a gleam and now wore a jeweled collar-she kept with her as a matter of course, having ignored all suggestions that he be sent to the kenn
els. She crossed to the balcony, but Corson made her wait while she pulled back the curtains and searched behind the tapestried arras for intruders.
Then, leaving Greymantle to guard his mistress, she went through the rest of Nyctasia’s apartments to see that all was secure. She had never been in rooms so spacious and splendid, lit by great traceried windows, bright with mirrors and crystal candelabra. Ornamental tiles adorned the fireplaces, and their pillars and mantles were carved with vine-leaves and faces and intricate scrollwork. The floors were carpeted, the walls hung with rich draperies, and even the ceilings plastered and painted with elaborate designs. Corson decided that she could best carry out her duties as the Rhaicime’s bodyguard if she shared her quarters, instead of withdrawing to the warders’ barracks at night. She now had the final word on all matters regarding Nyctasia’s safety, after all. She only regretted that she couldn’t show Steifann her magnificent lodgings.
“Gods! I’ve never seen such a bed,” she said gleefully, when she returned to the first room. “It’s as big as a hayfield. You’ve room for…” She stopped, but Nyctasia took no notice.
She still stood at the window, just as Corson had left her, gazing out at the ravaged city. To Corson she looked as white and rigid as a figure of marble.
Greymantle pawed at her hand and whined.
“Nyc…?” said Corson uneasily. “Eh, Your Nycship, do you hear me?”
And Nyctasia turned to her at last, her eyes as grey as stone, the color of a leaden, sunless sky. “The walls are still standing,” she said dully. “Why did I come back here?”
“Asye knows,” said Corson, though she saw that Nyctasia did not expect an answer. “Nothing you do makes a rutting bit of sense to me. Maegor said you’d think it your duty to come back.”
“My duty as an Edonaris and a Vahnite, yes. But a true Edonaris would not have gone, and a true Vahnite would not have returned… I told Maegor I’d no right to call myself a Vahnite, and now I find I’ve no desire to call myself an Edonaris. What am I then?”
“You’re a maundering half-wit!” Corson shook her, and the gold chain slipped off and struck the floor, where Greymantle sniffed it without interest.
Nyctasia let it lie. “Did you know that the chain of office signifies that the ruler is slave to the people? And that is fitting, for in Rhostshyl only the criminal are bound in service to the city.”
“You’re mistress of the city, fool-what does the rest matter? Stop carrying on like a stranded fish, I don’t like talking to a half-dead hake.”
Corson had thought to make her laugh, but instead she suddenly, helplessly, broke into tears. Her throat was torn with harsh, hoarse sobs, as if she did not know how to cry, and found it painful. Corson was bewildered, but relieved as well. She knew that Nyctasia rarely wept, but if she was grieved for her city, why shouldn’t she cry, as anyone else would do? It was better than that deathly calm of hers. “At least I know you’re alive,” she said. “Only the living weep.”
Startled, Nyctasia looked up at her through her tears. “What… what do you mean by that, Corson?”
“Asye, I don’t know! I’m even beginning to sound like you now. Come along and rest-you’re tired out, that’s all that ails you. You’re half-asleep on your feet.” She picked Nyctasia up as if she were a child, and carried her into the bedchamber. “What you need’s a nursemaid, not a bodyguard.”
Nyctasia did not object. “I’d forgotten how exhausting it is to cry, rather like spellcasting,” she sighed. “No wonder the Discipline forbids it.” When Corson dropped her onto the high, wide bed, she gestured vaguely and mumbled, “boots,” then fell at once into a deep, dreamless slumber.
“So now I’m to be your lady’s maid as well, am I?” Corson said indignantly, but Nyctasia made no reply. She hardly stirred when Corson pulled off her boots for her, nor even when Greymantle scrambled up onto the bed and lay across her legs.
Corson took advantage of the opportunity to examine the rooms again, this time to satisfy her curiosity. She handled delicate ivory carvings, and toyed with a gameboard with pieces cut from jade and agate. She marveled at a gilded harp half as tall as Nyctasia. She opened chests and coffers and lidded bowls, discovering now clothes, now books, rings or brooches, small clay bottles or just fragrant dried flower petals. She tried on all the jewelry she could find, and draped herself with silk scarves and brocaded sashes. Then for a time she admired herself in a tall mirror, its wooden frame supported between two slender twin pillars like young trees.
This kept her amused for an hour, but finally, growing bored, she left everything strewn about for a chambermaid to tidy away later, and went to the door to summon a servant. “Her Ladyship’s not to be disturbed,” she ordered,
“but you can bring me something to eat and drink.” She spoke confidently, but she half-expected to be refused, and she was prepared for an argument. (“I’m not to leave the Rhaicime-do you expect her to eat in the kitchen with me? Do as you’re told!”)
But instead the man only bowed and said, “Will that be all, mistress?”
Corson considered. Apparently, as Nyctasia’s bodyguard, she had privileges, and she meant to take full advantage of them. “I’ll have a bath now too,” she decided. “Hot water, and plenty of it.” After all, if she was to attend the ruler of the city, she had to be presentable. And besides, someone else would have to fetch in the water.
When Nyctasia woke, she observed the disarray of the room, yawned, and said, “I see you’ve been enjoying yourself. Or possibly a herd of wild swine strayed through here while I was asleep…?”
Corson grinned. “I think I could learn to like it here. The servants are obliging, and the food’s not bad at all.”
“I’m glad you approve of my domestic arrangements. Tell them I want a bath now, if you would.”
“I’ve already ordered a bath for you, Lady Indolence. Hurry up, or you’ll be late for dinner.”
“I can’t be late,” said Nyctasia, stretching. “They can’t start dinner without me, you see. Let them wait-they’ll not go hungry.”
She lingered over her bath, and dressed in somber mourning-clothes hardly more formal than those she’d worn to receive the Saetarrin. After some searching, she discovered her chain of office around Greymantle’s neck, where Corson had put it for safekeeping. By the time she went down to dinner, with Corson and Greymantle at her heels, she was as composed and aloof as if there were nothing whatsoever to distress her in all the city.
The company was indeed waiting for her, milling impatiently about the great hall, where tables had been readied along three walls. Only when Nyctasia took her place at the head of the highest table did the others move to their seats, murmuring greetings which she acknowledged with a nod. Corson stood behind her chair, satisfied that from this vantage point she could see everyone in the hall and watch for any suspicious movement. It was unlikely that an attack would be made on Nyctasia before all these people, but among her many enemies there might well be those crazy enough to try it.
Food was now set before them-platters of small roasted birds, joints of meat, whole baked fish brought live from the coast in barrels of brine-but Nyctasia’s relations and guests touched nothing, still waiting for her to begin. She was testing them, Corson realized, deliberately flaunting her power, to remind them that she meant to use it as she chose. Now she only leaned back in her chair and regarded the choice viands with evident distaste, “We are well fed for people of a starving city,” she said finally, to no one in particular.
The nobles stirred uneasily, some looking angry, some merely worried. Corson took note especially of those who exchanged furtive words or glances. “This banquet is laid in your honor, cousin,” one of the men said, reprovingly,
“therefore it behooves you to show the company more courtesy.”
Nyctasia smiled graciously, “Forgive me, all, but after what I’ve seen in the streets of our fair city this day, I’ve little appetite for a feast. But in the name of courtesy, of
course, let the meal commence.”
She picked up one of the roast birds and tossed it to Greymantle, then sipped from a goblet of water, but took nothing else. If she had told the company to their faces that she considered them no better than animals, the insult could not have been more plain. There was a tense silence, but then a few of Nyctasia’s followers began to eat, and the rest soon joined them.
“She has the whip-hand of them now,” Corson thought, “and they all know it.”
Lord Therisain turned to Nyctasia with a look of triumph. “It is for you to propose the first toast,” he reminded her.
“Surely,” said Nyctasia. “But it is yet too soon. We are not all assembled.”
Again an uncomfortable hush fell on the table. “The Lady Mhairestri did not feel equal to such an occasion,” someone offered hesitantly. “She has been unwell of late.”
“Oh. I hardly expected the matriarch to honor us,” Nyctasia said smoothly. “No doubt she sent her regrets. But what of Anseldon, and Lhejadis? Are they indisposed as well?”
“I believe they are bearing Mhairestri company,” murmured Erikasten.
“How kind of them. But why do I not see my sister Rehal at table?” Nyctasia persisted.
Tiambria answered stiffly, “Rehal is confined to her apartments, under guard.
She tried to leave the city secretly with her children.”
“I was not aware,” Nyctasia said, frowning, “that that was a crime.”
“Rehal may go where she pleases, of course,” an older woman said sharply. “But you know very well, Nyctasia, that she cannot be allowed to take Emeryc’s heir with her.”
Nyctasia sipped at her water again. “Not, perhaps, while he lived, Elissa,” she agreed. “But once he was killed, his son was surely the next marked for death. I think it showed excellent judgment on her part to seek safely for him. And after all, a city at war is no place for children.”
Tiambria shook her head. “No, it was only a fortnight ago that she tried to flee. We held the city, and the children were well protected. It was not our enemies but ourselves that she sought to escape.”