by J F Rivkin
The deaths in the city have left me with a number of titles at my disposal, but all those who receive them will have to agree to turn the revenues over to the City Treasury until Rhostshyl has returned to its former prosperity. But you’d be entitled to style yourself ‘lady,’ and have lodgings befitting a noblewoman whenever you’re at court, and there are some other minor prerogatives. What say you?”
“Nyc, do you mean it? Can you give a title to anyone you choose? I thought the other nobles had to agree. They’d never accept the likes of me among them.”
“I couldn’t legitimately ennoble anyone I wished, no, not on a mere whim. But you have shown yourself worthy of the distinction, you see, in accordance with established custom. You’ve performed noble deeds-heroic deeds-in the defense of the Rhaicimate, and it is no more than my duty to reward such service as it deserves. Corson, I am the Rhaicimate, and you’ve saved my life more than once-before the whole city, on one occasion. My peers may think it extravagant of me to invest you with a title, but they cannot deny that I am well within my rights to do so.” She smiled at Corson’s obvious delight. Kneeling before her again, she took both Corson’s hands between her own. “Corson, my valorous and faithful servant,” she recited, “do you accept the authority, appurtenances, dues, duties, obligations, rights and perquisites pertaining to the dignity of the Desthenate of the City of Rhostshyl?”
Laughing, Corson seized Nyctasia by the wrists, pulled her up onto the bed and kissed her ardently, holding her in a crushing embrace. “Will there be a ceremony?” she demanded.
Nyctasia settled comfortably against her, pillowing her head on Corson’s shoulder and stroking her thick, tawny hair. “Indeed, yes. As part of the wedding celebration, I’ll he conferring pardons on my enemies and titles on my allies. You’ll be one of many honored.”
“Can I invite Steifann to see it?”
“You may invite anyone you like,” Nyctasia promised. “Even the odious Trask.”
Corson chuckled. “They won’t believe it-me, a lady of title and influence, just like that fortuneteller predicted, the night I first met you.” Nyctasia’s doublet soon joined Corson’s vest on the floor. “I did give you a bruise!”
Corson exclaimed. “What delicate skin you must have.”
Nyctasia smiled. “But you know I heal quickly, love.”
Corson gently kissed the dark mark below Nyctasia’s breast. “Sorry,” she said contritely.
“Oh, all right, I won’t have you hanged.” Nyctasia teased, nuzzling her neck.
“It would be a shame, when milady has such a lovely throat,” She continued to caress Corson’s hair, letting her fingers follow its long waves to where they spilled over her ripe, full breasts.
Corson drew Nyctasia’s hand beneath her open shirt. “Lady Corson,” she murmured contentedly.
Nyctasia raised her head and kissed Corson lightly on the lips. “Lady Corisonde,” she corrected, kissing her again. “For the occasion of the formal investiture, we’ll use the Old Eswraine form. You’ll be the Lady Corisonde”-another kiss, soft and clinging-“Desthene li’Rhostshyl”-a harder kiss, now-“brenn Torisk.”
“I like the sound of that,” Corson whispered. “Tell it to me again.” She took Nyctasia by the hips and pressed her closer, kneading her thighs.
Nyctasia had no difficulty falling asleep that night, after all.
In the morning she was wakened with the news that the matriarch Mhairestri had died during the night, after taking poison.
25
nyctasia breakfasted alone with Corson, having given orders that no one else was to be told of Lady Mhairestri’s death. “Curse her! She did it so that folk would say I’d poisoned her,” she told Corson.
“Did you?” Corson asked, tossing a piece of cheese to Grey-mantle.
Nyctasia half smiled, and shook her head. “No. I’d have waited till after the wedding, you see. She thinks-thought-that I’d have to postpone the festivities, in order to observe the traditional period of mourning. But I’ll not play her game. This is no time to respect the proprieties.” She rose and began to pace about, chewing a honey-roll and frowning. “The wedding will be held sooner instead,” she decided, gesturing with the pastry as she spoke. “It shall take place in a week’s time, before news of Mhairestri’s death has had a chance to spread. There will be a grand state funeral some days afterward, and I shall declare that it was the matriarch’s dying wish that it be so.”
“Will anyone believe that?” Corson asked doubtfully.
“Certainly not. But it will show a certain courtesy to her memory, to say it.”
Nyctasia sat down again, and went on with her breakfast quite calmly. “She will not stand in the way of my dream, Corson. She cannot. Her too I saw among the dead.”
The days passed quickly with the hurried preparations for the wedding celebration. Corson was fitted for an elegant gown, and trained assiduously for her part in the ceremony of investiture. She would have to descend a staircase and cross the great hall with all eyes upon her, then perform an elaborate obeisance before the assembled nobles and kneel to receive Nyctasia’s formal commendation.
“It’s only a few phrases of Old Eswraine, meaning that you’re exceedingly brave and loyal and worthy,” Nyctasia explained. “Then I shall take your hand and raise you up, and all the rest of it, and you’ve only to stand aside and wait.
It’s really very simple.”
Corson was beginning to have serious misgivings about the whole affair. “But I can’t walk down stairs wearing that dress, Nyc,” she said desperately. “Or kneel! I can’t even move. The bodice is so tight I can’t bend, and the hem falls all over my feet, and the train-it’s worse than full armor! I’ll make a fool of myself.”
“Nonsense,” Nyctasia said soothingly, “the gown fits perfectly, and you look magnificent in it. You’ll be the most admired person in the company.”
This appeal to Corson’s vanity had its effect, but she still sought further reassurance. “It looks well enough, if I stand still and don’t stir a muscle, but if I move one arm I’ll tear it to shreds.”
“There will be no occasion for you to swing a sword. You’re to hold your hands so, and keep your back straight, just as I showed you. You’ve plenty of time to practice, if you like, but you already do the curtsey beautifully, Corson. I’ve seen you.”
“Oh yes, in an old robe, in front of the mirror. But before a lot of strangers, in that miserable gown! I’ll fall on my-”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Nyctasia said firmly. “You’ve only to put one foot before the other, and the whole ordeal will be over in a moment. I know that court ceremony is strange to you, but you’ve nothing whatever to fear.” She chose her words deliberately. “Still, if you truly feel unequal to it…”
As ever, Corson’s resolve stiffened at the suggestion that she was afraid. “It’s not that,” she grumbled. “It’s your position I’m thinking of. You said you must command the respect of those about you, but if I don’t acquit myself well, your people will find fault with you for trying to make a lady of a lout.” She shrugged. “If you don’t care for appearances, I surely don’t. You’ve only yourself to blame if I disgrace you. And I’ll kill anyone who laughs at me, so I warn you!”
“Fortunately, no one would be so ill-bred as to laugh. And a lady, Corson, would simply take no notice if they did. It would be a mistake to dignify such behavior with death.”
“I’ll try to remember that. Well, and what then-after I fall at your feet and you pick me up?”
“Very little, since you’ll be the last. The trumpets will sound, and everyone will come flocking to be presented to you. They’ll kiss your hand and congratulate you and bow, but you needn’t curtsey.”
Corson immediately forgot her bravado. “But what am I to say to them?” she wailed.
“Just thank them politely,” Nyctasia said patiently. “Do stop fretting. If you remember that you’re a lady and as good as any of them, they’ll be
charmed by anything you say, I promise you.”
Corson nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true that folk already treat me differently here. The lady’s maids are as respectful as you please. And even Lady Elissa deigned to address me directly today.”
“Did she now! What did she want of you?”
“Your brat sister’d told her about the sights of the city you showed her, and Her Ladyship asked me whether you’d visited other parts of Rhostshyl as well.”
“Oho. And did you tell her the truth?”
Corson looked pleased with herself, “Well, I exaggerated a bit, perhaps. I said there was no part of Rhostshyl where you weren’t well known. Then I told her,
‘If she should be overthrown, half the people of the city would rise up and storm the palace.’”
Nyctasia hugged her, laughing. “My dear Corson, you haven’t a thing to worry about. A courtier born and bred couldn’t have answered her better.”
“Is that what they do, then-spread rumors?”
“That, and carry tales. Upon my word, you do learn quickly, Corson.”
“Corisonde, you mean,” said Corson, with a grin.
Epilogue
once again a messenger had arrived at The Jugged Hare with a letter from Corson, and as usual Steifann did not regard its contents as the exact unvarnished truth. In fact, he believed very little of it, and it was only with difficulty that the courier succeeded in convincing him that he and his people were indeed invited to witness the investiture of Corson brenn Torisk with the title and rank of Desthene, at the court of the Edonaris in Rhostshyl, upon the occasion of the solemnities attending the marriage-alliance between the noble Houses of Edonaris and Teiryn.
And Steifann still found it hard to believe, a few days later, when he stood in the great hall of the palace among the distinguished citizenry and aristocracy of Rhostshyl, watching Corson’s pert little friend Nyc confer honors and dignities upon those who knelt before her. She had somehow taken on the manner and mien of an empress, and it seemed impossible that she could ever have been a familiar visitor at his own tavern. Steifann felt that he must have dreamed it all, and that he was dreaming still.
He had always before refused to leave the Hare for more than a day, no matter how Corson had urged him to go off with her somewhere. This jaunt would take nearly a week in all, but it was not one of Corson’s fool escapades, after all.
This was an important event that would never come again. How could he fail her at such a time? In the end, he had determined not only to go but to do the thing handsomely-this once, he would close the Hare and give everyone a rest, to celebrate Corson’s good fortune. Walden had declined to join him, but Annin had accepted, curious to see the pageantry. And Trask had given him no peace till he’d agreed to take him along as well.
Everything had been arranged for them, at Nyctasia’s personal order. Her courier had escorted them to Rhostshyl, and seen to their lodgings. A page was assigned to look after their needs and serve as their guide at court. They had even been provided with suitable clothes for the occasion. But Steifann felt out of place and awkward nevertheless. He was uncomfortable with his fine, stiff new clothes and with the refined, stiff courtesy of those around him. He was too tall to go unnoticed in any crowd, and he was sure that these elegant gentlefolk were all staring at him, calling him a clumsy, mannerless oaf. And why hadn’t he had any sign from Corson since he’d arrived in Rhostshyl? When wine was offered to the company, Steifann partook of it very freely, and often.
Annin was indifferent to the behavior or the opinions of her fellow guests, but now that her curiosity had been satisfied she was beginning to grow bored with the spectacle, She wished that Nyc would get on with it, for the Hlann’s sake, so that she could be off to keep an assignation she’d made with a handsome steward for a tryst when the morning’s festivities were over. “It’s a shame Corson’s the last,” she complained. “We’ll have to wait through the whole lot, to see her.”
“It’s a place of honor,” Trask informed her with the air, of one who had long been thoroughly familiar with court procedure. He was already learning to mimic the manners of the nobles around him, and he felt neither uneasy nor restless in their society. He had exhausted Nyctasia’s page with his questions, then patronizingly promised to commend him to the Rhaicime, who, he explained, was an intimate friend of his household. The bewildered page had no idea what to make of Trask and his companions. They were clearly common working people, yet they were here as guests of the Lady Nyctasia herself, and they referred to her as
“Nyc,” speaking of her with the most shocking familiarity. It would seem that at least some of the strange stories about the Rhaicime must be true…
Corson would have been on hand to welcome Steifann herself had she not been a prisoner, all that morning, of a formidable array of maids and seamstresses who were intent on making scores of final preparations to her apparel and her person. Corson was bathed, scented, powdered and fussed over endlessly before she was permitted to dress in the precious gown of brittle cloth-of-gold and ivory lace. Her hair alone took hours to wash and arrange to her handmaids’ satisfaction. Corson would simply have braided it and pinned it up, but instead they somehow gathered much of it into an intricate net of pearls at the back of her head, and let the rest fall over her back, entwined with long skeins and loops of pearls. Another fillet of pearls circled her brow, and strands of them adorned her gown as well, fastened at each shoulder with an ivory clasp and falling gracefully across her breast just above the low-cut bodice.
Corson had been draped in layers of frothy undergarments that made the skirts of her gown stand out stiffly around her, like the wings of a golden pavilion. Then the long, trailing sleeves were stitched into place at last, making Corson feel more than ever like a ship in full rigging, becalmed by dead seas. She could not be expected to carry herself down a flight of stairs, not like this! It was impossible. It must be some mistake.
But then it was time to present herself to the assembly waiting in the half below.
Nyctasia had anticipated the sensation Corson’s appearance would make on the company, and she was not disappointed. Those who had disapproved of her raising her bodyguard to the rank of Desthene would never again question her judgment, she thought with satisfaction.
The sun was high in the sky, filling the tall windows with light, and Corson was bathed in a golden radiance as she began very slowly to descend the marble staircase. Her bearing was straight and graceful, her beauty undimmed by the splendor of her garments. She seemed to drift down the steps, holding up her billowing skirts slightly before her, with her long hands bent elegantly at the wrist, exactly as she’d been taught.
“The Lady Corisonde Desthene li’Rhostshyl brenn Torisk,” announced the herald.
An absolute silence fell on the hall at first, but it gave way almost at once to an excited murmur of admiration and speculation. Few of those present recognized this statuesque beauty as the sullen, suspicious guard who had been following Nyctasia for weeks like a grim shadow. Even Trask forgot himself so far as to clutch Steifann’s sleeve and gasp, “Asye’s teeth! Look at Corson!”
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Steifann. “That’s not-”
But, to his horror, it was.
Steifann had expected Corson to be preened and prettified for the celebration, in a fancy dress, but he had not been prepared to see her looking not only so breathtakingly beautiful, but so cold, so distant, so regal… She seemed to belong in this palace with its noble lords and ladies, not in an ale-house with a common taverner. He’d laughed at her when she’d insisted, “I could better myself if I chose!” But now she seemed to have chosen, and chosen the life of a lady, and a stranger. When she passed almost within arm’s reach of where he stood, she did not so much as spare him a glance, but glided past him like a proud young queen. Steifann felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a horse and forgotten to fall.
It was not pride of place, however, that lent Corso
n this air of majestic dignity-it was simply that she was rigid with terror. Fear of snarling her feet in her heavy hem made her move with a measured, stately tread, and dread of tearing the seams of her tight bodice kept her back stiff and unyielding. She held her head high and perfectly still, not daring to look to the left or right lest the pearls fall from her hair and clatter to the floor. Unthinking, unseeing, almost numb, Corson moved through the great hall like a puppet on strings, keeping her eyes fixed strictly on Nyctasia, in hopes that she could thus somehow cross the immeasurable distance between them and reach her without mishap. When she found herself kneeling at last before the dais where Nyctasia stood, she could hardly remember how she’d come there, and she was not at all sure whether she’d just performed her ritual curtsey or forgotten it entirely.
But she must surely have done it, for Nyctasia was smiling as she took her by the hand and bade her rise.
Nyctasia had finally abandoned her mourning-clothes, and now wore a velvet doublet of purest white, crossed with a gold sash from shoulder to hip, and fitted with golden trimmings. Her hose were of a spotless white as well, and her boots of white kid with golden buckles. A cape of white ermine was fastened at her throat with a golden clasp, and she was crowned, as usual, with her heavy gold chain of office.
“I shall look as sallow as a stirred egg,” she had complained to Corson, at the last fitting of these dazzling garments. “But vanity must be sacrificed to tradition on such an occasion, I suppose.”
And certainly she did took even more starkly pale than usual, but she tipped a wink at Corson as she took the golden medallion and chain from a white velvet cushion held by a page in white silk. After kissing Corson ceremoniously on both cheeks, Nyctasia slipped the medallion around her neck, whispering in her ear as she did so, “Now aren’t you glad you didn’t kill me?”
Corson blushed and bit back a laugh, remembering where Nyctasia had first asked her that question. But then trumpets were sounding, and she realized suddenly that the formalities were over. She had done her part. She was a lady, a Desthene…! In a moment she was surrounded by a throng of well-wishers and flattering courtiers, all lavishing extravagant compliments and congratulations upon her. If this was what it was like to be a lady, Corson thought, she would be well able to bear the burden.