corson could see nothing but a thin film of mist that crept around her feet. She tried to struggle, but something held her until she lay with her strength spent, watching as the fog swirled about her knees. It clung to her waist, then moved up over her breasts, and from behind her came a pitiful, low, moaning sound. Her head was held still and something pressed against her lips. Wetness filled her mouth.
She awoke and found Nyctasia standing over her. “Nyc,” she whispered, “I have to tell you… burning… we’re burning! Who can help us?” She spoke hurriedly, sure that she had to warn Nyctasia, but to her horror she heard herself babbling nonsense. Nyctasia’s face withdrew, retreating farther and farther away until it seemed no nearer than a star in the night sky. Then, there was only darkness
…
Once Nyctasia had healed his broken arm, and paid handsomely for Corson’s board, Merl was won over and even became helpful. He let it be known at the inn that anyone who troubled Nyctasia would have him to deal with, and he’d see to it that they never again troubled anyone.
Before long, Corson’s room was comfortably furnished, though Corson herself was hardly aware of the difference. Still delirious and dangerous, she had to be forced to submit to any care, and to swallow the antidotal potions Nyctasia prepared for her.
Nyctasia kept a constant watch over her, sleeping little, pacing, always reproaching herself. She should have foreseen such a thing! It was intolerable to her that someone else should suffer for her carelessness, that Corson should die like this, not at the hands of enemies, not in fair fight, but by pure mischance!
But it was not only Corson’s danger that troubled her-she was haunted by the memory of her henchman, Sandor, as well. He had served her faithfully and risked his life in her service more than once, yet when Thierran had killed him she’d sorrowed less than for a hound lost in the hunt. Sandor had always done his duty, but Nyctasia felt that she had somehow failed in hers. Failed, not only in her duty to Sandor, but to some principle of her own philosophy. Who had killed him, in truth, Thierran or herself? When she tried to think about Sandor, she could hardly recall his face. And now, had Corson too outlived her usefulness?
Surely Corson was different, though. Such a wanton, winning creature with her bold tongue and her reckless courage, her generous laughter and her prickly pride. So quick to take offense, so ready to be cajoled.
But Corson was not so very different from others of her station; rather, Nyctasia was different from the woman she had been. For a Vahnite, there was no forgiveness for an offense against the Indwelling Spirit. One could only make amends by becoming a person who was incapable of such a crime.
Nyctasia had been, by turns, amused and angered by Corson, as she might have been by some half-wild household pet. Now, with a pang, she remembered the ways she had tricked Corson, trapped her, used her. She knew that her servants thought her a just and generous mistress-such was the proper role for an Edonaris. Nyctasia had always performed her part well, but it had never been more than a performance. She was not aware of how much she was changing. She only knew that Corson’s death would weigh on her heart as well as her spirit.
Corson whimpered. “Nyc, where are you? There’s blood on the sand-” but she did not know that Nyctasia was bending over her, bathing her face with cool water.
She was wandering along a beach at dusk, looking for something lost, her feet bare and bleeding. The cold wind from the sea threw spray in her face, and she shivered.
Nyctasia brushed back the damp hair from Corson’s hot, fever-flushed face.
Corson’s magnificent hair was lank and dull now, her skin sallow. It was too late for medicines to save her, the poison had been at work too long-long enough to have killed the small, slight Nyctasia. Had she worn the earrings herself, as Brethald intended, there would not have been time for her to realize what ailed her.
Corson was seized with a fit of trembling, and Nyctasia, still watching her, finally came to a decision. With a determined nod, she rose and barred the door.
So be it. She would try to work a healing trance, whatever the risk. It was not a spell she should attempt without help, for Corson was far nearer to death than anyone she had tried to heal before. There should be someone at hand to recall her at the proper time and sever the spell. She thought for a moment of enlisting the aid of Merl, who had become her champion, but she dared not trust his goodwill as far as that. She would be utterly at the mercy of anyone who attended her.
Very well, she must take the chance-not only for Corson’s sake, but for her own.
Nyctasia wasted no more time. Sitting on the bed, she unlaced Corson’s shirt and placed her hand over Corson’s heart. She lowered her head and waited, eyes closed, pacing her thoughts to the measured rhythm of Corson’s heartbeat and entering gently into the pattern of the first Recognition, the commencement of the Influence Toward Life.
Sleeping one, dream of me.
Distant one, greet me,
Silent one, speak to me.
Secret one, heed me.
Lonely one, lean to me.
Lost one, seek me.
Captive one, reach to me.
Fugitive, flee to me.
Hider, draw near to me.
Wild one, be dear to me.
Stranger, receive me.
As the words possessed her, all else receded and became unreal. There was nothing but the seeking in darkness, the reaching of one spirit to another. Then even the words gave way, and only the rhythm remained to guide her. She followed it blindly, trustingly, until she came to its source-the black waves beating on the dark shore.
A still figure lay just out of reach of the breaking waves, and Nyctasia went to her, trying not to see the familiar likeness of Corson, but only to be aware of her presence. The pulse of the surf now said to her, “Neither land nor sea.
Neither earth nor air.” Nyctasia knew that she was here only in spirit, but it was all-important that she not only know this but believe it, not only believe but remember. Remember. Remember that this was not a place but a state of being.
Remember that one could not truly be here, that one must not, above all, stay here.,.. Everything that she thought she saw or felt or heard, she must deny.
She would not even think of Corson by name. “Friend,” she said, “it is time we were away from here. The tide is coming in.” Neither sea nor sky. Neither shore nor star.
The being who was Corson and yet was not Corson, replied faintly, “I cannot. I am too weak.”
“That is your dream, but I am here to wake you. Arise. You are whole, you are healed.”
The only answer was the ghost of a sigh.
“Trust in me, do you not know me?” Neither lips nor tongue. Neither voice nor word.
A hesitation. “I… know you…”
“And I know you. You are a warrior! This battle is not done yet.”
“No…”
“You have only to face the enemy to defeat them. They are mere shadows who war against you. Come away. Lean on me.” Neither hands nor limbs. Neither tears nor blood.
Together, they moved away from the black waves, Corson’s steps growing firmer even as Nyctasia’s weakened.
“Don’t leave me,” Corson cried.
“You can stand alone now,” Nyctasia said aloud, but there was no one to hear her. She was kneeling beside the bed where Corson still lay senseless, beyond the reach of her voice. For a long while Nyctasia knelt there, trembling, ashen, unable to rise. Then, gripping the bedstead, she pulled herself to her feet and staggered to her cot, where she lay gasping like a drowning woman.