A day’s easy ride brought her to the roadside hostel. A meal and some strong ale was what she needed now.
A few of her fellow travelers from the merchant troupe were sitting together at supper, but when Corson greeted them she was met with a hostile silence.
Bewildered, she turned to one of the guards who’d stood watch with her. “What’s the matter here?”
He gestured toward a corner table where someone sat slumped over a tankard of ale. “Everyone knows you’re her friend. I’d get her out of here if I were you,” he said, and turned his back on Corson.
“Oh no,” said Corson. “It can’t be!” But there was nothing for it. She crossed the room to Nyctasia’s table.
“Corson! How delightful! Will you have a drink?” She leaned back in her chair and waved for more ale. “Did I ever tell you that your name is a corrupt form of
‘Corisonde’? At least I think it is.”
“You’re drunk!”
“I looked for you when I left, but you’d already gone-and very sensible of you, too. I thought I’d pass you on the way here.”
“I lost my way. What are you doing here? Where’s Lord Collarbone?”
Nyctasia looked at her dully. “’Ben? He’s-he’s dead, I think… I don’t know.”
She shuddered and took a long draught of her ale.
Corson sat down. “What are you talking about?”
For a moment, Nyctasia’s eyes held a terrible clarity. “Everything that is taken must be paid for,” she said. “But there are ways of making others pay for what one takes. The vahn forbids such a thing
… I can never return to him now, I must not!” Staring into her empty tankard, she said softly, “I might better have stayed in Rhostshyl to be murdered, what does it matter?” She began to rock back and forth, her face in her hands. “Kastenid tried to warn me, but how could I believe him? I want more ale.”
“You’ve had your fill. You’re not used to drink.”
Nyctasia laughed wildly. “That’s because I never knew it was such an effective Consolation!” She seemed to find this extraordinarily funny. She reached for Corson’s tankard and, as Corson snatched it from her, she tossed a gold coin into the ale. “Look!” she said proudly. A goldfish was swimming in the dark liquor.
Corson gasped and dropped the tankard. Ale spattered their boots, and the coin rolled across the floor. No one picked it up. “Nyctasia,” Corson said tensely,
“a lady does not make a spectacle of herself in public!”
Nyctasia giggled. “So beware, my Lady Alys,” she sang tipsily. She threw back her head and drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly with a look of intense concentration. To Corson’s horror, three large, pale moths drifted from Nyctasia’s mouth, one after another. They fluttered about erratically then dissolved in the air like smoke.
“That tickles,” Nyctasia remarked, laughing.
Corson now understood the suspicion that surrounded them. Those who lived near the forest mistrusted magic, and the travelers had been wary of Nyctasia from the start. They took her for some creature of the Yth-and Corson was not quite sure that they were wrong.
Nyctasia had begun to trace patterns on the tabletop with the spilled ale, muttering to herself in some foreign tongue. “I think I’ll summon a demon,” she announced loudly, raising one arm in a dramatic gesture. A serving-girl shrieked and dashed for the kitchen. Several people started to their feet, seizing knives or staffs. A heavy earthenware pot struck Nyctasia’s shoulder.
Corson grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her to the door. They were both thrust roughly into the yard amidst shouted threats and curses. Someone threw Nyctasia’s satchel of books out after them, and the door was slammed and bolted.
Nyctasia sat up and tried to wipe the mud from her face with an equally muddy hand. “I’m an Edonaris,” she protested, slurring her words slightly, “and a Rhaicime! How dare they!”
Corson kicked her. “Get up, lady,” she spat. “Rhaicime! Rutting half-wit! You almost got our throats cut for us!”
Nyctasia rose unsteadily to her feet and regarded Corson with wounded dignity.
“You are forthwith dismissed from my service. Leave me!”
“I ought to! I don’t know what stops me-I must be bewitched. Come along!” She led Nyctasia to the stables and heaved her, none too gently, onto her horse.
Even drunk, Nyctasia instinctively gripped with her knees to keep her seat.
“Where are we going, love?” she asked amiably, following Corson out of the courtyard.
“There’s a village about a league down the Hlasven road. We’ll find some sort of shelter there.” Corson thought resentfully of the lost comforts at the hostel.
“I didn’t even get a meal. You and your stinking sorcery! Moths
…! It’s disgusting!”
“I don’t think I could really summon a demon,” Nyctasia said wistfully. “Of course I’ve never tried it so close to the Yth.”
Corson rode closer to her and took her roughly by the arm. “You’re not about to try it now, either-I’ll break your arm first!”
Nyctasia smiled blandly at her. “Yes, Maeg.”
“Asye…!” sighed Corson, and rode ahead. They went on in silence broken only by snatches of songs and spells from Nyctasia.
“Behold in this enchanted mirror
Images reversed but clearer.
Patterns of shattered shadow yield
Their mysteries in silverglass revealed.
Read if you will the gleaming’s meaning,
Pierce the… something… mmm… seeming.
Deep in…”
“I forget the rest,” she yawned.
“Good. I don’t want to hear that. Sing something else.”
“‘The Cold Ballad’?” suggested Nyctasia.
“And some folk said that she had died
Through working of a curse.
A doll, a needle in its side,
An image shrouded in a band?
And others whispered worse.
Had she not enemies in the land?
Forbidden rivalry, bitter scorn-
They guessed at poison in her wine.
A venom’d thorn, A length of twine,
A sudden, smothering hand?
But no one ever shall discover,
Nor guess, what she walked out to find.
A rose, a shell, her demon lover
Perhaps her peace of mind…”
Nyctasia stopped abruptly.
“Is that the end?”
“No, there’s another verse, but I’ve never understood it. I don’t even like that song,” she said petulantly.
“Oh, hold your noise. There’s someone coming. We must be near the village.”
Peering into the darkness, Corson could make out two figures approaching on foot, one holding up a lantern. “We can ask them about lodgings.”
“You there-” she called, but the man in front went straight to Nyctasia and took the reins of her horse.
“’Ben!” she exclaimed happily, leaning over to caress his cheek, “I’ve missed you terribly…” She reached down to him and he caught her by the waist and lifted her from the saddle. “I can’t walk,” she laughed.
“No matter, ’Tasia, we’ve not far to go. I’ll carry you.” He picked her up easily, cradling her in his arms, and started back along the dark road.
Corson dismounted hastily. “My lord, where are you taking her? Wait!”
Shiastred’s servant laid a warning hand on her arm, but she shook him off and followed. Nyctasia had not made much sense that evening, but she had certainly meant to break with Lord Erystalben, Corson stepped in front of him, barring the way.
“Stand aside,” he commanded. Nyctasia looked on curiously, her head nestled against his throat.
“Let her be, she’s out of her senses with drink. I can’t let you take her off-”
Shiastred laughed. “Your sense of duty does you credit, woman, but I assure you, your mistress is not in danger. I have told you once to stand aside.”
“She’s not my mistress, and I’ve told you once to let her go!” But as Corson stepped towards him, she was stricken with a sudden irresistible weakness that left her helpless. Overcome by dizziness, she fell to her knees at Shiastred’s feet. Raising her head with an effort she met his cold blue eyes, narrowed in anger.
“Call off your watchdog, ’Tasia. She’s liable to bite someone.”
Puzzled, Nyctasia looked down at Corson crouched in the road, her face mad with rage and hatred. “Not a watchdog, a wildcat,” Nyctasia said solemnly, “Killed three of my best hunting dogs.” She laid her head back on his shoulder and closed her eyes, sighing deeply.
“See to her,” Shiastred ordered his man, nodding towards Corson. He walked past her indifferently, bearing Nyctasia off into the darkness.
“The weakness will pass soon,” the servant said. He helped Corson to rise and mount, then led away Nyctasia’s horse. Corson could only follow.
She asked no questions, and did not look up until they halted in the yard of a great stone hall. “But where are we?” She knew of no manor house this side of the village.
“Why, at my lord’s holding, of course. He never goes far hence.”
Corson recognized the place now, and her senses reeled in protest. “But I took the Hlasven road,” she cried. “I know I did!”