“hlann asye, but that hurts!” They had ridden till dawn, then made camp by a stream where Nyctasia was bathing her wounded side.
“You were lucky. I thought it was worse than that.”
“I’m known for my luck,” Nyctasia said with a grimace. She cut a strip of cloth from the hem of her shirt and bound the wound tightly, cursing like a peasant.
Corson was surprised to hear her swear by the name of Asye, the deity of the common people. Most of the nobility and the educated considered the worship of Asye a vulgar superstition, and professed belief only in the Indwelling Spirit-the vahn.
“You’re a follower of the Hlann?” Corson asked curiously. It was an old word meaning either “Lady” or “Lord,” but it was used now only for the androgynous Asye.
The Lady Nyctasia looked embarrassed. “Oh, when I was younger, mainly to annoy my family. Oaths are just habit. Folk wouldn’t use the name of Asye so freely if they really believed.” As if to herself, she added, “and it’s not always those who swear by the vahn who believe in it.
“But aren’t you hungry, Corson?” Nyctasia changed the subject deliberately.
“‘Feed the flesh and the spirit thrives,’ you know.”
This was one proverb with which Corson wholeheartedly agreed. Their saddlebags were packed with smoked meat, bread, dried fruit, and cheese. “I brought along a flask of wine for you, since you have such a taste for it,” Nyctasia said. “It’s in my satchel, there.”
Corson pulled over the bag and rummaged through it impatiently, pushing aside some leatherbound books which were locked with clasps.
“Be careful with those books! No, that’s ink-the other flask.” Corson uncorked the wine, but then hesitated. “It’s not poisoned,” laughed Nyctasia.
“It might make me sleepy. I have to keep watch.”
“Do you want me to drink some first?” Nyctasia asked provokingly.
Scowling, Corson shoved the flask back into the satchel, dislodging the clasp on one of the books. To spite Nyctasia, she picked it up and opened it, but the writing baffled her. “This is gibberish!”
“It’s Old Eswraine, a dead language-the mother tongue of the languages of the coastal countries. That’s why they’re all so much alike, and-” she paused in her explanation. “But do you know how to read?”
Corson was not insulted by the question. People of her station were rarely literate. “I traveled about with a student when I was first out of the army. We traded lessons in sword-play for lessons in letters, but I think I got the better of the bargain-he’d never have made a swordsman. I’ve never met a scholar yet who was good for anything much,” she added pointedly.
“What a shame that you didn’t learn any manners while you were about it,”
Nyctasia remarked with a yawn. She pillowed her head on a saddlebag and pulled her cloak over her. “Good night… if you still want to cut my throat, this is your chance.” She did not really expect to sleep, oppressed as she was with fear and uncertainty, but her weariness soon overcame her.
She dreamt that Lady Mhairestri had sent for her. The matriarch had refused to see her for months, and Nyctasia was certain that at least one of the attempts on her life had been carried out at Mhairestri’s behest, yet she did not hesitate to obey the old woman’s summons. Though Nyctasia might defy her wishes, she would never show her the slightest disrespect.
Lady Mhairestri rarely left her own apartments. She received Nyctasia in her bedchamber, seated stiffly upright by the fire, her face hard and forbidding.
Nyctasia dropped to one knee before her and formally kissed her hand, but when she raised her head she found herself facing a stranger. This aged lady only resembled the matriarch.
She looked down at Nyctasia kindly and said, “Truly it is remarkable, child. You could be one of my own daughters.”
Bewildered and grateful, Nyctasia leaned her forehead against the old woman’s knee, “I wish that I could,” she said earnestly.
“But you must not stay here. You are in danger.”
Nyctasia realized suddenly that this was so. She had to get away at once, yet she did not rise. “You will give me your blessing. Mother, before I go?” she whispered, bowing her head again, humbly.
The old woman touched Nyctasia’s hair lightly with one frail hand, murmuring a ceremonial phrase, then said, “Now you must be gone, child,” and pushed her away with surprising strength.
Nyctasia looked up, startled, and it was Mhairestri she saw glaring at her, furious, hand raised to strike again. “Get out!” said the matriarch in a low, harsh voice. She hit at Nyctasia’s face and arms, “Get out of here!”
Corson was shaking her. “Get up! We have to get out of here!”