the whole company rose to its feet when Corson made her entrance, though most of them had no idea who she was. Even Nyctasia did not recognize her, for a moment, in her finery and her dignity, The elegant cut of the gown gave her height new stateliness, and the pale gold silk perfectly graced her dark gold skin and the red-gold glow of her hair. The golden earrings she always wore might have been meant for just this occasion. By torchlight and candlelight Corson was a glorious golden candle herself, and all who saw her rose instinctively to do her honor.
She was absolutely terrified.
How was she to acknowledge this unexpected reception? Should she curtsy? How? It was all she could do to walk in this dress without falling on her face!
Petrified, she looked desperately to Nyctasia, who came forward at once to her rescue. “Allow me to present my companion,” she said, taking Corson’s hand,
“Corson brenn Torisk, the most beautiful mercenary on the coast, and the most dangerous.”
“Most beautiful in the Midlands as well!” someone called from the foot of the table.
“Most dangerous too-she has conquered me without striking a blow.”
Nyctasia led her to the table, and Raphistain made room for her to sit between them, “I saw her first and am already captive to her charms. You are too late,” he declared, winking at Corson.
“Indeed, we all surrender,” said Diastor. He bowed to Corson, and the company resumed their seats, still showering her with welcome and flattery.
Corson began to feel much more at her ease.
Then another latecomer suddenly claimed their attention. She came dashing into the dining-hall, shouting, “Listen, Cloud’s had twin calves-two beautiful little heifers! It must be a sign. We’ll see marvels this season!” Two large dogs had run in with her and were racing around the table eagerly, thrashing their huge tails and greeting the family with noisy enthusiasm.
“’Deisha, take those creatures out of here at once,” snapped Mesthelde. “And go get yourself washed. You’re late already, and you stink of the barnyard.”
“At once, Aunt,” laughed ’Deisha. “but first I must see the mysterious visitor everyone’s talking about. Where-” She stopped short and gazed at Nyctasia, openmouthed.
Nyctasia too stared, forgetting everything else. The two were identical, save that Nyctasia’s skin was ivory-pale, ’Deisha’s dark from the sun. And ’Deisha’s hair was not cut short but plaited in a long, untidy braid.
“My sister Frondescine,” said Raphe. “’Deisha, this is our cousin Nyctasia from Rhostshyl.”
“Vahn, as if ’Deisha weren’t trouble enough, now we have two of them,” someone groaned.
“And she’s a ’Tasia, too. We’ll go mad.”
“Why, call me Nyc, then,” said Nyctasia. She rose and turned to ’Deisha, smiling. The dogs sniffed her and Corson and barked, excited by the unfamiliar scents. One tried to climb into Corson’s lap, which it was much too large to do, and only succeeded in sweeping a few things off the table with its wildly wagging tail. The other reared up on its hind legs and planted its paws on Nyctasia’s shoulders, almost knocking her over, and thrust its great muzzle affectionately into her face.
“Be quiet, you curs! Get down!” Raphe pushed them away, and ’Deisha swatted each on the nose sharply, ordering them to lie down and be still. They collapsed to the floor at once, tails thumping, and looked up worshipfully for her approval.
Blushing brightly. ’Deisha faced Nyctasia, stammering apologies. “They’re very well-behaved as a rule…”
“They’re nothing of the sort, they’re wild beasts!” said Mesthelde indignantly.
“I’ve told you dozens of times not to bring them in-you can take your meals in the kennels in future, if you can’t bear to be parted from them.”
“Just the place for her,” agreed one of the older men. “The little mongrel’s not properly house-trained.”
The youngsters were delighted. “She-wolf, you mean,” one shouted.
“What he means’s bi-”
“Enough! We’ve guests at table!” roared Diastor, slamming his fist on the table.
Nyctasia stifled her laughter. “But they’re beautiful animals!” she cried, holding out her hands to the disconcerted ’Deisha. “I used to raise hounds myself.”
’Deisha approached her, but then, seeing her own grimy hands, she thrust them behind her and mumbled, “I must go wash, I’m filthy, excuse me. I won’t be a moment…” She fled, abashed, with the dogs galloping after her. Mesthelde sighed and signaled the servants to bring in the dinner.
Corson decided that her manners would be quite adequate to the occasion, and enjoyed her meal thoroughly, though many of the dishes were strange to her. She was accustomed to much plainer fare, but it was not difficult to appreciate the rich sauces of cream and wine, the fowls stuffed with sausage and berries, or the pork baked with plums, She felt that she could easily get used to food like this, and it was a simple matter to imitate the way the others used their tableware. Corson took note that one only picked up a bone to gnaw at it after cutting away the meat that could be reached with knife and fork. And one wiped one’s mouth with a napkin afterward.
Nyctasia too followed her hosts’ manners-it wouldn’t do to show that her own were considerably more refined. These folk would never learn from her that their behavior would be thought low-bred at court.
A very rare old vintage wine was served in their honor, from a lot laid down by the Edonaris lord who’d come from Rhostshyl long ago to settle in the valley.
But its subtle savor was wasted on the guests, for neither Nyctasia nor Corson had a taste for fine wines. Corson heard Nyctasia’s hissed whisper, “Sip it slowly!” in time to prevent her from emptying her glass at a gulp, but she found the drink bland and tasteless compared to the cheap, harsh wine served in taverns. “I’ve never had wine like this,” she said quite truthfully, wishing she had a strong ale instead.
Nyctasia, in accordance with Vahnite Discipline, rarely drank spirits at all.
One wine was the same as another to her, and plain water would have suited her better. But she smiled and declared the vintage “worthy of the name of Edonaris,” much to the satisfaction of the household.
They did not guess how shamed Nyctasia felt, to think of her family’s name sullied by commerce, branded on kegs that anyone might buy-as if the House of Edonaris were no better than a dramshop. But she pushed away such thoughts and forced herself to ask her newfound kin about their Edonaris ancestor.
It was he, Mesthelde told her, who had begun the winery. When he’d married into the family they had been merchants who dealt in fine wines and other luxury goods. But with the wealth he’d brought from Rhostshyl he had purchased land, and persuaded some of his bride’s family that it would be more profitable to produce and market their own wares. Nyctasia understood his actions perfectly. A nobleman would naturally feel that he must live on his own land, establish a domain. She would have done the same, even if it had meant taking part in trade.
“He was Raphistain Elwys Jhaice brenn Rhostshyl ar’n Edonaris,” Mesthelde continued. “Raphe’s named for him, of course, because he has the look-we get a few in every generation who look like you. Both my sisters have the Edonaris features, though not so much as Raphe and ’Deisha. No, you don’t see them here.
Andelsy lives at Tezroth with her husband’s kin, and Leclairin’s away at Osela.
But my mother looked much like ’Deisha, they say, when she was a girl.”
“It’s Lady Nocharis you mean?” asked Nyctasia, trying to remember who was whose child.
“Yes, the title’s come down to her. I was her first child, so I’ll inherit, and
’Deisha’s the oldest girl of the next generation.”
Corson was puzzled. “Why won’t it come to Raphe? Was it a woman’s title before the first Raphistain received it?”
“The title of Jhaice doesn’t descend strictly in the male or female line,”
Nyctasia explained. “Now that a woman holds it, it will stay in the motherline so long as there’s a girl in the next generation-daughter or niece. But if it passes to the fatherline, it will stay there until there’s no son or nephew to inherit. It is rather confusing.”
“What of your own title? Does it work the same way?”
“No, a Rhaicimate must remain in the original line as long as possible, even if it must pass to a sibling or cousin instead of descending to the next generation. If I’d no daughter or niece, my title would go to my sister, even if I had a son. But if there were no female heir, and a man succeeded to the Rhaicimate, it would have to revert to the female line in the next generation to produce a female heir.”
Corson had lost interest by this time, but the others were more attentive than ever to Nyctasia’s words. They had not suspected that she held such a high rank, and even Diastor was awed at first to learn that they had a Rhaicime in their midst. If they had been willing to have her settle among them before, they now became eager for her to do so.
Unsealing another carafe of wine, Diastor called for a toast, first to a bountiful harvest, as was customary, and then to the guests of the house.
Raphe seconded him. “To the irresistible slayer of hearts,” he said, bowing to Corson; Then he turned and raised his glass to Nyctasia. “To your homecoming, cousin.”
At his words, the festive, firelit scene seemed suddenly unreal to Nyctasia, like a painted mask hiding the features of an enemy. Now she saw that the tapestries hung in blackened tatters from the roofless walls. Mhairestri, not Mesthelde, sat at the far end of the table, and it was her brother Emeryc who proposed the toast. Her hand trembled as she lifted her glass, spilling a few dark drops of wine on the snowy table linen.