the spell was broken by the return of ’Deisha, without the dogs, her face glowing from repeated scrubbing, her hair still damp and shiny, twisted into a neat wreath. She wore a colorful blouse embroidered with vines and blossoms, and a full flowing skirt over green hose and sandals with golden buckles. “Have you saved me anything to eat?” she asked, laughing, quite recovered from her earlier dismay. She hastily kissed her father, and swatted one of her younger brothers in passing, in payment for his previous remarks. Crowding in beside Nyctasia, she helped herself plentifully to goose, then proceeded to dominate Nyctasia’s attention throughout the rest of the meal, clearly enamored with her elegant foreign cousin.
Seeing them together, no one who knew either woman could have long mistaken one of them for the other. ’Deisha, radiant with warmth and good spirits, made Nyctasia seem cold and distant by contrast, her words restrained, her very movements deliberate, as if she were somehow less alive than the impulsive, affectionate ’Deisha. Though life often amused Nyctasia, she had never known what it was to abandon herself fully to present pleasures, untouched by regret for the past or anxiety for the future. There was a faint air of weariness about her that made her seem older than her inexperienced cousin, though she was actually several months the younger. ’Deisha much admired her polish and breeding, while Nyctasia was drawn to ’Deisha’s frank and vital nature. Before dinner was over, they had discussed everything from fine needlework to recipes for curing mange.
At the end of the meal, servants cleared the board and brought out bowls of chopped apples, raisins and nutmeats. Nyctasia had a weakness for sweets, and she praised the large, succulent, yellow raisins especially. “I’ve never seen raisins this color. Are they made from your own grapes?”
“Ah, those are Raphe’s affair,” said Diastor. “A southern strain of golden grapes he’s been nursing for a new wine. We’ll be opening the first casks of it soon.”
“I have great hopes for it,” Raphe said earnestly. “It should be a rough wine, rather sweet. I left the skin on while it aged, to give it a dark gold color.
Come and see the vines-it’s a fine evening, I’ll show you over the grounds as well.” He rose and offered his arm to Corson.
’Deisha caught at Nyctasia’s hand and jumped up. “Yes, and come see my new heifers! One’s white with black patches, and the other’s black with white ones.”
“We’ll name them Day and Night, then,” one of the children called out. “Day for you, ’Deisha, and Night for Nyc there.”
The suggestion met with general approval, and Corson was particularly satisfied with it. “I always said you were a mooncalf, Nyc,” she declared, and her wit was much applauded.
To ’Deisha and Raphe’s disgust, their younger brothers and several cousins invited themselves along for the walk through the fields. Jenisorn, one of the brothers, offered to serve as Nyctasia’s escort. “You’ll need protection from the twins,” he told her, with a grin. “They’ve no doubt laid a wager already to see who’ll seduce you first.”
Nyctasia smiled. “I’d say it’s Corson who’s caught Raphe’s eye.”
“Oh, I meant the both of you, of course, but your friend looks well able to defend herself.”
“So she is,” said Nyctasia, “and so am I.” But she did need to be rescued soon, not from the amorous designs of Raphe or ’Deisha, but from the endless questions of the younger ones. Strangers were a welcome change in the valley, and foreigners from the coast were especially rare. But Nyctasia-an exiled noblewoman from far-off Rhostshyl-was an unheard-of figure of glamour and romance to her young kinsfolk.
They’d heard of Rhostshyl all their lives, as the ancestral home of the Edonaris, a city of palaces and wide, paved thoroughfares, noble courts, jeweled swords and deadly duels. It had always seemed to them a place half-mythical, like a city of legend, but now a real Rhostshylid had come among them, and they meant to make the most of the marvel. Their curiosity was boundless. Had Nyctasia not been the image of ’Deisha, they might have been less forward with her, held in check by her lofty rank, but she looked too much like one of themselves to inspire them with much diffidence.
“Nyc, do they hunt with hawks in Rhostshyl?”
“Sometimes,” said Nyctasia, who never had enough of hunting. “But I prefer hounds.” She showed them the faint scar on her temple from a graika’s talons.
“Have you been on a sailing ship?”
“Once. I was seasick for days. I desperately wanted to die.”
“Did you ever fight a duel?”
“When I was younger, and very foolish.”
“Why were you banished from the city?”
“For asking impertinent questions!” snapped ’Deisha, rounding on them fiercely, and displaying a marked family likeness to Mesthelde. “Let Nyc be, and stop making a nuisance of yourselves. You’ve the manners of wild swine!”
“You’re a fine one to talk of others’ manners, ’Deisha. We didn’t set the dogs on her!”
“My dogs are better trained than the lot of you.” ’Deisha drove them off at last, with threats, and led the way through the barn to the calves’ stall. The others fell behind, indifferent, as Nyctasia and ’Deisha engaged in a serious discussion of the merits of different kinds of feed grains. The Rhaicime was a disappointment, but they were better satisfied when they joined the cluster of questioners around Corson.
Warriors too were a novelty in the Valleylands, and everyone was eager for accounts of Corson’s prowess in battle. Some, indeed, hoped that she’d teach them to fight with sword and shield, though they knew that their elders would never permit it. Corson, for her part, was more than willing to boast of her daring exploits. She’d drunk a good deal of wine at dinner-wine far stronger than she’d suspected from the mellow smoothness of it-and under its inspiration she held her listeners spellbound with bloodthirsty stories till Nyctasia and
’Deisha returned from the dairy.
“If you’ve finished boring the Lady Nyctasia with your barnyard lore,” Raphe said, “we might get on to the vineyards before dark.”
“You must excuse him,” ’Deisha told Nyctasia, in tones of pity and tolerance.
“He’s incapable of taking an interest in anything but grapes. It’s exceedingly dull, I know, but he can’t help it. The poor fellow has no use for living creatures, though grapes can do nothing but grow, and have no use except at table.”
“My dear sister, you have admirably expressed my exact sentiments about livestock. What is more, the very air we breathe contradicts you.” He gestured toward the vine-covered slopes they were approaching. “Compare that aroma”-the fragrance of the grapes was intoxicating-“to the stench of the stable and the barn, the sheepfold and the fowl-yard.”
“You see…?” Jenisorn whispered in Nyctasia’s ear. “The both of them showing off for your benefit.”
“Charming,” murmured Nyctasia discreetly.
“The grapes,” Raphe concluded, “are pure and unsullied, fit for human hands to hold, not stinking of their own filth and crawling with lice!”
’Deisha objected vehemently to this description of the animals she raised, which, she protested, were clean and well-groomed creatures, every one of them.
But she was outnumbered. Wine-making was the chosen profession and the passion of most of her kinsfolk. Even those who longed to see something of the world outside the valley could not really imagine a life without the seasonal rhythm of budbreak, berryset, ripening, harvest and frost.
“Anyone could see that this land’s meant for grapes, not grazing,” said Nicorin.
“You know it well, ’Deisha.” They had climbed a hillside which gave a striking view of the surrounding vales and three of the valley’s many small lakes.
“I never denied it,” ’Deisha countered. “Oh, it’s country for grapes, right enough. The best there is.” The pride in her voice was unmistakable. Though she spent most of her time tending the animals of the estate, ’Deisha too had winemaking in her blood.
“Why is that?” asked Nyctasia. “I thought it was sunshine and rainfall that made the difference.”
“They do, but grapes need slopes like these as well,” ’Deisha explained, “to let the damp and cold flow away. And breezes on the heights keep the fruit dry.”
Nyctasia was already making notes in her commonplace-book, while Corson made a polite effort to look interested. Most of the others drifted away again.
“And warm air blows off the lakes, you see,” Raphe added. “Protection from frost. Everything needed is here-the soil is rich, and these hills are riddled with caves that are perfect for aging and storing the wine. We’ve rarely had to dig cellars for it… Ah, here’s what I wanted to show you.” He cut a small bunch of ripe grapes from the vine for Corson and Nyctasia. The plants on either side were heavy with purple-black fruit, but these were the color of sunstruck amber with a frosty bloom, glowing among the dark clusters that grew from the same vines.
“I brought these from the south, from Esthairon,” Raphe said proudly. “They’re too delicate to grow by themselves in colder climes, but I’ve grafted them to a hardier rootstock, and now they’re thriving here. I think they’re really doing better here than in their native soil. I suspect that an old strain may sometimes be improved when it’s joined to a flourishing new stock.”
Nyctasia knew that Raphe meant these words for her. She smiled at him and sampled a few of the golden grapes he’d given her. They were warm from the sun, and piercingly sweet.
“I’ve been playing about with different changeling stocks for years,” he remarked, “but there was never space enough to plant a whole crop of them until we acquired the Cymvelan lands.”
And it was only then that Nyctasia remembered the reason she’d meant to give for her visit to the valley.