but the man ignored Nyctasia and swept a low bow to Corson, gallantly kissing her hand. “A harvest goddess, come to bless the vines!” he declared, then, turning to Nyctasia, he demanded, “What ails you? Why don’t you introduce me to this vision of heartbreaking beauty?”
Corson grinned at her. “I like this branch of your family better than the other,” she said.
“This is Corson brenn Torisk,” Nyctasia told him, laughing, “but who am I, for the vahn’s sake?”
He glanced at her quizzically. “Are you really ailing, ’Deisha? You do look pale.”
Nyctasia took off her hat to allow him a better look at her face. Her grey eyes met his, and she smiled at his start of astonishment. “I’ve always been pale,” she said.
He took a step toward her but stopped, shaking his head as if to deny that she stood before him. “You’re not-I took you for-but, who are you?” he whispered.
Nyctasia bowed. “Nyctasia of Rhostshyl, cousin.”
“An Edonaris of Rhostshyl, of course. You’d have to be. What do you want here, Rhostshylid?”
Nyctasia’s manner stiffened. “Hospitality,” she said, “is what we expected. If we’re not welcome here, we’ll seek it elsewhere.”
“All strangers are welcome at harvest time,” he said resignedly. “Forgive me-I am Raphistain ar’n Edonaris. But since when do the nobles of Rhostshyl own us as kin? What sort of welcome would any of us receive at court?”
“A fairer one than I, I fear,” Nyctasia sighed. “I myself am banished from the city.”
“Then you are not here as an emissary?”
“By no means. Rather as a fugitive.”
“Why, that’s another matter altogether! The others must hear of this. Come with me, the rest won’t be back till dinner. You’ll have time to refresh yourselves from your journey.” Now that he knew who Nyctasia was, he became the courteous host, but he was no longer certain how to address Corson. Was she only a guard?
Was it fitting for him to flirt with her?
Corson saw his curious look, and decided to make it clear that she was not Nyctasia’s servant, “You can blame me that we’re here,” she said. “I told Nyc there were Edonaris at Vale. She’d never heard of you.”
Raphistain abandoned his scruples. “You would be welcome in any company,” he assured her, with a meaning smile. “But how did you hear of us? Isn’t Torisk one of the Maritime cities, then?” All coastal accents sounded alike to a Midlander.
“Torisk’s a swamp, in the south. But I’ve traveled about the Midlands a good deal, and heard praise of Edonaris wine. I’ve never tasted it, though,” she hinted.
“What a tragedy! Fortunately, that can easily be remedied, now that you’re here.
I shall see to it myself.”
They followed him on foot, leading their horses, till a stable-boy came running from the yard and took the reins. He gave Nyctasia a puzzled look, but Raphistain sent him about his business at once and hurried them on to the manor house. It was a sprawling stone manse which had obviously been added to many times, as more space was needed. The newer wings and turrets were joined to the main body of the house at all possible angles, but the ivy climbing over the whole facade seemed to bind its parts together and make them one. The walls were alive with song-sparrows, invisible in the ivy vines, chirping and rustling restlessly, never still. Nyctasia saw the coat-of-arms of the Edonaris carved into the arch of stone above the main portal, half-hidden by leaves.
The great, dim hall was almost chill after the late-summer heat of the countryside. The walls of thick stone allowed little of the sun’s power to penetrate, and the windows were high and small here in the oldest part of the house. The doors stood open to admit more light, and Nyctasia could not but compare them to the portals of the palace of the Edonaris at Rhostshyl-defended by a portcullis and armed guards, fortified with great bars and bolts of iron.
What must it be like to have no enemies?
Their host led them quickly through the confusing maze of corridors and stairways, but he could not altogether avoid the curious stares of the few servants they passed. He stopped before the open door of an old, book-lined room where a sharp-featured woman of middle age sat bent over the household accounts.
A great ring of keys at her belt clinked when she turned to face them.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Dinner’s not for hours. ’Deisha, why aren’t you at the calving?”
Nyctasia had been examining the backs of the books, all of which, she noticed, were dusty from neglect. She started guiltily. “But I’m not-” she began.
“What mischief are you two about now? And at harvest time too! Who’s that great creature?” she continued, noticing Corson.
When Raphistain could get in a word, he bowed and said, “Aunt, allow me to present our guests. Mesthelde brenn Vale ar’n Edonaris-Corson brenn Torisk and Nyctasia brenn Rhostshyl ar’n Edonaris.”
She frowned. “What nonsense is this? We’ve no time for games and foolery. What have you done to yourself, ’Deisha? You look like a ghost!” She approached Nyctasia as if she intended to take her by the collar and drag her off to wash her face and hands.
“Madame, I-” said Nyctasia. “Permit me-”
The woman peered at her, squinting, then stepped back suddenly, setting the keys jangling. “Sacred Name of Creation! Who is this?”
“But I’ve just told you, my good aunt,” said Raphistain, enjoying the scene.
“Our cousin Nyctasia has come all the way from Rhostshyl to pay us a visit. And you greet her with a scolding-what will she think of us?”
Ignoring him, Mesthelde sat down again, still staring. At last she said, “Have you sent word to your father, Raphe?”
“Not yet. I only just-”
“Then go fetch him, boy! He’ll be at the coopers’ yet. Don’t waste time. I’ll see to our guests.”
He sighed. “Very well, I suppose it will be best if I go myself. I shall see you all at dinner, I trust. Mind, Aunt, you’re not to frighten them away.”
Mesthelde looked them up and down with obvious suspicion. “Well, if it must be, it must. Come along. As you’re here, you might as well be comfortable. You’ll need some fresh clothes. ’Deisha’s are sure to fit you,” she said to Nyctasia in a tone which implied that the resemblance was a piece of wanton deceit. “But I’m sure I don’t know what we’ll find for you!” She looked up at Corson and shook her head in disapproval of such immoderate height. Nyctasia endured this treatment with unaccustomed forbearance. Corson had rarely seen her so abashed and silent.
Their hostess showed them to spacious rooms in the newer part of the mansion, promising to send maids to see to their needs and fetch them to dinner. Her manner made it clear that they were not expected to show themselves before they were summoned to the evening meal.
Corson was pleased with the chamber allotted to her. It was large and well furnished, but simple enough to make her feel at home. She was accustomed to sharing servants’ quarters or the crowded barracks where guards were housed. So this was what it meant to be a guest, not a mere hireling. But then, these Edonaris were vintners and tradesfolk-the local gentry, perhaps, but not of the highest aristocracy like the Edonaris of Rhostshyl-not too proud to treat a common swordswoman as a guest in their home.
There was therefore no reason, Corson assured herself, to worry about how she should conduct herself here. But… what did one do with ladies’ maids? She wished Nyctasia were with her. What would she do?
As soon as she had asked herself this, Corson knew exactly what to do. When two girls arrived, one bearing bed-linens, the other a tray of grapes and cheese, Corson instructed them to prepare her bath, quite as if she had been giving orders to domestics all her life.
But she did not know that the maids would stay until they were dismissed. It never occurred to her to say, “That will be all,” and as a result she was attended with every possible service while she bathed. The ladies’ maids washed her hair and feet, scrubbed her back, fetched more water, and stood about waiting to rub her dry, then wrapped her in a capacious robe. When they took away the tub, Corson thought she was rid of them at last, but one soon came back to dress her hair for her. Corson managed not to show her surprise, but she was glad she had the fine silver comb and brush Nyctasia had given her, which were fit for any lady.
The maid exclaimed over her long, glorious hair, and Corson began to feel more comfortable with her new station in life. As she was enjoying the rare luxury of having her hair brushed, an older woman entered and looked at her critically.
“Oh, it’ll have to be the gold, no question,” she said, and went out again, leaving Corson mystified.
“The gold what?” she asked the girl, before she could remember not to display her ignorance.
“It’s the cloth she means, mistress-we’re to make you a gown straightaway.
There’s a length of gold silk from Liruvath that’s long enough.”
Corson was appalled. A gown-! She’d never worn such a thing in her life. Perhaps she should go find Nyctasia and ask her how she ought to behave, after all.
Nyctasia dismissed the maids as soon as her bath was ready. She had always preferred privacy to constant attendance, and she had much to think about.
I oughtn’t to have come here, she brooded. I knew better. I was a fool to imagine for a moment that I might find a welcome among strangers simply because they bear my name. These folk want no part of me, and I can’t blame them-they must have heard what poison we are, we Rhostshylid.
She pressed the water from her sleek., close-cropped hair and felt it trickle down her face like tears, making her somehow sadder. I’ll leave them in peace, she decided. I’ll ask nothing of them but a night’s lodging, and say that we came because of that strange Cymvelan paper. The thought of the list was comforting-she had, after all, some legitimate reason to be here. She quickly dressed in the elegant clothes the maids had laid out for her, meaning to go at once to look for Corson, but just then the girls returned to tell her that the Lady Nocharis had summoned her.
She was shown to a tapestried drawing-room where the family was gathered, obviously to discuss what to do about her. “But if she’s come on her own account-” she heard, before they fell silent at her entrance. Only a few gasps of astonishment greeted her appearance, and she too was taken aback at the uncanny resemblances to some of her near relations in Rhostshyl.
Raphistain performed introductions, but Nyctasia soon lost track of the names and the web of kinship. She gathered that the grey-haired Diastor was Raphistain’s father and Mesthelde’s brother by marriage, that Leclairin was away on business, and that Tepicacia was someone’s younger sister. She met Mesthelde’s cousin Nesanye, his wife Ancelin and their son Nicorin. There was a Great Uncle Anseth and an elderly cousin by marriage named Heronice, but Diastor and Mesthelde seemed to be the heads of the household.
“I was told that Lady Nocharis wished to see me,” said Nyctasia, puzzled.
“So she shall,” said Diastor, “but you’ll hear what we have to say, first.”
“Willingly, sir.” She gratefully sank into the chair that Raphistain placed for her.
Diastor frowned. “For generations the Edonaris of Rhostshyl have refused to acknowledge us because we dealt in trade. All of our advances to them were met with threats or with silence, and the family gave up the attempt long ago, before my time.”
“I know nothing of that,” said Nyctasia. “I was never told that there was another branch of the family. Perhaps my parents didn’t even know it.”
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “we hear news of the coast from time to time, through travelers’ tales. We know that the House of Edonaris is at war with the Teiryn, and we’ll have no part in it, mark me well. You’ll find no allies here for your blood-feud. If we’re not good enough to mix with the noble Edonaris of Rhostshyl, we’ll not send our young folk there to die for them!”
“That’s for us to say!” One of the younger men spoke out boldly. “Some of us want to see Rhostshyl once in our lives. We’ve the right-it’s our heritage.
Rhostshyl’s our homeland as much as the valley is.”
“Oh, but-” gasped Nyctasia.
“’Corin’s right,” said a girl who looked no older than sixteen. “We’ve no call to turn our backs on our kin just because their ancestors scorned our ancestors.
It’s our duty to defend the House of Edonaris, with our blood if we must!”
“Nonsense!” thundered Diastor. “Children’s notions! Hold your tongue, ’Cacia, you know nothing about it.”
“You youngsters only want some excitement,” Mesthelde said witheringly. “You think you can be lords and ladies and live at court instead of doing honest work in your own home. But you’ll only make fools of yourselves, if you’re lucky, and get yourselves killed if you’re not-all for a lot of strangers who care nothing for you!”
Nyctasia was aghast. “But I’d never-”
“Why didn’t you send her away before they heard about her?” Diastor demanded of Mesthelde.
“Too late for that, others had already seen her. And what was to keep her from coming back? It’s best to have it out now and be done with it.”
“True,” he said, glaring at Nyctasia. Everyone was now looking at her.
Raphistain caught her eye and grimaced ruefully.
Nyctasia took a deep breath. “You mistake me, I assure you. Never would I counsel you to take part in the madness that afflicts Rhostshyl! I myself am in exile because I opposed the feud.” She turned to the youth who’d spoken before.
“Believe me, the Teiryn are not the enemy-it’s the feud itself that will destroy the House of Edonaris, and the city with it. You must have nothing to do with it, I beg you!” Her voice trembled with undisguised passion.
There was a stunned silence on all sides, but at last Diastor said, “Come, it’s time you met the Lady Nocharis.”