a girl sat sewing in an alcove window, while a young child crawled at her feet, playing with a wooden horse. But when Nyctasia and the others entered, she picked up the baby and quietly left.
Lady Nocharis received them sitting up in bed. As the eldest in the family, she held the purely ceremonial title of matriarch. She was a small, frail woman, almost ghostly with her pale skin and stark white hair, but the warmth of her smile and the wisdom of her clear grey eyes dispelled all suggestion of lifelessness.
Nyctasia bowed respectfully and kissed her hand. “Madame,” she said, “you do me honor.”
The old woman smiled, amused at Nyctasia’s stately courtesy, which seemed quaint and old-fashioned to her. “What pretty manners you have in Rhostshyl,” she murmured.
Nyctasia realized her mistake at once. This was not the court. “We’re a formal lot, I’m afraid,” she apologized, “but I mean to leave that behind me now.” She bent and kissed Lady Nocharis on the cheek instead. The others withdrew, leaving them alone, and the matriarch patted the edge of the bed, inviting Nyctasia to sit near her.
“So you’ve come to stay with us, instead of taking us away with you?” she asked gently. But it was not truly a question.
Until this moment, Nyctasia had not dared to think seriously of settling here in the valley, but suddenly it seemed to her to be possible. To one of her station, kindred was all-important, and the bonds of blood were the hardest to break. “I hardly know why I’ve come,” she said slowly. “It matters little where I go, since I cannot go home. When I heard there were Edonaris here, I was curious to know whether they were kin to me. It was no more than that.”
“And now you know.”
“Yes indeed. You resemble my great-aunt, the matriarch Mhairestri.”
“And you, truly it is remarkable, child. You could be one of my own daughters.”
Nyctasia smiled sadly. “I wish I could,” she said.
“That place is still in your heart. But you were in danger there, I think.”
Nyctasia looked away. “Yes…,” she said, faintly disturbed by a shadowy memory she could not quite capture. Why did she feel that Lady Nocharis’s words held a warning for her? Did these folk know more about her than she had supposed? She shook her head, impatient with herself. What did it matter? They had every right and reason to be wary of her-but she must trust them, if she was ever to learn to trust anyone. She had not come away from Rhostshyl only to continue in her devious and suspicious ways.
“Yes, grave danger,” she said simply, “and the greatest of all was the danger to my spirit.” For the first time, Nyctasia saw that the true danger had never been that she might be killed, but that she might live to become more and more like Lady Mhairestri with every passing year. She shuddered.
Lady Nocharis stroked her hand. “My poor child, I think you had best stay here for the time, don’t you?”
“If you’ll have me,” said Nyctasia, with unwonted humility. She felt close to tears, but instead she returned the old woman’s smile. A Vahnite ought never to weep.
Raphistain arrived to escort Nyctasia to dinner, and the serving-girl followed with a tray. Lady Nocharis, who was lame, and bedridden much of the time, often did not dine with the rest.
“You must come and chat with me again, my dear. Perhaps between us we can discover what our degree of kinship is.”
“I shall,” said Nyctasia. “I’d like that.”
She felt unusually carefree and lighthearted, as if relieved of a crushing burden. At last she truly believed that she had been right to leave Rhostshyl, whatever the cost. It seemed a long time since she’d known such well-being and freedom from doubt.
Raphistain too was relieved. If Mother ’Charis accepted Nyctasia, the others would be satisfied. He led her on a tour of the parts of the house she’d not seen before, and Nyctasia was pleased with everything she saw.
“Nyctasia, I…”
“Please, call me Nyc.”
“With pleasure. And I’m Raphe, if you will. Nyc, I must apologize for the reception you’ve had here. You see, ever since we learned of the feud in Rhostshyl, there’s been mad talk among the youngsters of going to the defense of the House of Edonaris. And now the rumors of war are wilder than ever, so when you appeared everyone was sure you’d been sent to make allies of us. I did suggest to my father that we might ask you your intentions, but the day he heeds my advice will be the day it rains roast potatoes. I hope we’ve not offended you beyond redress.”
Nyctasia laughed. “We trust no one, and we don’t expect to be trusted. I quite sympathize with your suspicions, I assure you, and I share your apprehensions as well. I’ll do all I can to discourage your young folk from running off to Rhostshyl.”
“For that my elders will call you daughter-but I fear my young cousins may call you traitor.”
“I’m accustomed to that. My own family called me so, because I wanted to settle the feud by treaty.”
He shook his head. “They want us to muster an army and march to the coast, all to prove to our Rhostshylid relations that we’ve true Edonaris blood in our veins.”
“I fear they are right about that, at least, cousin. In Rhostshyl they say that all the Edonaris are crazy.”
Corson’s gown was really no more than a long, straight sheath that fell to her ankles and gathered at her waist with a sash. Nothing more elaborate could be stitched together in so short a time, even with the seamstress and two maids all working together. But the richness of the heavy, cream-gold silk was shown off all the better for the simplicity of the garment. No sleeves were needed in the late-summer weather, but an edge of the cloth was draped in graceful folds over Corson’s wide, proud shoulders. The maids insisted that she leave her hair down, though they fastened it back with the ivory clasp and wove it with ribbons cut from the same gold material.
Corson accepted a pair of sandals that laced up above her ankles, and she strapped a small knife to her calf, among the leather thongs. She could not very well wear her sword-belt, but the gown would hide the knife from sight. The thought of going about almost unarmed made her uneasy, but she reminded herself firmly that she was a guest, not a guard. She need not hold herself ready to attack or be attacked at the blink of an eye.
When she was summoned to dinner, Corson found it almost as hard to leave behind her money-pouch as her weapons. In the sorts of lodgings she was accustomed to, she would never have let it out of her sight for a moment. But to carry it with her would look like mistrust, and she had been long enough with Nyctasia to know that these folk would take it amiss, “Well, if I’m robbed, someone will pay for it,” she thought grimly. “I wish this wretched rag had some pockets!”
She dropped her belongings in the chest with feigned indifference and strode to the door, but her swaggering gait was much hampered by the long skirt. Before she could catch her balance, she fell heavily to the floor and lay sprawled in a tangle of honey-colored silk.
Corson forgot her fine manners. “Curse this rutting cocoon and the dung-worms that spun it and the bitch’s whelp who wove it!” she stormed, struggling to her feet. She glared at the waiting-maids. “Laugh at me and I’ll tear your tongues out!”
“Oh, no indeed, mistress,” said one respectfully. “Are you hurt? Let me just tidy your hair.”
“There, the seam’s not torn a bit,” said the other with satisfaction, straightening the folds of the gown.
“Don’t fuss at me!” Corson growled. She felt pinioned and harried and defenseless, but she took a deep breath, drew herself up to her full height, and said with dignity, “I’m ready, lead the way. I mustn’t keep everyone waiting.”
She proceeded down the corridor at a rather more restrained and ladylike pace.