true to nyctasia’s prediction, it was only a matter of days before messengers from the Saetarrin arrived to entreat her help for Lord Marrekind.
’Cacia interrupted her and Jenisorn at their studies. “They say the Red Veil’s come upon him, whatever that may be, and that you have a cure for it, Nyc, which His Lordship begs you’ll send at once.”
“I shall do better than that. I’ll go myself to tend to him, and bring the remedy with me. I have it right here.”
“Don’t you do it!” ’Cacia protested. “Let the bastard suffer. Let him die!”
“I know what I’m about, girl. Trust me. Run and tell them that I’ll set out at once.”
“What are you about, Nyc?” Jenisorn demanded, as soon as ’Cacia had left them.
“Why should you help him?”
“Why, Jheine. I’m surprised at you. It’s my manifest duty to heal Lord Marrekind.” Nyctasia grinned, and held up a small silver flask. “And when I’ve given him this, he’ll be so exceedingly grateful he may even keep his word to me about Lorr. One who’s been cured of The Red Veil doesn’t soon forget it.”
“You’re quite sure you can cure it, then? If you go there yourself, and fail-”
“Don’t worry, my lad. I cannot fail. I have only to give him this antidote to the poison I put in his wine. You’ll agree, surely, that it’s my duty to do so.”
Jenisorn dropped the vellum scroll he was holding. “Sweet vahn, Nyc!”
Greymantle watched in surprise as the scroll rolled across the floor toward him.
He stalked it suspiciously, sniffed it, then decided that it was unfit to eat, and sneezed disdainfully. Nyctasia took it away from him before he could change his mind.
“You’re not to tell the others, mind you, Jheine. I don’t know that Mother
’Charis would approve-and I think young ’Cacia would approve too much.”
“As you will, of course. But I’d not rely on Marrekind’s promises, even if he believes that he owes you his life. I think we’d best try to get Lorr away in secret, nonetheless.”
“By all means. It’s not only his promises I wanted, but his pain as well. Oh, not for spite’s sake-much as the prospect pleases-no, rather to create a certain Symmetry. Understand, Jheine, that Balance is the Principle that must be satisfied in order to bring about healing. To invoke any Influence, a sacrifice must be made, never forget it. I tried to give of my own strength to heal Lorr, but I feel that I was unsuccessful.”
Jenisorn nodded. “He’s been a little better since you saw him, but he’s still far from well.”
“That’s because he doesn’t want to live, you see. But it may be that I can find the power to overcome that Resistance, through the suffering of Lord Marrekind.
The vahn forbids, in the natural order of things, that one should win such power from the sacrifice of another-but, in this matter. Balance will be served because Lord Marrekind was the one responsible for Lorr’s suffering. Do you follow?”
“I think so. Is that why you must go to him now?”
Nyctasia hesitated. “No. Not for this Influence, but for another spell I mean to try. An older spell, and far more powerful. Perhaps the oldest spell of all-the blood of the guilty to heal the wounds of the victim. I shall order Lord Marrekind to be bled-which will do him good, in truth, though that’s by the way-and bring back with me a measure of his blood, to bathe Lorr’s back. It’s a primitive magic, and wild and wicked, according to some. It certainly has nothing to do with the Indwelling Spirit.”
“Let me come with you, Nyc. I can help. You could say you’re teaching me to be a healer.”
“So I am, but there’s something I want you to do here while I’m gone. Do you know of the hot spring that was found in the great crystal cavern of the Cymvelans? It should be possible to reach it now, through the tunnels, to fetch some of the water. Such springs often possess healing waters, or so it’s said.
We may as well try. Wash Lorr’s wounds with it, and give him some to drink.”
“I’ve done that already,” said Jenisorn proudly.
“Indeed? Then I shall take you along with me, if your elders don’t object. Here, put these books where they belong.” She paused. “I have read, though, that it’s best to partake of such waters at their source. Perhaps we could bring him to the spring one night, and keep him hidden there. It’s as secret as the cellars, and-”
Jenisorn laughed. “You are a witch, Nyc, and no mistake. That’s just where we moved him, once the way to the ruins was cleared. The air is pure there, and it’s warm near the spring. I didn’t mean to tell you unless it became necessary, but I see it’s no use trying to keep anything from you. He’s had the water in plenty, and bathed in the pool.”
“Well done, by my word. With you to look after him, he’ll have no choice but to mend.”
“Nyc… could I be a healer, in truth? Will you really teach me?”
“I intend to,” Nyctasia said seriously. “But you will be a far better healer than I, one day. If you can be spared from the vintnery, I’ll put you to work in earnest soon. Come along, now, ’prentice, we’ve kept His Lordship waiting long enough.”
But with the change of the seasons, her plans were changed as well. By spring thaw, Lorr was well enough to travel, and reached Amron Therain in safely.
Jenisorn was now free to apply himself to his studies, and the family was willing to let Nyctasia make a scholar of him if she could, But the opening of the Trade Road brought other travelers and a courier from Osela with news and messages for the household. Nyctasia’s letters from Chiastelm were finally delivered.
They were bound together in a packet, and neither bore Nyctasia’s name, but Mesthelde handed them to her at once when the messenger said that they’d come all the way from the coast.
“They must be intended for our westerner,” she said.
Nyctasia seemed to receive them with a certain reluctance. “Yes, I believe these are mine. This one’s from an old friend, an herbalist. She always seals her letters thus.” She showed the others the clear impression left by a leaf that had been pressed into the warm wax.
“Nightingale’s-tongue, the minstrel’s herb,” said Mesthelde. “A good choice for you. A tisane brewed of it is supposed to preserve a singer’s voice.”
Nyctasia nodded. “And I was born with the Nightingale in the ascendant, you see,” She examined the other letter, which was stamped with the seal of a crudely carved hare. “I don’t know this mark, but it must be from Corson. Only she knows that I’m here.” She broke open the seal and immediately recognized Corson’s untrained scrawl.
“Ah, my adored Corson,” sighed Raphe. “Goddess of Danger and Desire. How fares the glorious warrior, Nyc?”
“Nyc…?” said ’Deisha anxiously.
Nyctasia had read the beginning of Corson’s letter, gasped sharply, and suddenly turned a deathly white. In a choked voice she whispered, “Forgive me, I must-I can’t-” and hurried from the hall with the letter crushed in her hand.
Greymantle loped after her.
“I fear I’ve brought ill tidings,” said the courier apologetically.
“Were those letters from Rhostshyl?” Jenisorn asked him.
“Chiastelm, I was told, though Rhostshyl’s not far from there. But if it’s news of Rhostshyl you want, there’s plenty, and none of it good. Outright war broke out a few months ago, between the two ruling families. I forget which side won, but it was a doubtful victory either way. Fires destroyed half the city, and hunger and sickness followed, as they always do. Rhostshyl’s a ruin, hadn’t you heard?”
Nyctasia sat staring at Corson’s letter without seeing it, as the words she had read seared her spirit and her understanding. She had known that war must come, of course she had known. Even here in the Valley folk had heard rumors from the coast, leaving little doubt that the fragile peace in Rhostshyl could not last.
Yet she was unprepared for the news, now that it faced her at last, no longer a fear for the future, not a rumor or a vision, but an inescapable fact. No warning could have prepared her to accept the reality.
Winter in Vale had been so still, so changeless, that time might have been frozen like the mountain lakes, like the wagon-ruts of the great Southern Trade Road. With news of the lands beyond the valley walled out by snow, and travelers almost unknown, it had seemed as if nothing could possibly be taking place anywhere in the world. Lost in her studies, sheltered and cherished by her newfound kinsfolk, Nyctasia had almost ceased to feel herself an exile and a stranger. But now as the land woke to spring she too was roused from her dreams to receive the thaw’s tidings. Rhostshyl in ashes…
She had been living as if she meant to settle permanently at Vale, and she had nearly deceived herself, but now she understood that beneath all her plans had lain the belief that one day she would live again in Rhostshyl, and someday die there. Only now did she realize that she had taken this for granted, for the future suddenly seemed to stretch before her empty and meaningless. If Rhostshyl perished, she would be homeless forever. It was unthinkable.
“When feeling returns to the numbed flesh, there is pain,” she thought ruefully.
Did the earth too suffer when the winter ice melted away, and life seized the land again?
Shaking off such thoughts, she forced herself to reread Corson’s words, but could find no comfort in them. The offhanded hopelessness of “It’s over now” filled her with a sickening, chill despair. She read on, but Corson had soon lost interest in the subject and turned to her own affairs. She was enthusiastic in her thanks for the wooden comb. She complained that her life in Chiastelm was a bit dull at times. “Sometimes I even miss you, with all your endless nonsense,” she had written. “Charms and chatter and rhymes and riddles. But when I’m sober I remember all the trouble you put me to. No one here believes the half of it, and I don’t blame them much. I hardly believe it myself.”
She ended with fond greetings to the rest of the Edonaris clan-especially to Raphe-but she had no more to say about the plight of Rhostshyl.
But from Maegor’s letter Nyctasia learned all the particulars of the tragedy.
Corson had not exaggerated, it seemed. “My Dear ’Tasia,” Maegor began, “I have been tempted to spare you news that can only distress you, but your loyal courier shames me to the truth. It is, as she says, your right to decide for yourself what you must do. Yet if your spirit knows peace where you are, then you will bide, if you are wise. When you left, you told me that you’d be crazy to return to the city, and that worries me greatly, for you are an Edonaris, and therefore mad, as all the world knows. Consider well, ’Tasia-Emeryc and Lehannie were among the first to be slain, and not by chance, as you will well understand. Would you not be the next target, if you returned? And even if the enemies of your house are no longer a threat, can you be sure of a welcome from those of your kin who survive? You always opposed their claims to sole rule of the city, and now that they’ve achieved their desire at last, and done away with the only challenge to their power, will they allow you to share in that power?
What will be gained by your joining the ranks of the dead?”
Nyctasia shuddered, remembering with cruel vividness her dream of Rhostshyl as the abode of the dead, a city of fallen stone and blackened timber, where only ghosts dwelt-ghosts who had invited her to become one of them. Now she recalled that her brother Emeryc and her mother’s sister Lehannie had been among them, though both had been alive when she left the city. Maegor’s warning seemed prudent indeed. Nyctasia read further.
“They came to me for news of you, not long ago,” Maegor had written. “I could tell them nothing, of course, but I think they believe that I could send word to you if I chose, for they left this message with me nonetheless. I would that I had burned it before the doughty Corson sought me out, for now I must, in all conscience, let her send it on to you. I have not read it, and it is my hope that you will not do so either. For the good of your spirit, ’Tasia, leave it unread, and destroy it.”
Nyctasia knew that she would be well-advised to heed this counsel, and knew just as surely that she wouldn’t. Maegor’s advice was always wise, and Nyctasia rarely followed it. She snatched at the other page and shook it open at once. It was unsealed, and bore neither salutation nor signature, but Nyctasia knew that the writer was Therisain ar’n Edonaris, one of her staunchest allies at court, who had joined with her in calling for a treaty of peace with the Teiryn, The others had not thought him a serious threat to their ambitions, since he was only of minor rank, but things had changed in the city now…
Not for the salvation of her life or her spirit would Nyctasia refuse his message while the faintest hope yet remained to her. For her dream had shown her another vision of Rhostshyl as well. She had seen herself as a young bride, heralded by horns and banners, leading the living back into the heart of the city. With that image before her, she did not hesitate to read Therisain’s words, and as she read she began to understand for the first time what these shadows might mean.
His letter repeated some of what she’d learned already from the others, though without referring to any person or place by name. But then, unlike Corson or Maegor, he spoke not only of the city’s present state, but of its future. “We have your letters of warrant, and by their authority we have thus far prevented the execution of the heir and many other prisoners. The matriarch is persuaded that more deaths might spur further uprisings among their supporters, but she will not be satisfied to hold her hand forever. She has been weakened, and this is the time to act. You must return to claim your prerogatives soon, if our plans are ever to hear fruit. We shall have the support of the populace and much of the nobility, I believe, for this conflict has devastated the high and the low alike, and folk remember that you sought to prevent it. Even the twins now oppose further bloodshed, and agree to await your word. They are still licking their wounds and are grown less bloodthirsty, having once tasted blood.
“I tell you, reconciliation may be within our grasp, but you must make your presence felt and establish your power beyond question. Only you are in a position to impose order and stability upon this chaos, and to assure that peace and mercy prevail in the city. Your duty is manifest.”
The hope he held out was a ray of light piercing the dark wilderness of Nyctasia’s grief. She could bear any bereavement, she thought, if Rhostshyl might yet be saved. She hardly knew what she felt about the death of her brother. He had been a follower of the matriarch Mhairestri, devoted to keeping Rhostshyl in the hands of the Edonaris at any cost, and he had condemned Nyctasia’s efforts at every turn. He had been as one dead to her for years, and she had long since ceased to mourn him. It was too late to regret their differences now. His death changed nothing between them.
But it changed the balance of power in Rhostshyl a good deal.
Neither Corson nor Maegor had realized the full significance of the news they’d sent, but Lord Therisain had understood it very well, and he knew that there was no need to explain it to Nyctasia. The titular lines of descent of the Edonaris were as familiar to her as her own name. Emeryc and Lehannie had both been of Rhaicime rank, which, as Maegor had suggested, was why they’d been marked for assassination as soon as hostilities had been openly declared. But the heir to Emeryc’s title was his young son Leirven, still a child, and Lehannie was to be succeeded by Nyctasia’s sister Tiambria-one of the twins-who would not come of age for another three years. With the heads of the House of Teiryn dead or defeated, there was no one at liberty who had the right to serve upon the council of the Rhaicimate. Nyctasia was entitled, quite legitimately, to declare herself the absolute ruler of the city of Rhostshyl.