nyctasia had sent her respects to the Lady Mhairestri as soon as she first arrived in Rhostshyl, but she had received no reply and had not expected one.
But when the day appointed for the wedding was only a fortnight away, she was suddenly summoned to present herself to the matriarch.
It was evening, and Nyctasia had already retired to her apartments, with only Corson and Greymantle in attendance. Corson was practicing her penmanship by writing a long letter to Steifann about the opulence of the court and the importance of her own position. When she stopped to rest her hand, she listened with pleasure as Nyctasia played the gilded harp and sang an old ballad.
Nyctasia had been more at her ease of late, since preparations for the wedding ceremony had been set under way, and Corson had found her better company.
But when she had dismissed Mhairestri’s messenger, she leaned her head on her hands and said resignedly, “I might have known that matters were progressing too smoothly. I taunted Tiambria for her fear of Mhairestri, but in truth I still fear her myself. Well, it won’t do to keep her waiting. You may as well stay here, Corson. I can’t appear before the matriarch with an armed escort.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be respectful. It would look as though I didn’t trust her.”
“You don’t trust her,” Corson pointed out, “She’s tried to have you killed before.”
“Oh, of course everyone knows that I don’t trust her, but you see, it would be discourteous of me to show it. Don’t worry, she’d not send for me in order to make an attempt on my life. She wouldn’t put me on my guard first.”
“Discourteous! I should have thought it more discourteous to try to have people murdered,” Corson rejoined. “Take Greymantle with you at least.”
There was nothing welcoming in the matriarch’s manner when she received Nyctasia. She remained as straight and stiff as the hard, narrow chair she sat in, and no word or gesture of hers acknowledged Nyctasia’s presence.
Nyctasia dropped to one knee before her, in the proper attitude of formal humility, and reverently kissed her hand, “Madame,” she said, “you do me honor.
I hope I find you well.”
The old woman pushed her away, looking down at her coldly. “So you have come to complete the destruction of this House, Nyctasia Selescq.”
Nyctasia stood, but remained facing the Lady Mhairestri. “I am sorry that I cannot please you, Madame, but I will allow no further bloodshed in this city, not Teiryn blood, nor that of the innocent. There is nothing to be gained.”
“No, to you our name is nothing!”
“It will be to the honor of our name to show mercy to a fallen enemy, to allow peace to return to the city.”
“Peace! Can you not see that the only way to bring peace to Rhostshyl is to destroy the enemy while they are in our power? If the Teiryn are not crushed now, they will rise against us again, and more will die on both sides.”
Nyctasia was silent. It was the one argument which held any weight with her.
Mhairestri pressed her advantage, becoming persuasive, almost cajoling. Nyctasia was struck afresh by her resemblance to the Lady Nocharis. “I’ve lived long… long, Nyctasia… and I know that some things never change. I’ve seen your kind before. You are young, you believe that things which have never happened before may yet come to pass at your bidding, that words may do the work of swords, that two bulls may graze in one field. It must be so because you would have it so.”
She shook her head, unassailable in her certainty, “I tell you, one house must rule. As long as there are two, war will be inevitable.”
Nyctasia leaned against the mantle, her hands pressed to her temples. “I am no longer so young,” she said. “I know that you may be right-that is my greatest fear.” (Only remember that you are a healer.) “But the future is always uncertain. I will not murder the survivors of this battle to prevent an uprising that may never come. I cannot.” (Let nothing persuade you to forget that.)
“Then do not speak to me of the welfare of the city! It is the welfare of your own spirit that concerns you.”
“Perhaps,” said Nyctasia, more to herself than to Mhairestri, “but if that were so, why would I have returned here?”
“You are weak, weak! Now, when this house needs a strong hand to guide it! Fool, ah-” the old woman leaned back in her chair, breathless, weak with passion, and there was a long silence in the chamber. “That I should live to see the end of this family…!” she said at last.
“I mean to unite the family-”
“Traitor! You mean to unite the family to our enemies!”
“You have said that one house must rule-very well, I shall make one house of the two. And, Mhairestri, I believe that that house will be the House of Edonaris.
The Teiryn will become part of us-we shall devour them as surely as the she-spider devours her mate. Edonaris blood will tell, you know it is so. And I-I have reason to believe that many generations will not suffice to change that. If we continue to intermarry with the Teiryn, in time there will be no Teiryn.”
“And no Edonaris! You will have us a bastard breed, our line polluted by Teiryn blood, all so that you may say you were not guilty of shedding that blood. You have ever been a dreamer, a madwoman. It is useless to reason with you.”
“Certainly this discussion is useless, Madame,” said Nyctasia, her courtesy unwavering. “I weary you to no purpose, I shall take my leave of you, with your permission.”
The matriarch pierced her with an angry stare. “Do you love your House, Nyctasia Selescq?”
Nyctasia hesitated. “I love this city.”
“Answer me!”
It was pointless to lie. “I do not, Madame. I did once.”
“Get out of my sight,” said Mhairestri with surprising calm.
Nyctasia made one final effort, though she felt little hope of success.
“Mhairestri-Mother-” she pleaded-“You must love this House for both of us. I know that you want what is best for the Edonaris, as I want what is best for Rhostshyl, but the family and the city cannot be divided-surely our wishes must often be the same. Would it not be to the benefit of both if we should at least appear to be unified? Only let me report that you withhold judgment on my plans, not that you approve or support them, but at least-that way-”
“I see. Thus, it shall not appear that I was simply powerless to prevent you. My dignity will be spared,” Mhairestri said disdainfully.
Nyctasia spread her hands. “Yes,” she admitted. “And if I succeed in bringing about a truce, you will be honored for your farsightedness. If I fail, you have reserved the right to condemn my actions. Only permit me…” her voice trailed off to silence as she regarded the matriarch’s face.
The old woman gripped the arms of her chair. “You are Rhaicime,” she hissed. “Do as you will-but not with my blessing! If I cannot save the honor of this House, I must look to my own. I have told you once to leave me-go! Get out! Get out of here!”
Nyctasia bowed low and said, “Give you a good night, Madame.” She backed out the door without once turning her back to the Lady Mhairestri, a mark of respect usually reserved for royalty, and requiring considerable skill to perform with grace.
Corson sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, and wishing she had the courage to summon one of Nyctasia’s maids to brush it for her. Most of the servants accepted Corson as a person of some authority, but the lady’s maids clearly thought it unsuitable that an ill-bred mercenary should share their mistress’s chambers. They seemed to regard Corson and Greymantle’s presence there with equal disfavor, and behaved as far as possible as if neither of them existed.
Nyctasia had explained that a few of them were Mhairestri’s spies, and others simply jealous that a mere guard was on terms of greater intimacy with the Rhaicime than they were themselves. Indeed, they might well feel slighted, for Nyctasia demanded little attendance, and rather neglected them. She preferred privacy to being waited upon; she rarely wore clothes that were difficult to put on or take off unassisted, and her close-cropped hair required little attention.
“I need a maid more than she does,” Corson thought, “but I don’t suppose the haughty little chits would lower themselves to wait on me. Nyc would brush my hair for me, but not her rutting proud maids-in-waiting…”
Corson brooded on the paradox of the aristocracy, then yawned and lay back on the bed, stretching. She removed her leather vest and chain mail and tossed them on the floor, leaving only her comfortable loose linen shirt.
But not until Nyctasia came in and barred the door behind her did Corson take off her sword-belt. She hung it carefully over the headboard of the bed, where her weapons would be near at hand should she need them in the night. “Nyc,” she said, “if I told one of your lady’s maids to brush my hair, would she?”
“Yes, I believe so. They’ll ignore you if they can, but they’d be afraid to offend you outright, because they think I make a favorite of you. But I’d rather you didn’t call for a maid just yet. I don’t want any of my people to see that Mhairestri’s upset me.”
Nyctasia found Corson a welcome sight, lolling lazily on the bed with her long hair flowing about her. She looked warm and inviting after the company of the harsh, forbidding Lady Mhairestri. Nyctasia was drawn to her as to a comforting hearthfire on an icy winter night.
“You do look like a hind harried by hounds,” Corson observed. “What did the revered matriarch do to you?”
“Nothing-yet. But she means to do something soon, and I don’t know what. Now I’ll not sleep tonight for thinking about it.”
“Ah, I’ve told you time and again, you think too much. And stop that pacing, you make me giddy.” She reached out her long legs and caught Nyctasia between them.
“If I can’t have a lady’s maid, you’ll have to do. Here, you can take off my boots for a change.”
“Is that any way for a common swordswoman to address a Rhaicime?” Nyctasia chided, but she obeyed, kneeling before Corson as she had before Mhairestri, and tugging at her heavy boots.
Corson grinned down at her. “If you don’t like my manners, you can get yourself another bodyguard,” she suggested.
Nyctasia sat back on her heels and regarded her with a wry smile. “I should,” she agreed, “but where would I find another so fetching? Raphe called you the Goddess of Danger and Desire.”
“Mmm, he did?” Corson said appreciatively. She’d be sure to tell Steifann that.
“That one knew something about lovemaking-did you ever have him?”
Nyctasia laughed and shook her head. “We couldn’t, Raphe and I. We’d flirt, but-well, he looked so like my brothers… and of course he couldn’t see me without thinking of ’Deisha. It was impossible.”
“Well, in the dark what’s the difference? You should have kept your eyes closed.
When Raphe stops talking, he’s very fine indeed. On my oath, you Edonaris can talk till the stars fall.” She nudged Nyctasia with one foot. “I’ll wager the true hindrance twixt you and Raphe was that neither of you could keep quiet long enough to-no! Stop that, you-”
Nyctasia had grabbed Corson’s ankle, and was mercilessly tickling the sole of her foot. Corson, who was unbearably ticklish, writhed and cursed, pummeling Nyctasia with her free foot, and laughing helplessly.
“Grey,” Nyctasia called, “you’re not to let people kick me! Help!” Greymantle barked and wagged his tail helpfully. Nyctasia surrendered, released Corson’s ankle, and fell over on the floor, holding her side and groaning dramatically.
“Half my ribs are broken,” she complained. “I could have you hanged for treason.”
“Yes, and you probably would too, nasty little bitch,” Corson grumbled, rubbing her tingling foot. “That’s the thanks I get for saving your life-first I’m tickled, then executed!” Both women started to giggle. “Next time someone tries to assassinate you, you ungrateful wretch, I’ll-”
“That-ooph-reminds me,” said Nyctasia, sitting up. “Corson, how would you like to be a Desthene?”
Corson forgot what she was saying. She’s done it again, she thought. Nyctasia’s gifts always took her by surprise. But, a title! Was it possible?
“… was originally a military rank, you know,” Nyctasia was explaining, “so it seems most appropriate for you. It meant ‘commander,’ or something of that sort.
You’d not get the proceeds of the estate, mind you-not for some years, at least.
The deaths in the city have left me with a number of titles at my disposal, but all those who receive them will have to agree to turn the revenues over to the City Treasury until Rhostshyl has returned to its former prosperity. But you’d be entitled to style yourself ‘lady,’ and have lodgings befitting a noblewoman whenever you’re at court, and there are some other minor prerogatives. What say you?”
“Nyc, do you mean it? Can you give a title to anyone you choose? I thought the other nobles had to agree. They’d never accept the likes of me among them.”
“I couldn’t legitimately ennoble anyone I wished, no, not on a mere whim. But you have shown yourself worthy of the distinction, you see, in accordance with established custom. You’ve performed noble deeds-heroic deeds-in the defense of the Rhaicimate, and it is no more than my duty to reward such service as it deserves. Corson, I am the Rhaicimate, and you’ve saved my life more than once-before the whole city, on one occasion. My peers may think it extravagant of me to invest you with a title, but they cannot deny that I am well within my rights to do so.” She smiled at Corson’s obvious delight. Kneeling before her again, she took both Corson’s hands between her own. “Corson, my valorous and faithful servant,” she recited, “do you accept the authority, appurtenances, dues, duties, obligations, rights and perquisites pertaining to the dignity of the Desthenate of the City of Rhostshyl?”
Laughing, Corson seized Nyctasia by the wrists, pulled her up onto the bed and kissed her ardently, holding her in a crushing embrace. “Will there be a ceremony?” she demanded.
Nyctasia settled comfortably against her, pillowing her head on Corson’s shoulder and stroking her thick, tawny hair. “Indeed, yes. As part of the wedding celebration, I’ll he conferring pardons on my enemies and titles on my allies. You’ll be one of many honored.”
“Can I invite Steifann to see it?”
“You may invite anyone you like,” Nyctasia promised. “Even the odious Trask.”
Corson chuckled. “They won’t believe it-me, a lady of title and influence, just like that fortuneteller predicted, the night I first met you.” Nyctasia’s doublet soon joined Corson’s vest on the floor. “I did give you a bruise!”
Corson exclaimed. “What delicate skin you must have.”
Nyctasia smiled. “But you know I heal quickly, love.”
Corson gently kissed the dark mark below Nyctasia’s breast. “Sorry,” she said contritely.
“Oh, all right, I won’t have you hanged.” Nyctasia teased, nuzzling her neck.
“It would be a shame, when milady has such a lovely throat,” She continued to caress Corson’s hair, letting her fingers follow its long waves to where they spilled over her ripe, full breasts.
Corson drew Nyctasia’s hand beneath her open shirt. “Lady Corson,” she murmured contentedly.
Nyctasia raised her head and kissed Corson lightly on the lips. “Lady Corisonde,” she corrected, kissing her again. “For the occasion of the formal investiture, we’ll use the Old Eswraine form. You’ll be the Lady Corisonde”-another kiss, soft and clinging-“Desthene li’Rhostshyl”-a harder kiss, now-“brenn Torisk.”
“I like the sound of that,” Corson whispered. “Tell it to me again.” She took Nyctasia by the hips and pressed her closer, kneading her thighs.
Nyctasia had no difficulty falling asleep that night, after all.
In the morning she was wakened with the news that the matriarch Mhairestri had died during the night, after taking poison.