Witch Of Rhostshyl s-3 Read online

  “I think so. He has the chills.”

  Maegor disappeared into the back of the shop and returned with her hands full of fragrant dried fruit rinds, which she tied up in a square of cloth. “Boil these in water or wine till the mixture’s thick, then have him drink all of it at once, as hot as he can bear it. That’s for the cough. But these”-she measured out a selection of herbs-“are for fever and catarrh. Steep them in a tea and give him a cupful at night and in the morning, with plenty of honey, Honey’s good for the throat.”

  Maegor gave Corson further instructions on caring for a chill and cough, and sent her away laden with admonitions and medicinal preparations. Only when Corson was gone did she give her full attention to Nyctasia’s letter.

  As usual, Nyctasia did not say where she was. Raised among the schemes and intrigues of the court at Rhostshyl, she considered such information a weapon that might fall into the wrong hands and be used against her. The feuds and rivalries of the nobility of the city had often taken a deadly turn, and Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris had made more enemies than most. Her attempts to settle the ancient enmity between the Houses of Edonaris and Teiryn had not been welcomed by either party. Powerful factions of each family were determined that the feud should end only with the destruction of the other. Nyctasia had been forced to flee the city, and with Corson as bodyguard she had escaped the coast with her life. But even safe in exile she found it hard to abandon the caution bred by a lifetime of secrecy. The letter said that she was among friends, but gave no clue to her whereabouts.

  When Maegor had last seen her, Nyctasia had revealed that she meant to join her lover, Erystalben ar’n Shiastred, but where he had settled after leaving Rhostshyl, Maegor had no idea. The Edonaris had driven him from the city years before, to end his influence over Nyctasia. He had not only threatened their plans to marry her to her kinsman Thierran, but had also abetted her in the study of magic-a study which had won her an undesirable (and largely undeserved) reputation as a dangerous sorceress.

  Maegor had met Lord Erystalben, and found him overly proud and ambitious. Not a man, she thought, who ought to study magic. But his love for Nyctasia she could not doubt, and it had been comforting to know that her friend would not be alone in exile.

  Yet Maegor was not truly sorry to learn that Nyctasia was not with him after all. Perhaps now she would turn from her pursuit of the magic arts. “He is lost to me,” Nyctasia had written, “through a spell of Perilous Threshold, which he used in desperation to defend his stronghold against a more powerful mage. Such a spell exacts its own price, and I know not where it has taken ’Ben, nor what it has taken from him. I have ‘sought in spirit, that the flesh might find,’”-a quote Maegor recognized from the Isperian Precepts-“but I have learned little.

  That he lives is certain, but he might be anywhere in this world, or in another.

  He may be so changed that my spirit can no longer reach out to his. I have dreamed dreams that do not lead me to hope.”

  Though Maegor was no magician, she knew how dangerous and unpredictable a spell of Perilous Threshold was said to be. Surely even Shiastred, with all his hunger for power, would not take such a mad risk. There was much, she realized, that Nyctasia had not chosen to tell her.

  “But I have found a family who treat me as one of their own,” the letter continued, “and I shall try to be content with that for the present. I have work to console me as well, for a great collection of books has recently been discovered in these parts-an entire library of rare and precious works, which are all that remain of a sect of scholars known as the Cymvelan Circle. All seven volumes of The Manifold Ills of the Flesh are here in full, and Rosander’s treatise On the Curative Properties of Wildroots. I shall send you the latter as soon as I have taken a fair copy.”

  Maegor smiled. Nyctasia had not changed. However grave her plight, she never lost her passion for learning of all kinds-nor her readiness to display her erudition. If anything could reconcile her to exile from Rhostshyl and separation from Lord Erystalben, it would be the lost lore of an obscure lot of scholars somewhere in the hinterlands.

  “No one hereabouts takes an interest in the books, and I have them altogether at my will,” Nyctasia exulted. “I ought to summon scholars from the university in Liruvath to share in this discovery, but I mean to take its measure myself, first. There are certain works here on the secrets of the spirit, which may be of some use to me.”

  Nyctasia was unchanged indeed. Sighing, Maegor read on, but what followed was even less to her liking.

  “I rely on you to let me know how matters fare in the city”-to Nyctasia there was no city but Rhostshyl-“for travelers from the coast are rarely met with here. You may safety entrust any message to my fair courier, Corson brenn Torisk by name, who can be found betimes at the ale-house called The Jugged Hare.”

  Nyctasia concluded her missive formally, with a traditional Vahnite blessing.

  “May the Indwelling Spirit guide you in all things, my dear Maeg,” she had written in closing, with a characteristic flourish, “and for the vahn’s sake, don’t forget to burn this!”

  3

  corson lay awake listening to Steifann snore, and trying to decide how to begin a letter to Nyctasia. She rarely wrote to anyone but Steifann, and her letters to him were not altogether different from Trask’s idea of them-but something more formal seemed to be called for now. What form of address would be proper between persons of such widely disparate rank as herself and the Rhaicime Nyctasia? Corson hated to reveal her ignorance of such matters by using the wrong terms, but she could hardly consult a public scrivener about this letter.

  It was commonly believed that Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris was dead, and it would be safest to let it stay that way. For secrecy’s sake, the letter would have to be sent on the Windhover as far as Lhestreq, but there was no help for that.

  Destiver at least knew how to keep her own counsel, though she had no other good qualities, in Corson’s opinion.

  But Destiver would soon be on her way north-this letter must be taken in hand.

  Knowing that nothing short of an earthquake would wake Steifann, Corson got up, wrapped herself in a blanket, and lit a candle from the hearthfire. She pushed Steifann’s account-books to one side of the table and sat with her head on her hand, nibbling thoughtfully at the tip of a quill. “Corson brenn Torisk, to the Lady Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris, Rhaicime of Rhostshyl, Greetings,” she murmured.

  That sounded impressive, but was it correct? Should Nyctasia’s name come first?

  It would take forever to write it, either way…

  Corson was proud of her ability to read and write, rare skills in one of her station, but her hands were trained to the sword, not to the quill. Under Nyctasia’s direction, she had practiced her penmanship, but she still found it slow, uncomfortable work.

  Perhaps she ought not to reveal Nyctasia’s full name in the letter at all. It would pass through many hands before it reached her, after all, and it might be wiser to be cautious. The letter could be directed to the estate in the Midlands where Nyctasia was staying with a distant, disowned branch of her family. They’d see that she received it. That would be best.

  With a sigh of relief. Corson flexed her fingers and carefully wrote,

  “Dear Nyc,

  “It’s happened in Rhostshyl as you said it would. It’s over now, and your kin hold the city, whatever’s left of the place. You’re well out of it, from all that I hear. Plenty of folk fled to Chiastelm for refuge, and they say half the city’s in ashes, and many killed on both sides. Maegor can tell you more of it than I, she says she’s spoken with your friends from Rhostshyl. I didn’t think you had any friends in Rhostshyl, but I suppose she knows what she’s about.

  She’s a fine healer, that’s certain. Steifann was half dead with the grippe when I got here, and she told me how to look after him. Now he’s as well as ever.”

  Corson paused to shake her cramped hand. She’d have liked to boast to Nyctasia about a
ll she’d done to care for Steifann, and how much she’d learned about nursing a fever, but writing all that would be more of a chore than doing it had been. She decided to let it keep, and pass on to something more important, “I could even say that he’s better than ever,” she wrote, grinning to herself. “I used that comb you gave me, the wooden one, not the silver one, and it was all you claimed, I confess. I had my doubts, but I guess even you have to tell the truth now and then.” Corson chuckled, remembering the evening she’d tried out the charmed comb that Nyctasia had made for her as a parting gift.

  Steifann had recovered his health quickly under her ministrations, and had taken up the heavy work about the place again, bringing in supplies, throwing out troublemakers and seeing to everything else that needed doing. Corson had decided to take a well-earned rest that night, and left the others to close up the tavern while she soaked lazily in a hot bath. She had taken to washing more often of late, to prove to the fastidious Nyctasia that she was not the unkempt sloven Nyctasia had called her at their first meeting-though she would have died in agony before admitting that she cared for Nyc’s opinion.

  And tonight she particularly wanted to be clean, since she meant to wear her gold silk gown for Steifann, for the first time. She washed her waist-length, chestnut hair till it shone in the firelight, and went to a chest to fetch her fine silver brush and comb. Let Steifann see those too, she thought with satisfaction.

  But then she noticed the wooden comb among the heaped mess of her belongings in the chest, and picked it out instead, examining it thoughtfully. It looked ordinary enough, just such a poor piece of frippery as any peasant girl might buy at market for a copper. But Nyctasia claimed to have bewitched it with a certain mysterious perfume that drove men wild with desire. Only men could smell it, according to Nyctasia, and then only when the comb was drawn through a woman’s hair. It sounded suspiciously like one of her strangely convincing lies, but what reason could she have to make up such a thing?

  Even if the comb did what Nyctasia promised, though, Corson wondered whether she’d be able to tell the difference. It was hard to imagine Steifann any lustier than he already was. But he might be more tired than usual tonight, working so hard after just recovering his strength… and it could do no harm to try the thing, after all-

  Steifann was rather tired by the time he finished securing the tavern for the night, but he forgot his fatigue when he pushed open the door to his room and saw Corson waiting for him. She half lay on the sheepskin hearthrug, sheathed in heavy cream-gold silk that caught the firelight and cast its sunset radiance over her honey-gold skin and glowing, burnished-bronze hair. Steifann caught his breath at the sight. He had always thought Corson a fine-looking woman, though he never saw fit to tell her so, but she was usually bedraggled and dirty (as he never failed to tell her) and rarely looked respectable-much less glorious.

  Corson looked up and smiled a welcome as she pulled the comb slowly through her damp, shining hair. “What do you think of my gown? A rich vintner in the Midlands gave it to me.”

  “Very pretty,” Steifann said gruffly. “What did you do to earn it, eh?” He took the comb and rapped her on the head with it, then began to comb her long hair for her.

  Corson sighed contentedly. “I was a guest of the house, I’ll have you know. They even named a new wine for me.”

  “Did they call it Shameless Slut?” Steifann suggested. “And when did you start perfuming yourself like a strumpet?” He suddenly buried his face in her scented hair, intoxicated by its sweet, heady fragrance. “You smell like a whore,” he lied, his voice thick, his breath quickening. His hands had begun to shake slightly, and the comb fell from his fingers. Dizzy with desire, he pulled Corson against him, kissing her hair and her throat, sliding his hands hungrily over her breasts and belly.

  A rush of passion cascaded through Corson till it seemed to pool in her hips, but she elbowed him away and said tartly, “You should know how a whore smells.

  You bed down with enough of them while I’m away.” Let him smolder a bit-he’d burn all the brighter for it soon.

  Steifann meant to retort, “And I suppose you weren’t whoring all over the Midlands with that vintner of yours?” but he didn’t seem to have breath enough to speak. That didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered but obeying the command of that compelling, overmastering fragrance, which no longer seemed to him a mere scent, but an irresistible power in his very blood. Without thought, he seized Corson and pulled her down onto the hearthrug, searching fiercely with hands and mouth for the elusive, maddening secret she had somehow hidden everywhere at once.

  Corson gasped in delight. At that moment she forgave Nyctasia for every deception and insult. “Have a care, love,” she laughed, “this is Liruvathe silk!”

  Now Corson stretched and yawned, smiling sleepily to herself. Well, she couldn’t write all that to Nyc either, more’s the pity. She’d have to wait to thank her properly someday, face to face. For the present, she contented herself with writing, “Many thanks. I wouldn’t trade that comb for the whole Imperial treasury!”

  Corson shamefacedly confessed the trick to Steifann some days afterward, but he merely roared with laughter and called her a number of very colorful names, some of which she’d never heard before, even in the army.

  “And me worrying that I’d gotten as drunk as that on so little ale,” he added.

  “I was afraid I’d lost my stomach for drink! I can’t remember half of what we did that night-but I wouldn’t mind doing it again, I know that.” He picked up the comb and sniffed it cautiously. “I don’t smell anything now.”

  “Nyc says the perfume can only be smelt in a woman’s hair.”

  “Nick, eh? The more I hear of that one, the less I like her. So she combed your hair for you too, did she?”

  Corson grinned, relishing his jealousy. “It only works on men. Nyc just made the comb for me to remember her by. And she gave me these gold earrings too, when my old ones were stolen. She gave me a lot of fine things,” Corson said provokingly, “because she enjoys my company. She’s very fond of me.”

  “I’ll give you a fine lot of broken bones to remember me by, one of these days, you slattern,” Steifann said, swatting her affectionately.

  Though he’d done nothing but complain while he was ill, Steifann had secretly been delighted to have Corson caring for him and fretting over him. He’d never seen her behave so responsibly before, and he liked what he saw. Had he heard her tell Maegor that “her man” was sick, he would have been even better pleased.

  And the incident of the comb had done nothing to detract from her charms.

  Finding that he took such an indulgent view of the charmed comb, Corson decided to unburden her conscience of another matter as well. “Nyc did another piece of magic for me once,” she said offhandedly, “a queer spell that showed what people far off were doing. I was thinking of you just then, as it happened, and I saw you pictured in a mirror.”

  “Charlatan’s fakery,” Steifann scoffed. “A false mirror, or some such. You were hoodwinked.”

  Corson shrugged. “Maybe. Nyc’s tricksy as a weasel. But it surely seemed to be you. You were sitting right there, in this very room, late at night, writing in your everlasting account-books. You blotted the page and had to scrape the ink off. Do you remember a night like that, late last summer?”

  “Dozens. And you’ve lain there and watched me at it scores of times…”

  Steifann hesitated. “All the same, Corson, there was one time, in the summer, when I’d let the accounts fall behind and I was up half the night trying to right them. I remember it specially because I had the strangest feeling that you were here, even though I knew it was impossible. I couldn’t help looking over at the bed, time and again, to see if you were there. I was only half awake, I suppose. Then I did fall asleep over the ledger, and I thought you shook me and said, ‘Get to bed, leave that for tomorrow,’ and I suddenly woke up. It was just a dream, of course, but I was so sure you we
re there, it was uncanny.”

  “That was Nyc’s witchery,” Corson said decidedly. “I know spellcraft when I meet it. I have an unusual affinity for magic, Nyc says. Or something like that.”

  “Witches, winemakers… was there anyone in the Midlands you didn’t sleep with?”

  “I don’t think so,” Corson teased. “I might have overlooked a few shepherds or laborers, though. I was only with the gentry, you see. Even Raphe, my vintner, comes of” good family-his own sister’s heir to the title of Jhaice. And Nyc’s not some mountebank trickster, she’s a scholar and a noblewoman, A Rhaicime, if you want to know.”

  “I don’t. What are you doing under my humble roof, if Rhaicimes are so fond of your company?”

  “Well… I came back for your sake. You looked so wretched without me, in the mirror-spell, I felt sorry for you.”

  Even Steifann’s good nature balked at this outrageous bluff. “Then you can go right back to your fine friends!” he shouted, “Not that I believe a word of it-”

  “Peace, peace,” cried Corson, throwing her arms around him. “Very well, then, I was missing you-didn’t I write and tell you so? I was so lonely for you, I asked Nyc to do that spell for me, just so I could see you. Are you satisfied?”

  As Corson intended, Steifann was flattered to hear her admit to missing him, and he forgot to accuse her of spying on him. Despite herself, Corson had learned some of Nyctasia’s subtle wiles.

  “Well, I trust you’ve seen the last of this witch,” Steifann said, mollified. He pulled her closer.

  “I daresay. But she has a way of turning up again, just when I think I’m rid of her.” And Corson couldn’t resist adding, “I rather miss her too. She’s a charming little thing, in her way.”

  “Bitch. I know you’re just trying to nettle me.”

  Corson chuckled. “Nyc says my insolence is insupportable,” she said proudly. “I learn the most outlandish words from that one.”