Silverglass
J.F. Rivkin
 


Silverglass
1986
 
ISBN: 0-441-76600-5
 
CHAMBER OF DEATH
The window was only a few feet to her left, and in a moment Corson had made up 
her mind and clambered over the sill. If she was going to die anyway, maybe she 
could at least kill Lord Thierran first.
But Lady Nyctasia was alone. There was blood on her mouth, and her shirt was 
torn at the shoulder. She gave no sign of seeing Corson, though her eyes were 
open and staring.
Corson hurried past her and flattened herself against the wall by the doorway. 
Lord Thierran was coming up the corridor, still shouting orders to his 
retainers. “I want guards at every entrance! Search the stables and the 
gatehouse!”
He strode across the room to the window and looked out anxiously over the 
grounds, watching for any movement.
Corson kicked the door shut. At the sound, Lord Thierran wheeled around and 
stared at her in disbelief. She was coming towards him, smiling, a dagger in her 
left hand.
 
1
though corson brenn Torisk had not often been to Rhostshyl, she remembered just 
where The Lame Fox Tavern was. For some things she had an infallible memory. The 
Lame Fox was a disreputable den shunned by the respectable people of the city. 
There was a place like it in every town on the coast, and Corson was familiar 
with them all.
The crowded alehouse was all one room, filled with trestle-tables and benches. 
The only light came from smoky torches and the great hearth where joints of meat 
roasted and charred. On every side men and women were drinking and dicing, 
arguing loudly, cursing and bragging. A singer with a small lap-harp was perched 
on a table, trying to make herself heard above the din.
The crowd eyed Corson curiously as she entered, but she was accustomed to that. 
Her height alone usually drew stares, since people so tall were rare in the 
north—but no one had ever found her ungainly. She moved with an athlete’s grace 
and power, and her beauty was not hidden by her travel-worn tunic and breeches. 
She had large blue eyes, and skin of a warm, rich gold. After her release from 
the army, she had let her chestnut hair grow long as a mark of her independence. 
She usually kept it plaited in a braid and bound like a crown around her brow, 
but when she let it down, it fell over her broad shoulders and straight, tapered 
back in a rippling tawny wave.
Corson’s only ornament was a pair of small golden earrings—the trophy of an 
early exploit. She’d been hired by a merchant guild to rid the roads of a 
certain dangerous bandit. The earrings had been his.
She met all stares at The Lame Fox with a look of deliberate challenge that made 
the curious drop their eyes hastily, or turn away. Her confident manner declared 
that she was well able to use the battered broadsword that hung at her hip. She 
took a seat near the singer and ordered a tankard of the best ale. Everyone knew 
that the ale all came from the same barrel, but the more you paid the less water 
they added to your portion.
Corson was feeling very well pleased with herself. She had just been hired by 
both the leading families of Rhostshyl to assassinate the same person. And 
neither party knew of her dealings with the other. The rival houses of Edonaris 
and Teiryn had been lethal political enemies for generations, and the city was 
on the brink of civil war. It seemed they could only agree on this one 
thing—both were willing to pay a high price for the death of the sorceress. Lady 
Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris. The Teiryns accused her of causing a fatal sickness 
among them, and even her own kin were afraid of her. Corson found the situation 
amusing as well as profitable, and she meant to celebrate her stroke of good 
fortune by getting prodigiously drunk.
The girl with the harp was singing:
 
“Oh, I could complain 
That my life is a curse—
The wind and the rain
And the hole in my purse! 
But what would I gain? 
Things could always be worse!”
 
Corson laughed and tossed a coin to the singer, who caught it in her hand and 
winked.
Seeing that Corson had money, every gambler, pickpocket and charlatan in the 
tavern took a renewed interest in her, and she was at once invited to join in a 
game of death’s head.
Corson loved to gamble, but she’d learned from bitter experience that it was 
fool’s sport. “No thanks, I’ve no luck with dice.”
“But tonight your luck may change.”
“Ah, but why trust to luck when you can learn fortune’s secrets?” A slender 
young man dressed in bright motley leaned toward her across the table. Around 
his neck hung a string of medallions stamped with mysterious symbols.
“As well toss your money in the gutter as give it to fortunetellers,” sneered 
the gambler, who felt that she had established her right to swindle Corson 
first.
Though she had no faith in soothsayers, Corson wanted some amusement and paid 
the youth what he asked. With a grand gesture, he pushed aside the pitcher and 
mugs, and drew an eight-pointed star on the table with a stump of charcoal. From 
a leather pouch he took a handful of polished gemstones and handed them to 
Corson.
“Will you first hear of the present?” he inquired. At Corson’s nod, he drew a 
circle around the star. “The mirror,” he explained, “that shows things as they 
are. Shake the stones in your hand and throw them on the star. Their pattern 
will tell the tale.”
When Corson had done so, he studied the scattered stones intently, murmuring to 
himself, “Green at three!” and, “Just on the line, there.”
“You are placed at a perilous juncture,” he said at last. “The whole course of 
your fate depends on a choice you will soon make. If you choose ill ....” He 
shook his head solemnly. “No fortune awaits you at all.”
“That’s an old story,” said Corson. “And what if I choose well?”
“To answer that, I must consider the future—thus!” He gathered up the colored 
stones, then drew a square around the circle. “The window,” he proclaimed, “that 
shows things far off.”
Corson threw the stones again, and the fortuneteller contemplated their pattern 
with evident satisfaction. “Should you choose this way, a dangerous journey lies 
before you, but at its end fortune will favor you. You will win wealth and 
honors and become a lady of title and influence.”
“Oh yes, very likely,” laughed Corson. “And what is this fateful choice I must 
make?”
“You will know it when the time comes. If you wish for surer knowledge now, I 
can only try—but such secrets are not so easily come by ...” He paused 
expectantly. A further payment from Corson would no doubt have cased the 
difficulty, but at that moment they were interrupted by a shout of indignation 
from the singer. One of the customers had accused her of picking his pocket.
“I wouldn’t go near enough to you to steal your purse! I don’t want to get 
fleas!”
“Give it back, you thieving slut!” He seized the girl by the arm, but she broke 
away and dodged behind Corson.
“Ask her if I took it,” she insisted, appealing to Corson. “She was watching me 
all the while.”
“She’s in league with you, then, but I’ll have it out of you anyway!” He turned 
on Corson. “Just you try to stop me if you dare!”
“It’s nothing to do with me!” Corson protested. “She’s no friend of mine.”
“You’re a coward as well as a thief,” he goaded. By now, all other pastimes at 
The Lame Fox had been abandoned, as people gathered ’round in hopes of a fight.
Corson was furious. Why did that little chit have to single her out to be her 
champion? Corson did not for a moment doubt that the girl was a pickpocket, but 
she was too proud to refuse a public challenge. Reluctantly, she got to her feet 
and faced her accuser.
“You’ve no sword,” she said, and unsheathed her dagger instead. Though Corson 
was left-handed, she took the weapon in her right hand and wrapped her cloak 
carefully around her sword-arm.
He grinned and drew his own blade, also winding his cloak around his free arm as 
a shield. The crowd made room for them and there was a murmur of excited 
speculation. The wagering favored Corson.
The fighters circled warily, taking the measure of one another’s speed and 
agility. Corson realized that her opponent was no mere tavern brawler—he handled 
himself too skillfully and responded too swiftly to her feints. He was in 
earnest, and she knew that she must either disarm him or kill him. But she 
couldn’t risk coming before the city magistrates now.
For a moment she seemed to drop her guard, uncertain, and he lunged forward at 
once to press his advantage. But even as he closed in, Corson flung out her 
lowered left arm, freeing the furled cloak, and whipped it up across his face, 
blinding him. Without a pause she seized his wrist and twisted his arm back, 
kicking sharply into the side of his knee at the same time.
When he let his knife fall. Corson stepped on it firmly, then helped him to his 
feet. “Perhaps you’ve changed your mind,” she suggested. He backed away, then 
turned and made for the door, shouldering his way through the jeering onlookers.
Corson kicked the knife away and the tavernkeeper picked it up, scowling at her. 
“Put up your blade,” he ordered gruffly. “I won’t have bloodshed in here.”
Corson shrugged and sheathed her dagger. “It wasn’t of my seeking. Why don’t you 
keep a better watch on that harper of yours?”
He looked puzzled.” I keep no harper here.”
“The singer,” Corson insisted angrily, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. 
Corson felt she’d been made a fool of after all. She hurried out to the street, 
looking around for the singer. “When I find that little ...!”
“I’m here,” called a voice from across the way. Corson could just make out a 
slight figure, half hidden in the shadows of an alley. As she approached, the 
girl drew back out of sight and waited in a dark doorway.
“If you’re that clumsy a pickpocket you’d better keep to your singing, curse 
you! I should wring your neck for dragging me into a fight with that madman. You 
owe me a share of the spoils for chasing him off.”
The harper smiled. “I’ve a better offer to make you.”
“I thought you might. But I don’t need to take up with bungling pickpockets.”
“I’m no thief, but I’m not a minstrel cither. Come with me and I’ll explain. 
I’ve a place not far from here.”
“So you say. If you’ve anything to tell me you can say it right here.”
“I don’t arrange my affairs in the street. Follow me if you choose—I can give 
you a better meal than you’d get at the Fox.” She started down the dark alleyway 
alone.
Corson hesitated, but her curiosity got the better of her suspicions. And the 
prospect of a good meal was hard to resist. She caught up with the girl and made 
her a mocking bow. “Corson brenn Torisk is at your service, milady!”
“And I’m Nick, of this city. Come, we’re wasting time.” She led the way quickly 
through the narrow backstreets, but before they’d gone far, Corson stopped and 
motioned her to wait.
“He’s following us, that fool! Whatever you stole from him, he means to have it 
back.”
“No matter, we’re almost there—hurry!” She pulled Corson around a corner and 
unlocked the iron gate to a narrow, two-story house.
Once they were safely inside, she lit two candles and offered one to Corson, 
“Wait for me upstairs. I’ll bring us some supper.”
Corson was disappointed. So it was only a trick to rob her, after all. No doubt 
there would be two or three of the girl’s confederates waiting upstairs. She 
shook her head and turned back to the door. “I’ll do without supper, thanks. The 
night’s yet young, you’ll find another gull.”
“It’s no trap. Come, it’s not likely I’d try that game with you after seeing 
your skill at The Lame Fox. Shall I go up ahead of you?”
“I’ll see for myself,” Corson muttered, unable as ever to resist a dare. She 
climbed the stairs warily, ready for any sudden attack, but when she reached the 
top she found herself alone in a long, low-ceilinged room, dimly lit by a 
guttering fire. She laid on another log, then lit the heavy silver candelabra 
that stood on the mantle and carried it with her as she explored her 
surroundings. This was not the lodging of a petty thief. A thickly woven, 
patterned carpet covered the floor, and brocaded couches surrounded a table of 
dark, polished wood inlaid with tiles. An open bookchest held several volumes, 
and others lay about on the floor, the table and shelves.
The far wall was hidden by draperies, and Corson approached them suspiciously to 
see if they concealed a door. She pushed aside the hangings quickly and found 
herself face to face with a tall, menacing figure that reached out to seize her 
arm. Corson had her sword in her hand before she realized that the enemy was her 
own reflection.
She gazed at it in wonder. Mirrors were a luxury for the wealthy, and Corson had 
never seen such a large sheet of unlatticed glass. She was still marveling at 
the mirror’s ghostly mimicry when Nick’s reflection appeared in the glass, 
entering the doorway behind her. She was carrying a tray of food, and a lantern 
hung from her arm. Reluctantly, Corson turned from the mirror to join her at the 
table.
The meal was as good as promised. Her hostess set out a cold roast chicken and a 
round loaf of fresh white bread with a comb of honey. There was also a wedge of 
sharp cheese, some small yellow apples and a very costly wine.
As she ate, Corson was able to study her companion closely for the first time. 
She had changed her shabby clothing for a fur-trimmed robe, and she seemed a 
different person from the common tavern singer at The Lame Fox. She was very 
pale of complexion, with grey eyes and delicate, fine-boned features. Her black 
hair was close-cropped, revealing a high forehead and arched brows. Though a 
young woman, she was not the girl Corson had taken her for.
Corson gestured at her with a piece of bread. “If you’re not a thief and you’re 
not a minstrel, what are you? A whore?”
The woman laughed. “I told you I don’t arrange my affairs in the street. I’m a 
scholar.”
Corson looked about at the rich fittings of the chamber. “I see,” she said in 
open disbelief. “And what would a scholar want with the likes of me?”
“I admired the way you dealt with that troublesome fellow at the Fox. A most 
impressive display of competence. It happens that I’ve need of a bodyguard just 
now.”
Corson helped herself to more wine. “If you stayed away from places like The 
Lame Fox you wouldn’t need a bodyguard, lady.”
“But I only went there to hire a mercenary, you see. It’s hardly a place I’d 
visit for amusement’s sake. No, what troubles me is that my enemies are trying 
to have me murdered.”
Corson stared at her for a moment. “Oh no,” she said softly. “It’s not fair; 
something like this always happens to me.”
“You ... ?”
“What did you say your name was? Nick? Nyc? Like Nyctasia?”
The woman rose hastily and backed a few paces towards the door. “Lady Nyctasia 
Selescq Rhaicime brenn Rhostshyl ar’n Edonaris,” she said with a bow. “But we 
needn’t be formal. Please don’t get up.”
Corson surveyed her defenseless quarry with contempt. “You’re the dread 
sorceress who’s slaughtered half the city with her spells?” She settled back 
more comfortably and finished her glass of wine.
“Unfortunately, my reputation for witchcraft is quite undeserved,” Lady Nyctasia 
said wistfully. “If I’d half the powers folk credit me with, I’d not be in 
hiding now.”
“There must be something to it. Do you know,” Corson said with a winning smile, 
“that two different parties have hired me to kill you? Isn’t that funny?”
“An amusing coincidence. My esteemed relations, no doubt, and the Teiryn clan?” 
She came over to the table and coolly refilled Corson’s glass.
“They say that some of the Teiryns have died of a mysterious ailment lately 
....”
“Mysterious! If the Teiryn didn’t constantly intermarry, they could rid their 
line of that sickness for good and all, but they insist on keeping their estates 
within the family! This malady has been among them for centuries—it’s all there 
in the city history. Anyone could have predicted that it would reappear. I tried 
to warn—” She paused. “This is the sort of thing that wins one a reputation for 
sorcery,” she admitted.
“What of your own kin?” Corson demanded. “They’d like to be rid of you, too. And 
they paid handsomely for it.” She had drawn her sword and was idly tracing 
patterns with it on the rug.
“Have a care, that carpet is valuable,” Lady Nyctasia complained. She paced back 
and forth across the narrow room. “It’s just a faction of my family that’s after 
my blood, but a most powerful faction, led by the matriarch, Mhairestri. You 
see, I stand to inherit important titles and estates, and I’ve pledged my 
support to those who want a treaty with the Teiryns. That alone makes me a 
threat to Edonaris ambitions. Mhairestri would like to see my properties fall 
into more reliable hands.”
“There’s no more to it than that?” asked Corson, who was casually slicing pieces 
from an apple with her dagger. Her sword now lay close at her left hand.
“Oh, the list of my iniquities is endless, I assure you. I refused to marry my 
cousin Thierran though we’d been betrothed since childhood—that was an outrage. 
But the really unpardonable offense, I believe, was my treasonous view of the 
ancestral sovereignty of the Edonaris line. The city records show that the 
Teiryns’ claims to power are at least as legitimate as our own.” She paused in 
her pacing and picked up a brass candlestick. “Nobody appreciates a historian.”
“I’ve been planning to make a long journey,” she continued, “and I need an 
expert fighter like you as escort. You’d not lose by it—I’m one of the 
wealthiest people in the city.” She waited for Corson’s reply, armed only with 
the heavy candlestick.
Corson sighed. “You’re a terrible disappointment to me, Lady. I was expecting 
something challenging, not a helpless little bookworm.”
“Scholar.”
“And I did need the money ....” Corson mused. “I want a better saddle. And a new 
pair of boots. I could make my fortune just by killing you.”
“I daresay. But you’d not live to enjoy it. Mhairestri would never be so 
careless as to leave a living witness to my murder.”
“She’d not be the first to try that trick,” Corson said offhandedly. “But I 
appreciate the warning.” She nibbled thoughtfully at a piece of cheese. “Do you 
suppose you’re wealthy enough to better her offer and the Teiryns?”
Lady Nyctasia relaxed visibly. She came up to Corson and fixed her with a 
critical gaze. “Oh, I think I can afford you a new pair of boots. And some 
decent clothing. A bath would not be amiss, either. I don’t intend to travel 
with an unkempt sloven.”
Corson grinned. “Don’t forget the saddle. Your Ladyship.”
“I forget very little, you’ll find. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”
Corson raised her glass in a salute. “Your humble servant,” she said, but Lady 
Nyctasia caught hold of her arm before she could take a drink.
“Corson, if you mean to remain in my service, you must really be more careful. 
You should have watched very closely when I poured your wine.”
Corson stared at the goblet. “You viper! You tried to poison me!”
“I can’t afford to leave anything to chance. You should understand that. What’s 
more, I’ve had a guard just outside the door all this while.”
“Only one?” Corson scoffed. “I’d have killed the both of you.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t summon him before. Sandor!” she called. “Come in 
here!”
The guard entered at once, sword drawn. Then, seeing that Nyctasia was in no 
danger, he sheathed the weapon and bowed. “Yes, my lady ...?”
Corson started to her feet, speechless with outrage and disbelief. “You—!” she 
choked. It was the same man who’d fought with her at The Lame Fox.
2
nyctasia was satisfied with her arrangements. She’d provided for those of her 
servants whom she trusted, and the rest believed that she’d long since fled the 
city. That night she and Corson would slip out of Rhostshyl by a postern gate in 
the city walls. The sentry had been well paid to let them pass unchallenged. If 
it were another rainy, moonless night, all might yet be well.
She appeared confident and self-possessed, but inwardly Nyctasia was torn by 
warring passions. That she, an Edonaris, should be forced to slink through her 
own city like a common criminal, sneak out a back gate like a fugitive—! Though 
she opposed her family’s pretensions to sole rule of Rhostshyl, yet strong ties 
of duty and heritage bound her to the ancestral home of the Edonaris. The 
city-state of Rhostshyl was governed by those members of the ruling families of 
the rank of Rhaicime, and Nyctasia should have been a strong voice on that 
council. Instead, she was an outcast, hunted from her home.
Though it was not by her own choice that she went into exile, she doubted the 
honesty of her own decision at times. Other duties claimed her—other desires 
drew her. She had long ago promised that someday she would join her lover, 
Erystalben ar’n Shiastred, in far-off Hlasven and there was no longer anything 
to be gained by waiting.
It was on her account he’d been driven from the city. Her family had been 
furious when she’d taken a lover from among the minor nobility and refused the 
husband chosen for her.
At first they had all but encouraged the connection, hoping that the Shiastred 
family would therefore take their part against the Teiryns, for Erystalben would 
one day be head of the House of Shiastred. Nyctasia’s rebelliousness had not 
posed a serious threat until the unlooked-for death of her mother raised her 
suddenly to the rank of Rhaicime. It was then that the Edonaris became more 
insistent that she honor the marriage agreement that promised her to her cousin 
Thierran. They blamed Erystalben for her continued refusal, and he at last fled 
Rhostshyl rather than see his people incur the enmity of the most powerful 
family in the city. He had wanted Nyctasia to come with him, but while she had 
yet hoped to effect a conciliation between the rival families, she felt 
duty-bound to remain. Those hopes were shattered now and she would deny herself 
no longer.
Her reverie was broken by the shrill cry of a young beggar-child at her elbow, 
urging, “Alms, kind lady!”
She dropped a few coppers into his waiting hand, and looked him straight in the 
face. Accustomed to indifference even from charitable folk, the child was put on 
his guard at once.
“Who’s following me?” Nyctasia asked.
Without seeming to look, the child gave a creditable description of Sandor.
“Is there no other behind him?”
“Oh, a younger one, lady? He’s just come round the corner.”
“Good. Now be off with you.” Surprising the urchin with another coin worth more 
than the rest, she slipped into a narrow alleyway and let herself in to a 
dilapidated row-house. Nyctasia had rented houses in every quarter of the city, 
though she took care that the owners did not learn who their tenant was.
Sandor waited near the mouth of the alley. Before long, the other man passed by 
and hesitated, glancing down the passageway before he moved on.
“You won’t find her that way, friend.”
The stranger whirled round to face Sandor, who grinned knowingly and beckoned to 
him. “You’re following the Lady Nyctasia,” said Sandor. “Don’t trouble to deny 
it. I’ve been after her all day myself, haven’t you noticed? She came down this 
way and I know where she is now. I think we can be of help to each other, don’t 
you?”
“What do you want of me?”
“Nothing more than you’ve been hired to do. It’s two against one this way, 
easier for both of us. Once she’s dead who’s to say which of us did the deed? 
We’ll both collect our pay.”
“That’s a bargain. Where is she?”
Sandor led him down the alley past the building Nyctasia had entered and stopped 
before an old, boarded-up house. “We’ve only to wait. There’s no other way out.”
They hid in a doorway across from the house. When Nyctasia did not appear, the 
youth grew more and more uneasy. “Where is she? What does she want in there? Are 
you sure—”
“Patience, my friend.” Sandor took out a flask and tilted it to his lips. “Still 
green at this, eh?”
His companion flushed. “Give me some of that!”
Sandor laughed and passed the flask to him. “No need for haste, she’s bound to 
come out soon. If you mean to live long at this trade you’d best learn to bide 
your time. Here, you’ve had enough of that—it’s no drink for babes.” He took 
back the flask and corked it, then caught the young man as he folded and fell.
3
“i’ve seen him before, but I can’t think where,” Nyctasia mused, looking down in 
some perplexity at the drugged youth. “Well, we’ll soon find out.” She crushed a 
few pungent leaves between her fingers and held them to his nose. After a moment 
he opened his eyes, choking.
“Teiryn or Edonaris?” Nyctasia demanded.
“Wha—?”
“Who sent you to kill me—the Teiryn or the Edonaris!”
He looked about him, still groggy, realizing that he was lying on a bench in a 
strange room. When he saw who it was who questioned him, he gasped and groped 
for his knife.
Sandor strode up, holding the missing knife as if it were a toy. “Her Ladyship 
asked you a question, man!”
The young man stared at him, then broke into a feeble laugh. “I should have 
heeded your advice, friend.”
“What advice was that?” said Nyctasia.
“I told him he was too hasty by half, my lady. He’s a raw one and no mistake.”
“He must belong to the Teiryn, then. Only they’d hire such a bungler.”
“I’m no hireling killer! I came to avenge Lord Rhavor on my own.”
“Of course!” Nyctasia exclaimed. “Rhavor’s servant—you were often with him of 
late.” So that was how he’d known where she was likely to be found. She cursed 
herself for her carelessness. When she and Rhavor ar’n Teiryn had met in secret, 
this fellow had been in attendance on him, yet she’d never given him a thought.
He was glaring at her. “I was with him the day you set your curse on him—just 
before he died! I heard you!”
“Then you merely heard me speaking to him. You must have heard any number of 
people speak to him that day. Why don’t you kill all of them while you’re about 
it?”
“You’re the one did it. Everyone says so.”
Nyctasia laughed. “My nurse used to say, ‘If everyone tells you the sun’s the 
moon, it will still be the sun.’”
“He died of the same curse as the rest of them!”
“Yes, he did. And Teiryns were dying of it long before I was born.” She paused 
and said sadly, “Though your master might have lived years longer, if he’d not 
weakened himself with drink. Many’s the time I tried to tell him it would be the 
death of him.”
Rhavor’s servant was puzzled by Lady Nyctasia’s manner. Why should she deny the 
deed when she had him in her power? The words came back to him: “Rhavor, you’ll 
be dead by first frost!” Could they have been meant, not as a threat, but a 
warning? He didn’t believe her, yet somehow he was no longer afraid of her.
“You bewitched him,” he muttered sullenly.
“Why is it,” Nyctasia sighed, “that everyone believes my lies, but I can never 
persuade people of the truth?”
“Lady, if you let him go, he’ll only come after you again,” said Sandor.
Nyctasia looked defeated. Motioning Sandor aside, she said, “Lock him up 
downstairs and see that someone fetches him away after dark. Once I’ve reached 
safety, I’ll send orders for his release. If you’ve anything to report, I’ll be 
at the corner house till midnight. Stay at your post else.”
“Very good, my lady.” He bowed. “Good fortune await you. Lady Nyctasia.”
“Farewell, Sandor.” She crossed to the threshold of the next room, then paused. 
“Be careful,” she said.
Nyctasia pushed aside the dark drapery curtaining the window and looked out 
across the city to where the last rays of the sun gilded the western towers of 
the Edonaris palace. For hundreds of years, its walls had witnessed the proud 
history of the Edonaris line. Ever since they had come to power in the city, the 
Edonaris had been known for their liberality and benevolence. They had been 
responsible for the elimination of slavery in Rhostshyl, and had tempered the 
harshness of the city laws in other ways as well. Thieves were no longer put to 
death in Rhostshyl, and many cities along the coast had followed this example. 
It was while the Edonaris dominated the Rhaicimate that Rhostshyl had entered 
the Maritime Alliance, benefiting from treaties of trade and mutual defense. The 
city had prospered and grown under their rule.
Nyctasia had always been proud of her name, but now she feared that this 
heritage had been betrayed. Though the Edonaris had come to power by lawful 
means, there were now those among them who would use any means to keep that 
power in their own hands. She was sure that it would not be the enmity of the 
Teiryn that destroyed her House, but the ruthless ambition of the matriarch 
Mhairestri and her supporters.
And yet she herself was not guiltless—she had been forced to take measures that 
repelled her, in order to counter her enemies. It had sickened her to learn what 
callousness she was capable of, what deceptions she would use, for her own ends. 
She had never thought to find herself taking prisoner a young fool like that—yet 
that was not the worst thing of which she accused herself.
Nyctasia leaned her head in her hands. She was resolved to put all that behind 
her and leave Rhostshyl while her spirit was still her own. She would be free of 
this madness! Erystalben needed her, and she could now do no good by remaining. 
With Rhavor’s help, some compromise with the Teiryn might have been possible. 
But there was no one else among them who would listen to reason.
Rhavor had made no secret of his belief that his family’s fanatical rivalry with 
the Edonaris was absolute folly. He had often held the feud up to ridicule. 
Nyctasia half smiled, remembering an encounter with the drunken Rhavor in Market 
Street. He had accosted her with a cheerful, “Ho! An Edonaris in my way! Cut her 
down, cut her down!” in blatant parody of his kinfolk.
Nyctasia had joined in the game: “A foul, Teiryn! Have at you, miscreant!”
Waving their rapiers with exaggerated menace, they’d engaged in a ridiculous 
duel, parting with mock threats and laughter. How ironic that she was accused of 
his murder, when in truth she missed him sorely.
It was probably his own kin who killed him, she thought bitterly, though he’d 
plainly been set on destroying himself ever since the death of his wife. He had 
seemed to welcome the onset of the wasting sickness which cursed the Teiryn 
line, and had refused to husband his strength by abstaining from drink.
Lord Rhavor was already familiar to Nyctasia by reputation, when she’d first 
contrived to meet him at a tavern he was known to frequent. He’d not been long a 
widower, but Nyctasia was still a girl, and he’d been more amused than offended 
when she’d blurted out her plans for a marriage-alliance between them.
“My dear girl, not only am I twice your age, but I’m an ailing man as well. I’d 
soon make a widow of you.”
Nyctasia flushed. “But, my lord, think what it could mean! If a Teiryn and an 
Edonaris should wed, there might be an end to this senseless feuding. Our 
families would be forced to come to terms!”
“Or to murder us both,” he suggested with a smile. “You know as well as I that 
they’re too caught up in their game to let a dying man and a child stand in 
their way.” In truth. Lord Rhavor was not yet gravely ill. He spoke thus to 
discourage Nyctasia, but she would not be swayed from her purpose.
“Then you’ve nothing to lose, have you? And for my part, I am willing to take 
the risk.”
“I believe you. But you’re surely not of an age to marry without your family’s 
consent, and I very much doubt that the Edonaris would think me a suitable match 
for you.”
“I know all that,” said Nyctasia impatiently. “I shall come of age in due 
course. But till then you must not take another wife—that’s the gist of the 
matter!”
The mask of frivolity fell from Lord Rhavor’s countenance. “I have no mind to 
marry again,” he said coldly.
“That is all I ask,” said Nyctasia, rising. “Forgive me. If the affair were not 
of such consequence, I should not intrude upon your grief.” She tugged awkwardly 
at her sleeve for a moment. “Naturally I don’t mean to take her place,” she said 
stiffly, “I propose a political alliance. At least give some thought to my 
plan.”
“Just as you like, Lady Nyctasia,” he said indulgently. “We shall speak of it 
again when you come of age, if I live to see the day.”
Lord Rhavor had many years yet to live, but when Nyctasia had reached her 
adulthood, he continued to oppose her plan. By then the illness had taken its 
toll and, though the remnants of his days meant little to him, he was reluctant 
to let Nyctasia risk her life for such a doubtful venture.
They continued to meet, however, and she’d still had hopes of persuading him, up 
to the time of his death. Now even that hope was gone.
Nyctasia let the curtain fall back, covering the window. Darkness had descended 
on the city, and the towers of the palace were lost from view.
4
nyctasia was alarmed to see someone standing at the gate of the corner house. 
None of her people knew of this place save Sandor, and he wouldn’t wait about 
outside; She was to meet Corson here soon, but it was a man who waited there—she 
could tell little more than that in the darkness.
She walked past the house without a glance or the slightest change in her 
stride. She was dressed in the shabby clothes and hooded cloak of a student, but 
the stranger was not fooled, “Lady Nyctasia!” he called after her, his voice low 
and urgent.
She immediately whirled around, crouched, her arms crossed over her chest, but 
the other made no move to throw a knife. He only stood in the shadows, waiting, 
watching her, motionless.
Nyctasia slowly stood and drew her sword. “Edonaris or Teiryn?” she said 
wearily. It was getting to be a habit.
“Neither the one nor the other, milady. A messenger. I bring you a letter.”
“And why do you faring it here?”
“Such were the directions, my lady.”
“Who gave you those directions?” she demanded.
“Milord Shiastred,” was the answer.
Nyctasia’s heart raced. She expected a letter at any time from Erystalben, and 
he could well have sent such a messenger as this. Yet her family knew about him. 
This letter might be a trap to draw her within arm’s reach of a killer. Nyctasia 
considered her own kinfolk much more dangerous than the Teiryns.
“Is an answer expected?” she said.
“A token, my lady, that His Lordship may know you received his message. A lock 
of milady’s hair.”
Nyctasia laughed. “’Ben doesn’t know I’ve cut it. You’ll have to take him this.” 
Still keeping her distance, she tossed one of her gloves to the messenger.
“I’ll leave this here, shall I, my lady?” he said quietly, reaching into his 
jacket. Nyctasia prepared to throw herself fiat to the ground at the first glint 
of steel, but he drew out only a roll of paper and laid it on the gatepost, then 
bowed and walked off without waiting to be paid.
Nyctasia examined the letter by the dim starlight. The seal was indeed that of 
Shiastred and she tucked it inside her shirt, smiling at her own fears. Only 
Erystalben could have known to send a messenger here.
But then she heard footsteps close behind her and she hastily unlocked the gate 
and slipped inside the yard.
Someone peered at her through the palings. “Lady ... ?”
“Corson! Good, come in.” She hurried Corson inside and led the way upstairs.
Corson sprawled on a couch without waiting for permission to sit. She knew that 
there was nothing Lady Nyctasia could do about her impertinence and she meant to 
take full advantage of her position. “Are you ready to go?” she asked curtly.
Nyctasia paced the room restlessly. “I’ve been ready to leave for a long time.”
“You know, if the gate sentries have guessed who you are, it may yet come to a 
fight. Are you of any use with that sword?” She eyed Nyctasia’s rapier 
doubtfully.
“I’m not a professional murderer, of course, but I’ve trained with the best 
fencers at court.”
Corson groaned. “Fencing! This isn’t a duel, Your Ladyship. I only hope your 
horses are as good as you claim. Our best chance is in surprise and speed.”
“My stables have the fastest horses in the city,” she said proudly. “Most people 
don’t understand the principles of breeding. But it’s simply—”
“Can you ride them?” Corson interrupted.
“There are not many beside myself who can,” Nyctasia said with dignity.
Corson looked glum. It was hard to picture the Lady Nyctasia doing anything more 
strenuous than plucking a harp. It would be so much simpler just to kill her and 
collect the blood money.
Nyctasia leaned against he back of a chair and looked searchingly at Corson. “I 
hope you’ve no weakness for gambling. Your face betrays your every thought.”
“I always lose,” Corson admitted. “And this looks to be a losing game as well.” 
She badly wanted a drink.
“Maybe so. But you’ll find me a safer wager than Lady Mhairestri.”
Wine and water had been set out, but Corson was wary of Lady Nyctasia’s 
hospitality. “We’ll just have to trust one another, then. Let’s drink a toast to 
that, shall we?” She poured out the wine and handed a cup to Nyctasia. “After 
you, my lady.”
“I don’t drink spirits,” Nyctasia demurred.
“Please. I insist,” said Corson grimly, her hand on her sword hilt.
Nyctasia laughed. “Well, perhaps the occasion does warrant some special 
observation.” She raised her glass. “To the success of our venture.”
Corson watched her swallow the wine before reaching for her own cup. “To trust 
and good faith,” she said.
Nyctasia sat down across from her and drew out the unopened letter. As she broke 
the seal, she thought again of the unknown messenger, “Corson, did you pass 
anyone at the corner?”
“No, but I saw Sandor crossing the thoroughfare. I don’t think he saw me.”
“Sandor? He should be in Westgate Street by now.”
“He was coming this way.”
Nyctasia frowned. Something must be wrong. Her suspicions grew sharper—was 
Corson herself the danger? “I’ll go down to meet him.”
“By yourself?”
“He may want to speak to me alone.” She stood. “I’ll be back directly. We have 
to start out soon, it’s nearly midnight.”
As soon as she heard Nyctasia leave the house, Corson hurried to the far wall 
and drew back the heavy draperies. Ever since she’d discovered the great mirror 
she’d been longing for another chance to study her reflection.
Nyctasia could see Sandor lying in the street, not far from the gate. Pulling 
back the bolt at once she hastened to him, and knelt over the still form, 
searching for any sign of life—but the man was dead. Before she could rise she 
was seized roughly from behind and dragged into an alleyway, a knife at her 
throat.
A second assailant stood before her, smiling, his sword ready. “I don’t believe 
I’ve ever seen you at such a loss for words, ’Tasia,” he said. “You needn’t feel 
abashed. It took me some time to find you out, though of course I never believed 
the rumors that you’d already fled the city. Rumors which you no doubt 
encouraged.”
“I started them,” Nyctasia whispered. “But I can be gone by morning. Let me go 
and the family will never be troubled by me again, I swear it!”
He laughed. “I intend to see that the family is not troubled further by you, my 
dear cousin. I’m well aware of your plans, but I’m afraid they’ll have to be 
altered. Think yourself fortunate that I found you before the Teiryns.”
“Listen to me, Thierran—” Nyctasia began.
“Don’t waste words with her!” the other man broke in, and Nyctasia recognized 
the voice of Mescrisdan, Lord Thierran’s brother. “She’ll keep us talking here 
’til dawn. I say kill her and have done with it.” Suddenly he gasped, and 
Nyctasia felt his grip slacken. She broke free, dodging to the side, and saw him 
fall as Corson wrenched her broadsword from his back.
Corson met the other man’s attack with cold precision. She turned aside his 
blade and followed through with a thrust that tore his arm to the bone. The 
sword dropped from his grasp and he made a frantic lunge to retrieve it, but 
Corson dealt him a sharp blow across the back of his neck with her free hand. As 
he fell to the ground Nyctasia snatched the sword from his reach.
Dazed, he tried to crawl toward Nyctasia, his wounded arm hanging limp and 
useless. Corson kicked him onto his back, looming over him in the narrow 
alleyway. “No!” he cried. “Please—”
“Corson, don’t!” gasped Nyctasia.
Corson put up her sword. “Next time remember to guard against attack from the 
left hand,” she advised him. Her boot caught him under the jaw and he lay as 
still as his companion.
They carried the bodies into the courtyard, and for the first time Corson could 
see that the two men who’d attacked Nyctasia were identical. “There have always 
been twins in my family,” Nyctasia said, noticing Corson’s stare.
“Do you have a double, too?” Corson asked suspiciously. Perhaps this wasn’t the 
singer after all.
“I’ve often wished I did—it might have been useful. But there won’t even be one 
of me if we’re not gone from here soon.”
Nyctasia paused for a moment to look down at the still form of Thierran ar’n 
Edonaris. “He’s hated me ever since I refused to marry him,” she remarked.
5
at that hour of the night the streets were usually empty, save for noisy 
drunkards and silent thieves. Yet they soon realized that someone was following 
them on horseback.
“Do you have any of your people behind us?” Corson asked.
“Yes, but they’re on foot,” Nyctasia said worriedly.
They passed a group of shouting roisterers, and Corson suddenly joined in the 
uproar, singing as loudly as any of them:
 
“I once knew a soldier 
   so skilled with his sword 
That they sued for his service,
   both lady and lord!”
 
Nyctasia clutched at her arm. “Are you mad?!”
“I’m being inconspicuous. Sober folk wouldn’t ride out this late.
 
“I once knew a fisher 
  so skilled with her net 
There was nary a fish 
  that the wench couldn’t get!”
 
she roared.
Nyctasia had to acknowledge the sense in this. Silence might be suspect. She 
resigned herself to Corson’s performance.
Without warning, a figure lunged at them from a nearby doorway, and they both 
reached for their weapons in alarm. “Get out of here, you sotted curs!” screamed 
a large man in a nightshirt. “Decent folk are trying to sleep!”
“All right, we’ll go,” Corson said hastily, but he had already seen their 
half-drawn swords.
“Threaten an unarmed citizen, will you, you vermin,” he shouted after them. 
“Warder! Arrest those cutthroats!”
The rider behind them broke into a trot, and they realized that they’d been 
followed by an officer of the night watch. Nyctasia suddenly turned her horse 
and started back before Corson could stop her. “I’ll show you who’s vermin,” she 
muttered.
Corson was aghast. She caught up with Nyctasia and grabbed her bridle. “What are 
you doing?!”
“I’m being inconspicuous. Do you want the City Guard chasing us through the 
streets?”
The watchman rode up to them. “What’s the matter here?”
“We—” Corson began, but her horse suddenly swerved to the side and reared, as 
Nyctasia surreptitiously jabbed her spur into its flank.
“Good evening, warder,” she said in her haughtiest tone. “I’m afraid my servant 
has had too much to drink,” She sounded bored and annoyed, and her bearing 
proclaimed her a personage of the highest station. It was too dark for him to 
see how poorly she was dressed, and she kept her face well back in her hood.
“Ah, forgive me, Your Ladyship,” the guardsman said anxiously. “There was a 
complaint, but I’m sure ...”
“I’m not drunk,” Corson protested, swaying in her saddle.
“Be still!” Nyctasia ordered. “I’ll see that she doesn’t bother anyone else, 
warder. I don’t recall the fine for causing a public disturbance, but I’m sure 
this will suffice.” She pressed a few heavy coins into his hand.
He bowed. “Certainly—thank you, Your Ladyship. If you should require an escort 
...”
“No need,” said Nyctasia indifferently. “I assure you she’ll be disciplined for 
this.” She turned away, leading Corson’s horse by the bridle.
“Come along,” she snapped.
Corson swayed again and leaned in closer to Nyctasia. “As soon as I have the 
chance, I’m going to slit your throat.”
“Wits may be a sharper weapon than any sword,” said Nyctasia with a smug smile.
As they approached the gate, Nyctasia hugged the wall, keeping to the shadow of 
the watchtower. She watched the quiet streets for signs of danger as Corson rode 
ahead to meet the sentry.
Corson dismounted and handed the woman a pouch, then helped her to pull back the 
heavy bolts. They both pushed their weight against the gate, and the guard in 
the watchtower paid no heed as the portal slowly swung outward.
Only then did Nyctasia emerge from the shadows and follow Corson through the 
narrow gap that opened onto a rough pasture track. By the time the gate had been 
shut behind them, they were halfway across the field.
Looking over her shoulder, Corson was not surprised to see the bright flash of a 
lantern from the sentry tower. “Arm yourself!” she shouted to Nyctasia. “They’ve 
signaled someone—make for the forest!”
Soon they heard hoofbeats behind them, echoing their own. But Nyctasia’s horses 
were all she’d claimed, and they’d put a good distance between themselves and 
their pursuers when a second band of riders broke from the cover of the forest 
just in front of them.
“Ride that way,” Corson called, “divide them.” Nyctasia swerved to the right, 
spurring her mount to even greater efforts. Corson fell back, trying to draw the 
enemy after her, but two of them broke away and followed Nyctasia.
For a time, Nyctasia led them a hard chase, but they were too close upon her to 
be outdistanced. The ground was uneven, broken by small hills and ravines—good 
grazing land but unsuited for galloping horses. Her mount plunged down a slope 
and easily leapt the swollen stream, but as it tried to scramble up the steep 
embankment on the other side, it could find no footing in the slippery mud. It 
slid back twice, then balked at a third attempt. Nyctasia had no time to urge it 
on before one of her pursuers was upon her.
She turned to attack, but her blow glanced harmlessly off the other’s shield. He 
quickly thrust in beneath her upraised arm to pierce the light chain mail over 
her ribs. Doubling over with a cry, she fell from the saddle onto the soft mud 
of the bank and lay motionless as her horse nuzzled her shoulder, nickering 
softly.
The man dismounted and approached her cautiously. Her sword lay unsought by her 
open hand, and he stepped firmly on the haft as he bent down to look at her.
Nyctasia’s dagger lashed out wildly, barely scratching his hand, but a burning 
pain seared through his arm, leaving it numb. In moments, the poison reached his 
heart, and he was dead before he fell to the ground.
Nyctasia dragged herself into the stream, hoping the cold water would slow her 
bleeding. On the crest of the slope above her, two riders clashed and she saw 
one of them knock the sword from the other’s grip. As the disarmed warrior 
turned to flee, Nyctasia raised herself on one elbow and screamed, “Corson! This 
way!”
Corson hesitated, anxious to give chase, but instead she leapt from her horse 
and clambered down the embankment. Nyctasia struggled to rise, clutching at her 
side. She gave a hiss of pain as Corson grabbed her under the arm and pulled her 
upright.
“Can you ride?” Corson demanded brusquely. Without waiting for an answer, she 
led over Nyctasia’s horse and helped her to mount. “No matter. Just keep your 
seat. I’m warning you. If you fall off, I’ll leave you behind.”
Nyctasia leaned against the animal’s neck and moaned. “Vicious bitch,” she said 
faintly, but she held on as Corson seized the reins and led the way to level 
ground.
They reached the forest unchallenged and rode in stony silence for some time 
before Nyctasia sat up and took the reins. “Corson, you must be a demon in 
battle. There were at least a score of swords after us—how many of them did you 
kill?”
Corson considered. “It’s hard to say to a certainty, but not more than four, I 
should think.”
“But what became of the rest?”
“The sentry must have taken her story to both parties. Don’t you see?” Corson 
started to laugh. “The Teiryns and the Edonaris both had their henchmen waiting 
to waylay you—and when they met, they started warring between themselves. 
They’re so busy slaughtering each other back there that they’ve forgotten about 
us. Isn’t that funny?”
“It is indeed,” said Nyctasia. But it hurt to laugh.
6
“hlann asye, but that hurts!” They had ridden till dawn, then made camp by a 
stream where Nyctasia was bathing her wounded side.
“You were lucky. I thought it was worse than that.”
“I’m known for my luck,” Nyctasia said with a grimace. She cut a strip of cloth 
from the hem of her shirt and bound the wound tightly, cursing like a peasant.
Corson was surprised to hear her swear by the name of Asye, the deity of the 
common people. Most of the nobility and the educated considered the worship of 
Asye a vulgar superstition, and professed belief only in the Indwelling 
Spirit—the vahn.
“You’re a follower of the Hlann?” Corson asked curiously. It was an old word 
meaning either “Lady” or “Lord,” but it was used now only for the androgynous 
Asye.
The Lady Nyctasia looked embarrassed. “Oh, when I was younger, mainly to annoy 
my family. Oaths are just habit. Folk wouldn’t use the name of Asye so freely if 
they really believed.” As if to herself, she added, “and it’s not always those 
who swear by the vahn who believe in it.
“But aren’t you hungry, Corson?” Nyctasia changed the subject deliberately. 
“‘Feed the flesh and the spirit thrives,’ you know.”
This was one proverb with which Corson wholeheartedly agreed. Their saddlebags 
were packed with smoked meat, bread, dried fruit, and cheese. “I brought along a 
flask of wine for you, since you have such a taste for it,” Nyctasia said. “It’s 
in my satchel, there.”
Corson pulled over the bag and rummaged through it impatiently, pushing aside 
some leatherbound books which were locked with clasps.
“Be careful with those books! No, that’s ink—the other flask.” Corson uncorked 
the wine, but then hesitated. “It’s not poisoned,” laughed Nyctasia.
“It might make me sleepy. I have to keep watch.”
“Do you want me to drink some first?” Nyctasia asked provokingly.
Scowling, Corson shoved the flask back into the satchel, dislodging the clasp on 
one of the books. To spite Nyctasia, she picked it up and opened it, but the 
writing baffled her. “This is gibberish!”
“It’s Old Eswraine, a dead language—the mother tongue of the languages of the 
coastal countries. That’s why they’re all so much alike, and—” she paused in her 
explanation. “But do you know how to read?”
Corson was not insulted by the question. People of her station were rarely 
literate. “I traveled about with a student when I was first out of the army. We 
traded lessons in sword-play for lessons in letters, but I think I got the 
better of the bargain—he’d never have made a swordsman. I’ve never met a scholar 
yet who was good for anything much,” she added pointedly.
“What a shame that you didn’t learn any manners while you were about it,” 
Nyctasia remarked with a yawn. She pillowed her head on a saddlebag and pulled 
her cloak over her. “Good night ... if you still want to cut my throat, this is 
your chance.” She did not really expect to sleep, oppressed as she was with fear 
and uncertainty, but her weariness soon overcame her.
She dreamt that Lady Mhairestri had sent for her. The matriarch had refused to 
see her for months, and Nyctasia was certain that at least one of the attempts 
on her life had been carried out at Mhairestri’s behest, yet she did not 
hesitate to obey the old woman’s summons. Though Nyctasia might defy her wishes, 
she would never show her the slightest disrespect.
Lady Mhairestri rarely left her own apartments. She received Nyctasia in her 
bedchamber, seated stiffly upright by the fire, her face hard and forbidding. 
Nyctasia dropped to one knee before her and formally kissed her hand, but when 
she raised her head she found herself facing a stranger. This aged lady only 
resembled the matriarch.
She looked down at Nyctasia kindly and said, “Truly it is remarkable, child. You 
could be one of my own daughters.”
Bewildered and grateful, Nyctasia leaned her forehead against the old woman’s 
knee, “I wish that I could,” she said earnestly.
“But you must not stay here. You are in danger.”
Nyctasia realized suddenly that this was so. She had to get away at once, yet 
she did not rise. “You will give me your blessing. Mother, before I go?” she 
whispered, bowing her head again, humbly.
The old woman touched Nyctasia’s hair lightly with one frail hand, murmuring a 
ceremonial phrase, then said, “Now you must be gone, child,” and pushed her away 
with surprising strength.
Nyctasia looked up, startled, and it was Mhairestri she saw glaring at her, 
furious, hand raised to strike again. “Get out!” said the matriarch in a low, 
harsh voice. She hit at Nyctasia’s face and arms, “Get out of here!”
Corson was shaking her. “Get up! We have to get out of here!”
7
“wake up!” corson whispered. “There’s someone coming.”
“Who ...?” Nyctasia peered around vaguely, yawning. She sneezed.
“Be quiet, they’ll find us—hurry!” But before they could reach their horses, an 
arrow flew past them. Corson dropped to the ground at once, pulling Nyctasia 
down with her.
“They’ve found us.”
A group of ragged figures, with daggers and shorts words drawn, came from among 
the trees and formed a circle around them. Corson and Nyctasia slowly got to 
their feet, looking around for any avenue of escape. They were trapped.
But as Nyctasia hopelessly surveyed their captors, she found not a Teiryn or an 
Edonaris crest among them, and she suddenly laughed aloud, almost giddy with 
relief. These were not the hirelings of her enemies, but only common robbers!
One of the thieves stepped forward and looked at her quizzically. “Do we amuse 
you?”
“Please forgive my incivility,” Nyctasia said, “I was only thinking of the old 
saying, you know, that the penniless don’t fear thieves.” She gestured at her 
own shabby garments. “I certainly have nothing to fear.”
The thief looked them over scornfully. With her patched cloak and satchel of 
books, Nyctasia was the picture of a wandering student, and Corson looked the 
vagabond soldier that she was.
“Yet you have such fine horses—stolen I’d say from the look of you two.” He 
shook his head disapprovingly. “Get their weapons,” he ordered.
“You’d better decide how badly you want them,” Corson said grimly. “How many of 
your people can you spare?” She held her broadsword ready. Corson would give up 
her goods if she must, but would not let herself be disarmed without a fight. 
“Our swords aren’t worth what they’ll cost you.”
“She’s in a terrible humor,” Nyctasia remarked. “She killed four people in a 
skirmish outside Rhostshyl fast night. As a matter of fact, that’s how we got 
the horses.”
“This city’s getting too dangerous,” said the thief. He shrugged. “All right, 
don’t get their weapons—but you’ll put up that sword if you want to keep it.” 
When Corson had reluctantly obeyed, he walked over to inspect the saddlebags. 
“Books,” he muttered, tossing them out on the ground.
Nyctasia winced. “Is there no respect for learning anymore?” she asked 
plaintively.
“Students are thieves’ bane,” he sneered. “They never have anything worth 
stealing.” He turned to Corson. “But you might have picked up some loot. Throw 
that pouch over here.”
Corson cursed. “Someday I’ll make you pay for this. I swear it.” She tossed her 
purse at the robber’s feet.
He shook it with satisfaction. “We’ll have the jewelry, too. You, Nessa—”
One of his followers approached them, hand outstretched. Nyctasia surrendered 
her belongings with indifference. She was carrying nothing of value.
“Copper,” complained Nessa, pocketing Nyctasia’s earrings. “Ho, but look at 
these now—gold, or I’m a fishmonger!”
Corson seethed with frustrated rage. Her golden earrings were her most treasured 
possession. The ringleader held them up and peered at them, delighted. “You’re 
right. These will fetch a good price. And soldiers are usually such poor game, 
too. What they don’t spend on drink they throw away at dicing. You give me new 
respect for the breed,” he said to Corson.
Suddenly her sword was in her hand again. She gripped the hilt so tightly that 
her arm shook. “Get out of here, you scum, before I forget what the odds are!”
The thieves laughed, “We don’t want to tangle with her,” one of them shouted, 
“she killed four people at Rhostshyl!”
“I don’t see any of you bravos trying to disarm her,” Nyctasia said quietly. 
“Bear-baiting is cowards’ sport,” She turned to the leader. “Why don’t you call 
them off before it’s too late? You have what you want.”
The robber grinned and casually put on Corson’s earrings. “We’d better go while 
we still can, eh?” He made a sign for his people to withdraw. “Come on, bravos,” 
he said.
Corson slowly lowered her sword. Her whole body was trembling. She watched as 
Nyctasia gathered up her books, inspecting them for damage. “What do you want 
with those useless things now?” she shouted. “They took everything—our horses, 
our money ... I’ll kill someone for this! Me, robbed!”
Nyctasia looked at her warily. “Never mind, I’ll make good your losses. I have a 
fortune in keeping at Chiastelm.”
“And how do you think we’ll get there without horses?”
Nyctasia shrugged. “We’ll get there, don’t worry.”
“Well, what do you mean to do?!”
“To begin with, I think I’ll take a bath. I’m filthy.”
“A bath!”
But Nyctasia was already walking downstream towards a pool that was hidden among 
the trees. Best to leave Corson alone to nurse her wounded pride. “That’s right, 
a bath,” she called back. “It’s a habit among civilized people. I won’t be 
long.”
Uneasily, Corson watched her move out of sight. She knew that she should stay 
with Lady Nyctasia, but she was glad of a chance to recover her temper alone. 
“Stay within earshot,” she called, and leaned back against a tree, clenching and 
unclenching her fists. She felt more exhausted than after an actual fight.
She could hear the Lady Nyctasia singing to herself as she bathed. She’d just 
lost her horses and goods, and the silly bitch was singing!
 
“So beware, my Lady Alys, 
This is a haunted palace ...”
 
Her voice was high and pure and serene.
Corson liked the Ballad of Mad Alys. When it ended, she called to Nyctasia, 
“You’re crazy, Lady, you really are!”
“All the Edonaris are crazy,” Nyctasia answered, amused. “And all the Teiryn are 
stupid. That’s what folk say in Rhostshyl, among themselves. Do you know what I 
most regret leaving behind? My harp.”
“If you’d brought it, those rutting bandits would have stolen it.”
“That’s true.” She began to sing “The Queen of Barre.”
A bath would feel good at that, Corson reflected.
Nyctasia was kneeling by the water, half-dressed, drying her hair with the 
corner of her cloak. She did not hear Corson’s step on the soft moss bordering 
the pool. By the time she realized that Corson was standing over her, it was too 
late to conceal her side, smoothly healed, where there had been a vicious wound 
the night before. For a moment they stared at one another, frozen.
“So your reputation for witchcraft is quite undeserved,” Corson said coldly. 
“You heal quickly for someone who’s not a witch!”
“I lied. I’m an excellent liar.”
“I’ve noticed that about you. What other lies have you told me, sorceress?”
Nyctasia began rubbing at her hair again, trying to appear calm. “I don’t really 
remember,” she said carelessly. “No doubt I said whatever was necessary. I 
always do.” She did not rise to her feet, hoping that Corson would not kill 
someone who was unarmed and on her knees.
“You did put a curse on the Teiryns. You brought the sickness on them!”
“Don’t be a fool!”
“If you can heal with magic, you can kill with it.”
“That isn’t so!” Nyctasia exclaimed earnestly. “Healing is much simpler. I can 
explain—”
“Liar! I should just bring your head back to Rhostshyl and collect my wages!”
“You can’t be stupid enough to believe that I could be driven out of my own city 
if I had that kind of power! Why would I need to lie to you—why would I need you 
at all—if I could defend myself with spells?!”
“You make everything sound true, but you’ll not get around me again with your 
clever words. If I see you again, you’d better have some spells to defend 
yourself with!” She turned and strode off furiously, without a backward glance 
at the dread sorceress of Rhostshyl.
When Corson was out of sight, Nyctasia slowly stood and finished dressing, her 
hands trembling at the memory of Corson’s barely restrained fury. The danger 
just passed made her think of an experience she had long tried to forget. Years 
ago, she had led the hunt for a savage wildcat which had killed a herdsman on 
one of her estates. In the end, it had broken free of the hounds and tried to 
spring at her—but she had only been waiting for a clear shot and she sent an 
arrow cleanly through its throat.
Nyctasia had been in at the kill on many dangerous hunts since then, but she 
still sometimes dreamt of the cat at bay, and the wild hatred in its eyes as it 
crouched to spring at her. Corson had turned on her with the same look of 
desperate rage.
“But it’s my own carelessness that will kill me,” Nyctasia thought. She was 
furious with herself for allowing Corson to learn the truth just then, while 
still smarting from her humiliating defeat by the thieves. Nyctasia could not 
afford to be careless, and she never forgave herself for a mistake.
She doubted that she could reach Chiastelm alone, but there was nothing to do 
now but wait. Corson might return when she’d come to her senses. If she hadn’t 
carried out her threats then, at the height of her fury, she wouldn’t do so 
later in cold blood. Corson was no fool, thank Asye!
Nyctasia gathered some dry twigs for kindling and began to stir up the dying 
campfire. She was at home in the woods. Like any aristocrat, she’d been 
thoroughly trained in the hunt as well as the other courtly arts of fencing, 
dancing, harping, and etiquette. Hunting and harping she enjoyed; she was 
adequate at the rest.
If only she had her bow now, she could at least hunt some small game for 
dinner—but it was hanging from the saddle of her stolen horse. With a sigh, she 
settled herself comfortably at the foot of a tree and drew out the letter from 
Erystalben ar’n Shiastred, still unread.
“... So I’ve the Teiryn to thank that you remember your word to me at last. If I 
could not draw you from your beloved city,, at least those fools can drive you 
from it. ’Tasia, that adder’s nest is not worth your regrets. Let it look to its 
own destruction. Your place is here. I have carried out much of our purpose, but 
it will go for nothing unless you soon join your power to mine.
“I’ve seen no further sign of Vhar Kastenid, though I do not believe he has 
given up the battle. But together we will be able to hold this place against any 
enemy. Come to me quickly, ’Tasia. At times I do fear that you have forgotten. 
And then I do not see my way clearly ....”
Nyctasia read on to the end of the letter, then put it away, smiling to herself. 
She had never forgotten, not for a moment. It was true that she could not leave 
the city as easily as Erystalben had—an Edonaris had duties which could not be 
abandoned lightly. And she had left behind much that she loved. But she did not 
regret.
 
Corson walked blindly for a time, trying not to think of the way she’d been 
shamed before the Lady Nyctasia. But again and again she saw the thieves 
gloating over their spoils, laughing at her. The thought of her own helplessness 
sickened her, and she finally stopped in a small clearing to rest. Her hands 
were scratched from heedlessly pushing her way through thorn bushes, and twigs 
and brambles clung to her sleeves.
She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and brooded over her past defeats 
and present losses. Painful memories assailed her of every time she’d been 
beaten, outnumbered, humiliated. Unwillingly, she remembered being captured in 
battle and led through the streets with the other prisoners, her hands tied 
behind her. The wounds from that war had long since been healed, but Corson had 
never recovered from the disgrace.
She lay her head on her arms, cursing wearily. If she could only get drunk, she 
thought, she could forget everything. She licked her lips. “I don’t even have 
any water. I should have kept to the stream. It’s that witch’s fault—I hope they 
find her and butcher her!”
Corson frowned. She couldn’t decide what to make of the Lady Nyctasia. The woman 
had admitted to practicing magic, but she’d fled from Rhostshyl nevertheless, 
and Corson had seen her defenseless before swords. Clearly she had no power to 
strike down her enemies at will, but could she cast spells to waste them with a 
sickness? And was she even now working magic against Corson herself?
“Spells!” she spat. “I’ll go back and settle this affair with her one way or 
another!” She’d agreed to escort Lady Nyctasia to Chiastelm and it might after 
all be the wiser course to keep her in sight. And then perhaps she could still 
collect the rest of her fee ....
Yet Corson remained where she was, uncertain, as the dusk gradually deepened 
around her. She still had made no move to rise when she suddenly heard the sound 
of approaching horses. In a moment she had leapt to her feet and hidden herself 
in the shadows.
“If they’re robbers they’re too late,” she thought, gripping her sword hilt, 
“and if they’re not, maybe I can rob them and get myself a horse.” She waited, 
sword in hand, till a rider came into view, but then she only stood where she 
was, open-mouthed and staring.
Nyctasia was riding her own horse and leading Corson’s. “I told you we’d get to 
Chiastelm somehow,” she said.
8
“how did you get those horses back?!”
Nyctasia grinned. “I destroyed the entire band of thieves with my murderous 
magic arts, of course. Have you forgotten that I’m an all-powerful enchantress?”
Corson sheathed her sword, not trusting to her own temper. “Answer me!”
“Take care you don’t arouse my wrath, woman. You know I might change you into a 
mushroom and eat you.”
Corson started towards her. If she had to beat an answer out of this lying 
witch, she was quite prepared to do it. “You cursed, japing—”
Nyctasia backed her horse away a few paces into the brush. “Very well, I’ll 
explain about the horses,” she laughed, “but you won’t like it.”
“I know,” said Corson, grabbing for Nyctasia’s bridle. The horse shied back 
suddenly, kicking out, and Corson pitched forward into the brambles. They tore 
at her neck as she tried to rise, and thorns caught fast in her hair.
“Corson? Are you hurt?” Nyctasia dismounted and pushed her way through the 
thicket.
Corson glared at her and tried to pull free from the entangling branches, 
cursing as the briars raked her fingers, Nyctasia could see that she would have 
to be handled carefully. She was in no temper to be reasoned with—but reason was 
not the only form of persuasion.
She smiled to herself. “You’re making it worse. Here, let me help.” She knelt 
beside Corson and began to unsnarl her hair. There was a great deal more of it 
than she’d expected. “The braid’s come down. I think I’ll have to cut it off,” 
she teased.
Corson struck at her halfheartedly. “If you dare ... !”
“Hold still.” Nyctasia carefully undid the thick braid, freeing loose strands of 
hair from around the thorns. “There, now.”
“Are you finished?”
“Not quite.” She combed her fingers through the heavy waves of waist-length 
hair. “I wish I had a brush.”
“I’ll do it,” said Corson. She pulled her hair over one shoulder to braid it.
Nyctasia touched a finger lightly to the back of her neck. “You’re bleeding.”
“I suppose you’re a vampire as well as a witch.”
Nyctasia leaned over and nibbled at Corson’s throat. “Mmm—hmm.”
“What are you doing?!”
“I’m casting a spell on you. Don’t be afraid.” She laughed softly and brushed 
her lips along Corson’s jaw.
Corson was stunned. Lady Nyctasia was a client, an aristocrat, an arrogant, 
lying, sorcerous—
Nyctasia kissed her again, on the mouth, and started unlacing her tunic.
“But you ... you ...” stammered Corson, “I ....”
“What’s wrong?” Nyctasia breathed, close to her ear.
Corson couldn’t remember. She would worry about it later, she decided. 
Abandoning her misgivings, she let Nyctasia push her to the ground.
Nyctasia straddled her, laughing. She spread open the tunic and slowly slid it 
down over Corson’s shoulders, then stretched her body over Corson’s and gently 
kissed her eyelids and the corners of her mouth.
Corson raised her shoulders and tried to shrug out of the sleeves. “I can’t 
move.”
“Good,” said Nyctasia, sliding her small scholar’s hands up beneath the loose 
chain-mail.
“Oh,” Corson said faintly, and fell back onto the grass. Nyctasia lay over her 
and buried her face in the deep mass of hair at the base of Corson’s neck. She 
nuzzled her car. “Now aren’t you glad you didn’t kill me?” she whispered.
 
Corson was ordinarily a light sleeper, but it was well into the next morning 
before she woke, and then she lay for some time with one arm flung over her 
eyes, trying to think of something to say to Lady Nyctasia. She could hear her 
moving about the clearing, building up the fire.
Then Nyctasia stood over her. “Ho, bodyguard, wake up! You’re supposed to be 
protecting me from the dangers of the forest, aren’t you? Wild beasts. Enemies. 
And robbers,” she added maliciously.
Corson sat up quickly and glowered at her. “What chance did I have against 
twenty people?”
“None at all, but you’re almost foolhardy enough to try it. You certainly had me 
worried.” She shook her head and wandered back to the fire to check on the 
spitted bird she’d shot that morning.
Corson shook the twigs and leaves from her hair then hastily braided it and 
bound it up before joining her companion. She was ravenous. “All right,” she 
said, “how did you get the horses back?”
Nyctasia looked up from turning the makeshift spit, “I once told you that I bred 
those horses myself. Well, I didn’t breed them just for swiftness. If they’re 
taken they’ll return to me—you can see how they’ve chewed through their ropes. 
If any of those thieves tried to stop them they were probably trampled to death. 
Thoroughbreds can be quite vicious.”
Corson smiled, cheered at the thought of the bandits’ undoing. “That bird smells 
good.”
Nyctasia had slit the skin and stuck in pieces of wild garlic, then stuffed the 
cavity around the spit with aromatic grasses. “When I took up the study of herb 
lore, I little thought of such homely arts as this,” she said, “but I’ve found 
it most useful for seasoning game.”
“I can guess why you studied such things, Lady,” Corson muttered. “You breed 
horses no one can steal, you heal wounds overnight, why can’t you use your 
powers to defend yourself?”
“Corson, it took me years to breed those horses. I had to lay spells on four 
generations of the bloodline before it produced the traits I wanted. Most magic 
requires long, painstaking preparation, like anything else—it’s of no use for 
felling one’s enemies at a moment’s notice. There isn’t time!”
“But you had time enough to lay spells on the Teiryn family.”
Nyctasia laughed. “I suppose I could breed a fatal disease into the Teiryn line, 
but, don’t you see, I’d need their complete cooperation to do it. The Teiryn may 
be stupid, but they’re not horses. Besides, I tried to tell you before—it’s far 
more difficult to kill with magic than to heal. The reason is perfectly plain if 
you consider the matter ...” Nyctasia’s voice had taken on an ardent, lecturing 
tone which Corson was beginning to recognize.
“I knew I’d be sorry I asked for this explanation,” she said, yawning.
Nyctasia ignored her. “The body naturally desires to mend itself. A healing 
spell only has to enhance inclinations that are already present—there’s no 
resistance. Whereas, in order to afflict—”
“Enough! I see!” Corson interrupted. “And I’ll wager you could tell me the 
contrary and make it seem just as convincing.” Her opinion was more or less that 
if Lady Nyctasia were telling the whole truth, then she, Corson, was Empress of 
Liruvath. “What I want to know,” she continued, “is, were you lying about that 
money of yours in Chiastelm?”
For a moment. Nyctasia was profoundly shocked and outraged. To be accused of 
murder and sorcerous evildoing was unfortunate, but to be suspected of a vulgar 
and base deception was an insufferable affront to her honor. An Edonaris might 
poison an enemy, if it were expedient, but would never stoop to cheating on a 
debt. Nyctasia had fought duels over lesser insults, but there was no way to 
demand satisfaction from a professional swordswoman like Corson.
She gazed into the fire, silent, until she had mastered her indignation, then 
said reprovingly, “I am an Edonaris.”
“You are a liar! An excellent liar, if I remember rightly.”
“Not where my honor is concerned. You’ll be paid for your services, never fear.”
Corson bowed. “Pray forgive my offense, Your Ladyship, but I’ve never before 
served a noblewoman who played the minstrel in a tavern, or cursed by Asye, 
either. If you don’t respect your own rank, how should I?”
Despite herself, Nyctasia could not keep back a smile. “I’ve never before had a 
guard as ready with her tongue as with her sword. Consider yourself fortunate 
that a lady doesn’t lower herself to duel with a social inferior!”
“Oh, I do,” snorted Corson, “very fortunate. Let’s eat.”
* * *
They concluded their plans as they approached the port town of Chiastelm, “We’d 
best settle our accounts first,” said Nyctasia. “I know you’re anxious about 
your money. I do business with a reliable moneychanger on Market Street—we can 
go there straightaway,” She paused. “I want to take a cargo ship out of port 
tonight, but I’d rather the crew didn’t see me before we sail. Can you arrange 
passage for me?”
“Gladly. But how will I get word to you? Where will you be hiding?”
“I own property just outside of town, an old house overlooking the sea. It’s 
been closed up for years—it’s supposed to be haunted. I’d thought of going 
there.”
“I know the place, the old Smugglers’ House. But mightn’t your family look for 
you there?”
“I doubt they’re so determined to find me that they’ll search every town on the 
coast. They’ll think themselves well rid of me ... still, perhaps I should just 
take a room in a cheap sailors’ inn—someplace out of the way where they don’t 
ask questions.”
“It’s The Crow’s Nest you want. No one there wishes to be recognized.”
“It sounds charming.”
“It will be a new experience for you, milady. I’ll meet you there after I’ve 
seen to your passage. Do you want to take the first ship out of port, wherever 
it’s bound?”
Nyctasia hesitated. She was not accustomed to revealing her plans to anyone, but 
she would have to trust Corson this far. “Get me passage to Lhestreq, if you 
can. What are your plans now?” she asked, turning the subject as she always did 
when questioned about her own affairs.
Corson smiled. “The first thing I mean to do is get flaming drunk at The Jugged 
Hare—the owner is an old friend of mine. He’s a darling man, big as a giant and 
handsome as they come ... with green eyes and a bushy black beard,” she added 
dreamily.
Nyctasia shrugged. “I prefer them clean-shaven, myself. I like to be able to see 
their faces.”
“Have you got a pretty face waiting in Lhestreq?”
“Inland from Lhestreq,” Nyctasia admitted. “And very pretty indeed.”
“What does he look like?”
“Well, he’s very dark, all except for his eyes—sapphire blue eyes. And he has 
long, black hair. I like long hair,” she teased.
Corson looked away, blushing.
“He’s lean,” Nyctasia continued, “no taller than most, but he has long, muscled 
legs ... hollowed hips ...”
“Mmm,” said Corson appreciatively.
“... and a fine prominent collarbone, all ridge and shadow—I’ve missed that 
collarbone.”
“I can see why you didn’t marry your cousin.”
“There was no lack of reasons for refusing him.”
“Do you mean to marry the one with the collarbone?”
Nyctasia shook her head. Among families of the highest nobility, marriage was 
purely a matter of political convenience—a way of confirming an alliance or 
establishing a dynasty. As far as Nyctasia was concerned, love was a matter 
quite unrelated to wedlock. “I see no reason for it. Do you mean to marry that 
bearded giant of yours?”
“I don’t know—maybe someday. But I couldn’t spend all my life in Chiastelm. I 
get restless. And I’m dangerous when I’m bored,” she said, only half joking.
Nyctasia smiled. “Perhaps you’ll grow bored with wandering, someday.”
“That’s what Steifann says. He had his fill of traveling when he was a boy on 
the boats, and now he has his own place he means to stick to it.” Corson gazed 
absently into the distance. “He’s been right about most things,” she admitted.
They rode in silence for a time, each lost in her own thoughts.
When they were within a few miles of the city gates, Nyctasia turned the horses 
loose and drove them off. “I want to enter the city on foot. A poor student 
doesn’t own horses like these.”
Before she’d learned of their strange pedigree, Corson had hoped to have the 
fine horses in fee, but now she watched them trot off without much regret. “But 
won’t they come back to you again?”
“Not if I send them away myself. They’ll return to my stables, and I pity anyone 
who tries to stop them.” She looked down at her stained and bedraggled attire. 
“I suppose I look as though I’ve been walking for days,” she said, scuffing her 
boots in the dust of the road. “I certainly feel like it.” She cut herself a 
stout branch for a staff and blunted one end against a rock to make it look 
travel-worn.
Corson watched her with distrust and a certain grudging admiration. “Lady, you 
have the cunning of a sneak-thief.”
“And that’s another thing—take care you don’t call me ‘Lady’ once we’re in the 
city. Only one person in all Chiastelm knows who I am.”
“The moneychanger.”
“Well, no, in point of fact, I—”
“No?!” shouted Corson. She advanced on Nyctasia menacingly. “Was anything you 
told me the truth? What about my money? What about your rutting honor?”
“Now Corson, don’t be hasty—listen to me,” said Nyctasia quickly. “I can 
explain!”
9
nyctasia was well-known at the humble establishment of Vroehin the Moneychanger. 
But she was known as an impertinent messenger-boy from the household of the Lord 
Heirond, an elderly, bedridden nobleman who had never laid eyes on her. He would 
have been most surprised to learn that large sums had been deposited in his name 
with one of the lesser-known banking houses on lower Market Street.
As they approached the entrance, Nyctasia held her shoulders straighter and put 
a jaunty swagger into her walk. Her grey eyes were bright with amusement as she 
surveyed the shop. It hadn’t changed. Thin, middle-aged Vroehin still bent over 
his table of measuring rods and scales, his young daughter perched on her tall 
stool behind the counter, ready to record the day’s transactions.
Nyctasia flashed them her cockiest grin. “Good luck to this house!” she said in 
a voice both louder and mellower than usual.
“Well, wait. Master Rastwin—we’ve not seen you here in some time. Mellis has 
been pining away for you.”
“Father!” chirped the girl, “I have not!”
“Why not?” Nyctasia demanded, drifting in the direction of the comely young 
bookkeeper. “Still hard-hearted as ever, and me dreaming of you by night and 
day?”
Vroehin snagged her by the belt and pulled her back. “Let’s hear your business, 
youngster.”
“My lord’s instructions are, you’re to pay this ruffian what she asks. Asye 
knows what she’s done to earn it. Cut someone’s throat, I shouldn’t wonder.” She 
winked at Mellis. “Nice company for a gentle lad like me!”
Corson gestured threateningly at her, “Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy, if 
you value that pretty face of yours!” She joined Vroehin at the counting table.
Nyctasia backed away, laughing insolently, and leaned over Mellis’s counter. 
“Mellis wouldn’t let you touch me—she’d scratch your eyes out first, wouldn’t 
you, Song of my Heart?”
“Someone ought to give you a good beating, you pest. Maybe that would teach you 
some manners.” She surveyed Nyctasia critically. “And how did you lose your 
earrings? Gambling again?”
“Cards,” said Nyctasia promptly, “are my only weakness, aside from beautiful, 
cruel, passionate girls. But next time I’ll win, and buy you a gold locket, 
honeycomb.” She hoisted herself lightly up on the counter and tugged at one of 
Mellis’s yellow braids.
The girl tossed her head. “Oh, I’ve heard about you,”‘ she lied. “It’s not just 
for your insolence that Lord Heirond keeps you!”
“Well, and what’s the harm to you if I warm an old man’s bed for him now and 
then, you selfish wench? There’s plenty of me left for you.” She snatched the 
girl’s hand and kissed it. Mellis swatted her.
“Father!”
Without looking up from his counting, Vroehin snapped. “Get off of there!”
“Just as you say,” said Nyctasia, and leaped down on Mellis’s side of the 
counter.
Corson heard scuffling and Mellis giggling, “Behave!” She was torn between 
watching Nyctasia’s performance and watching the moneychanger count out her pay. 
The money won.
“Quite the young rake,” she said, after Vroehin had collared Nyctasia and shown 
them both the door. They walked up Market Street. “What if that girl decides to 
marry you?”
Nyctasia smiled. “Oh, Mellis may flirt with a good-looking rascal, but she’s not 
fool enough to marry one. She’s engaged to a steady, hardworking apprentice at 
one of the best financial houses.” Her voice was warm with affection and 
respect. “That one’s sharp as a spur! Only fourteen, and she’s been keeping 
Vroehin’s accounts for two years.”
Corson walked on in moody silence. “Do you use magic to make them think you a 
boy?” she said at last.
“No need for that. I don’t make them think it, I let them think it. People see 
what they expect,” She threw back her head with a sudden boyish grin that made 
Corson want to cuff her. When she looked at Nyctasia now she could see the 
mocking youth who had been there all the time. She spat.
“No wonder everyone in Rhostshyl wants you dead!”
“Don’t be jealous, my sweeting,” Nyctasia said smugly, “why, the girl means 
nothing to me!” She dodged out of Corson’s reach, laughing, then suddenly 
resumed her usual stance and manner. They had come to the market square. “This 
is where we part company. You’ll get the rest of your money tonight.”
Corson stared at her, exasperated. This was like snatching at a gadfly. “I’m 
going this way,” she growled, pointing to the busy thoroughfare. “I’ll meet you 
tonight at The Crow’s Nest and take you to the docks. All I want is to see the 
last of you.”
Nyctasia bowed. “Until tonight, then. Don’t keep me waiting—I’ll be counting the 
moments till we meet!”
10
nyctasia took a roundabout route to the home of Maegor the Herbalist, circling 
back erratically through the tangled side streets till she was satisfied that no 
one followed. When she entered the apothecary’s shop, Maegor merely glanced up 
and waved her into the back room without a word. Then, when her customer had 
gone, she locked the front door and joined Nyctasia among the shelves of jars 
and mortars.
Maegor was a handsome, hill-bred woman, serene and thoughtful, and not much 
given to talk. She was one of the few people Nyctasia trusted.
“I love the way it smells in here, Maeg. It makes me feel calm, and that’s not 
easily done.”
Nyctasia had already fetched her belongings from their hiding place beneath a 
loose flagstone. She slid a chest back over the cache and perched on top of it.
The herbalist embraced her. “’Tasia, I thought you’d been killed! There were all 
sorts of rumors—”
“Good,” said Nyctasia. “Don’t let it be known that I’m alive. So many people 
would be disappointed.” She took some dried fruit from a bin and nibbled at it.
“You mean to leave for good, then. Is there no other way?”
“Maeg, my life isn’t worth a copper in Rhostshyl! It’s not only that my 
Great-Uncle Brethald tried to poison me—”
“Is he the one who died recently?”
Nyctasia did not seem to hear the question. “But,” she continued, “the Teiryns 
are howling for my blood, the stupid swine, and when I engaged a mercenary 
escort, I found she’d already been hired to kill me. By both Edonaris and 
Teiryn.”
“Nyctasia! You’re making that up.”
“You know me better than that, Maeg. As if I’d invent a story so improbable!”
Maegor sighed. “Yes, your lies are always more convincing than the truth. And 
what became of this mercenary?”
“Oh, I kept her, of course. She seemed to consider it a professional triumph to 
cheat two employers at once.” Nyctasia laughed. “I like her.”
“You would. A hired killer! Was there no one you could trust among your own 
guard?”
“I’d be long dead if there weren’t. But my people are Rhostshylid—how could I 
ask them to go into exile with me?” She began to pace about the narrow 
storeroom. “If they ever returned to the city after that they’d be condemned as 
traitors.” Nyctasia kept her doubts to herself. Her own people would have been a 
constant reminder to her of the duties she was abandoning, the responsibilities 
of her rank. Better to travel with someone like Corson, whose lack of respect 
for her was rather a relief. “At least a hired killer can be bribed,” she 
remarked to Maegor. “It’s the sort with a personal grievance that’s really 
dangerous.”
“’Tasia, I think I’d rather not hear these things.” She took Nyctasia’s hand, 
which was sticky from the dried fruit. “Come wash up, and I’ll give you a meal. 
You look scruffy as a vagabond student.”
“I can’t stay that long, Maeg,” Nyctasia said regretfully. There was nothing she 
would have preferred to a bath. “I’m supposed to look like a vagabond student, 
anyway. Maybe I should put a few more patches on this cloak.”
Maegor shook her head. “I’ll fetch you some scraps of cloth.”
Nyctasia looked through the valuables she’d left with Maegor, picked out those 
she wanted, and replaced the rest under the floorstone.
Maegor returned with the cloth. “What are you doing?”
“The rest of this is yours. I can’t take all of it with me.”
“I’ll keep it for you then. You may need it. You’ll be back one day.”
“I’d be crazy to come back!”
“You are crazy. All the Edonaris are crazy.”
Nyctasia smiled sadly. “Maeg—”
“If I need the money I’ll use it, ’Tasia,” Maegor said firmly. She held out 
needle and thread.
Nyctasia could sew neatly enough for a noblewoman who rarely did such things for 
herself. But now she added the extra patches with a student’s stitches, 
hasty-looking and irregular.
“How do I look?”
“Disreputable.”
“I’m ready, then,” She took out a letter sealed with plain, unstamped wax. It 
was an order for the release of certain prisoners, Rhavor’s young servant among 
them. “Will you see that this is sent, next week when I’m well away from here? 
Give it to a traveler, someone who doesn’t know you, and if you’re asked—”
“I know, my dear. Say a stranger gave it me.”
“Yes, isn’t it exhausting? This sort of thing leaves me no time for my studies. 
Imagine what it will mean to be someplace safe, where I needn’t constantly 
scheme to stay alive.”
Maegor appreciated the vagueness of Nyctasia’s “someplace.” Nyctasia never gave 
herself away. The vahn alone knew what this devious existence was making of her. 
The herbalist feared for her friend’s life, but she feared more for her spirit.
“Lie if you think best, ’Tasia, but I’d like to know—are you going to join 
Erystalben?”
Nyctasia hesitated over her answer, which would of course be something ambiguous 
like “If I can,” or “I’d like to.”
“Yes, I am,” she said, breaking into a smile.
“I’m glad.” She walked Nyctasia to the door. “I’ll miss you, but you’re right to 
go. You’ve learned the ways of your enemies too well, ’Tasia. You might forget 
that there are other ways.”
Nyctasia shrugged. “People learn what they must, to survive.”
“I wonder. If you must destroy yourself to defend yourself, have you truly 
survived? Be careful, ’Tasia.”
For answer, Nyctasia only turned to Maegor and hugged her as hard as she could. 
For once she had nothing to say. She never told people she loved them.
11
corson pushed her way into the crowds thronging the busy marketplace. “Hlann 
take her,” she muttered, “misbegotten witch!”
She wandered through the square, fingering the heavy pouch at her side, and the 
weight of the coins soon restored her good temper. On every side were merchants’ 
stalls piled high with all manner of goods. Corson admired velvets and rich 
brocades, brass lanterns and stout carved chests. She passed a potter at his 
wheel, shaping a graceful bowl.
Further on, a woman had set up a brazier and was cooking meat and vegetables 
spitted on wooden sticks. Fat dripped down onto the coals, and the smoke was 
fragrant with thyme and rosemary. Corson bought a skewer and walked along eating 
it. Across the way, a gypsy child with a draggled peacock on a leash was 
offering the feathers to passersby, two for a silver penny.
She would ordinarily have lingered in the marketplace, but today Corson was 
eager to get to The Jugged Hare. And there was still the matter of Lady 
Nyctasia’s passage out of Chiastelm to take care of. She threw the stick to the 
ground and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Steifann might know of a trustworthy 
cargo-runner—he’d once worked on the docks, and many sailors frequented his 
tavern. She should be able to find out what she wanted to know without 
mentioning Lady Nyctasia.
But as she set off in the direction of The Jugged Hare, her attention was drawn 
by the faint sound of bells and a heady fragrance of incense, both wafting from 
a small striped tent in a far corner of the marketplace. As she came nearer, she 
could see wind-chimes and silver bells hanging from the awning, with prisms and 
pendants of crystal strung among them.
Corson hesitated. Like most soldiers, she was a reckless spendthrift, and the 
more outlandish and costly the merchandise, the more it appealed to her. She was 
itching to spend some of her hard-won gold, but if she went right to The Jugged 
Hare, Steifann would insist that she put most of it aside for safekeeping. That 
decided her.
She had to stoop to pass the curtained entranceway, but inside the tent there 
was room enough to stand straight. The ground was covered with a scarlet carpet, 
strewn with a tantalizing array of candlesticks and vases, bright scarves, bowls 
of beaten brass and figurines of jade. Strings of glass beads spilled from an 
open chest. Corson stepped through the haze of perfumed smoke, lit only by 
hanging oil-lamps, and examined in turn a damask sash and an ivory-handled 
knife. Kneeling by the chest, she fingered pearl necklaces and brooches of nacre 
in silver filigree.
The proprietor, who had paid no attention to her at first, now came up and made 
her a deep bow.
“Good day to you, Star of Warriors. Which of my humble trinkets has pleased 
you?”
Corson shrugged disdainfully. “These are pretty toys, but I’ve no use for such 
things.”
He spread his hands in resignation. “Ah, no doubt your many lovers have showered 
you with treasures. It is no wonder you are indifferent to my poor baubles. And, 
in truth, a woman as fair as yourself has no need of further adornment. But if 
you permit me, I will show you the one thing that such beauty requires.” He 
invited Corson to sit on a tasseled cushion while he fetched a coffer of 
rosewood from a corner of the tent. From this he drew forth something swathed in 
cream-colored silk, and Corson watched in amusement as he ceremoniously unwound 
the wrappings.
“Perfection is not to be enhanced, but enjoyed,” he said, and held up before her 
an ornate silver hand mirror.
She took it from the merchant carefully, almost reverently, and studied the 
delicate molding of the frame and the intricate chased patterns on the back and 
handle. Her fascination was plain to see.
“It is a good piece,” the man said casually. “You understand that I do not show 
it to you to sell, but only because I know that you will appreciate the artistry 
of the work. I would not insult you by mentioning money.”
“A gold crescent for it,” said Corson.
He laughed. “My dear child, those engravings were three years in the making. It 
is a gift at five.”
“Sir, I am only a poor soldier—but I do admire genius. A gold crescent and six 
in silver.”
“Poverty is a widespread disease. I myself,” he sighed, “have devoted my life to 
beauty. It is not a lucrative profession. Four gold crescents.”
Corson got up to leave, shaking her head. “It grieves me, but ....” She held out 
her hands to demonstrate their emptiness.
“I defame the artist who made this his life’s work,” he murmured, as if to 
himself. “Three gold crescents.”
“Done,” said Corson, and they both smiled. After a further exchange of 
compliments, she took her leave and stepped out into the sunlight, blinking. 
“What an old thief!” she thought. “Star of Warriors!”
She had not gone far before she took the mirror from her pack and lovingly 
examined it again, grinning in anticipation of the scolding she’d get from 
Steifann for her extravagance.
In Corson’s rootless existence, Steifann was the one steadying influence. The 
Jugged Hare was her only home, and Steifann and his people her family. He kept 
her money and belongings for her, worried about her, argued with her, and had a 
lecherous nature that equaled her own. Though she never stayed in one place for 
long, Corson came back to the Hare whenever she could.
She’d first strayed into the tavern on a rainy night some years back, already 
half-drunk, and in a foul temper. Not only was she tired, wet and hungry, but 
she’d lost all her money gambling at The Pelican.
“Pelicans!” she muttered, and sat down at a table in a dark corner. 
“Vultures—all of them! They cheated me.” She looked around the room miserably. 
It was late and the place was nearly empty. “And I’m lonely.”
A serving-woman came over and asked if she wanted something to eat or drink. 
“Both,” said Corson promptly. She took the woman’s hand and kissed it. “What’s 
your name, pretty one?” But the woman only gave her an arch smile and walked 
away, hips swaying.
“What’s the difference?” Corson thought. “I can’t pay for anything anyway.”
She was served a cold supper of roast beef, cheese and a loaf of bread, which 
she tried to gulp down as quickly as possible, since she expected to be thrown 
out at any moment.
Then the serving-woman put a mug of ale before her, and held out her hand for 
payment. “A silver crescent, please.”
Corson stuffed some meat into her mouth and shrugged. The woman waited.
“Go to The Pelican,” Corson growled. “I left all my money there.” She yawned and 
leaned her head on her hand.
“Steifann!” the woman called.
“Asye take them all,” thought Corson. “I want to go to sleep.”
Then a tall, broad-chested man with thick black hair and beard came out of the 
kitchen, wiping his hands on his pants. “What’s the matter, Annin?”
The woman pointed to Corson.
“You, get out of here,” he said, advancing on her threateningly. He had green 
eyes and fair skin.
Corson was in love.
She looked up at him with a ravishing smile. She rarely met anyone as tall as 
herself. “I like green eyes,” she said.
Steifann jerked his head towards the door. “Up!”
Corson could have wept. She was still hungry, she had no place to sleep, she had 
no money, it was raining, and now a man she found overwhelmingly attractive was 
trying to throw her out into the street. “It’s not fair,” she mumbled. “Go 
away.”
She watched him from the corner of her eye, and when he bent over to grab her 
arm she shoved the table into his stomach and sprang to her feet, leaving him 
doubled over and gasping.
When he’d recovered his breath, he leaned on the table and told Corson in a 
tense, quiet voice precisely what manner of lice-ridden bitch he, Steifann, 
considered her to be. Then he vividly described how she might amuse herself 
after he had thrown her into the gutter where she belonged.
But Corson wasn’t listening. When he came at her again, she backed away, 
laughing. “I think you’re beautiful,” she said, and hit him on the jaw. Steifann 
staggered against the table, lost his balance and fell, dragging Corson down 
with him. He rolled on top of her and tried to pound her head against the floor.
Corson didn’t even try to fight him off. Instead, she wrapped her legs around 
his hips and pulled him closer, sliding her hands under his clothing. “Don’t 
go,” she protested, as he leaped up, gasping, his face red. Annin and the few 
remaining customers stood staring, while a cook and serving-boy watched from the 
kitchen doorway.
“Get her out of here!” Steifann shouted at them. “Call the watch if you have to, 
but get rid of her!” He strode into another room and slammed the door behind 
him.
Heartbroken, Corson got to her feet, gazing at the sturdy oak door. She towered 
over everyone in the room.
Annin and the cook looked at each other. “You heard him,” said Annin. “Get her 
out of here.”
“I’m the father of children! You get rid of her!”
“What’s back there?” demanded Corson.
“That’s Steifann’s quarters!” the kitchen-boy said gleefully, before the others 
could stop him.
Corson made up her mind, crossed to the door and kicked it open. From within, 
they heard Steifann yell furiously, “You rutting cur, get out of here! I’ll kill 
you!”
“No!” The door slammed again. “Don’t be a fool!” Sounds of struggling and 
cursing ensued, followed by a crash of falling furniture.
“Stop that, you—”
“Why?”
“... uhh ....” The room became very quiet.
“Maybe they’ve killed each other,” Annin whispered.
“Do you want to go in and find out?”
“Not I.” They shooed out the last customers and began gathering the dirty 
platters and righting the overturned table and chairs. Annin bolted the 
shutters. A scullion started sweeping the floor.
Suddenly, the silence was punctuated by a series of deep, staccato cries. The 
kitchen-boy giggled. “That’s the way I want to die,” he sang, snatching up the 
broom and dancing around with it.
“Put out the lamps, Trask!” Annin ordered. “You useless brat!”
12
the sign at Steifann’s tavern showed a large, leering hare drunkenly embracing a 
jug of ale, Corson looked up at it fondly, remembering how the hare had seemed 
to wink at her the first time she’d seen it, inviting her to enter.
She went around to the back entrance, hoping to find everyone together in the 
kitchen. She’d been away longer than usual and her friends would fuss over her 
and scold her. Walden, the head cook, would complain that she was too thin, 
Annin would make her take a bath, and Trask would flirt with her—but then, Trask 
flirted with everyone. And Steifann would hug her so hard he’d lift her off the 
ground, all the while demanding to know where she’d been, what she’d been doing, 
and with whom she’d been doing it—but without really expecting any answers. 
Corson hurried through the courtyard to the kitchen.
Walden was scowling over a huge stewpot when Corson came up from behind and 
hugged him. “I’m starving,” she said.
“Corson, you rutting idiot! What are you doing here? They’ll find you!” he 
looked around anxiously. “Trask, get Steifann.”
The serving-boy gave Corson a horrified look and rushed from the room.
Bewildered, she drew her sword and backed towards the door. “Who’ll find me? 
Where are they, out front?”
“Not yet, but they’re bound to come sooner or later—you’re well-known around 
here.”
“Asye’s Blood, man! Who are you talking about?” Steifann came in from the front 
room, bolting the door behind him. “What are you all gaping at? Corson’s not 
here, everyone knows she’s left town. Corson, put that sword away before you 
kill somebody.” He pushed the hair back from his forehead distractedly. “We’d 
better go to my room,” he said at last, “and make some plans.” He led Corson out 
the back way. “Get back to work,” said the cook. “Nothing’s happened here. Get 
that spit turning before the birds burn!”
Corson dropped onto the bed and slapped the space beside her. “Steifann, what is 
this all about?”
He sat down and put his arm around her. “You stupid ass, don’t you know there’s 
a price on your head? Two hundred crescents in gold for the capture of a tall, 
left-handed swordswoman called Corson. Or one hundred for killing her. There’s a 
lot of people in this city who’d sell you for half that.”
“But who offered the money? Who wants me that badly?”
“They say he’s some great nobleman from Rhostshyl. And there are other rumors 
about him, Corson ....” Steifann hesitated. “I don’t think he has an easy death 
planned for you.”
Corson looked away. “Threats,” she said carelessly. “Well, is there anything 
else I should know?”
“He’s looking for someone else as well—a small, dark-haired woman. And there’s 
five hundred crescents to be had for her. His servants have gone to every rat 
hole on the docks, and every ship in port.” Steifann felt Corson’s shoulders 
suddenly tense, and he looked at her sharply. “She’s down there, isn’t she?”
Corson didn’t answer. Instead, she threw her arms around Steifann and kissed him 
hard, then stood up and shouldered her pack.
“Corson, don’t be a fool! What are you going to do?”
“Run! Run like a hare from the hounds!” There was a knock at the door, and 
Corson’s hand dropped to her sword hilt.
“Steifann, let me in,” said a woman’s voice impatiently. Corson laughed with 
relief and shot back the bolt to admit a short, stocky woman of forty with broad 
hips and an ample bosom. Annin had been head serving-woman at The Jugged Hare 
for years, and was firmly convinced that only her common sense and good judgment 
kept the tavern from ruin. The fact that Steifann was the owner did not prevent 
her from treating him as one of her underlings.
“Corson, my lamb, you oughtn’t to be here, it’s too dangerous. Have you no sense 
at all?” she scolded.
Corson bent down and kissed her. “I’m not here, I’m leaving. You take care of 
Steifann for me.”
“You’re not going anywhere till dark,” Annin said firmly. “You’d be seen. How do 
you think you’d get out of the city?”
“I think she means to go straight to the docks and warn that woman,” Steifann 
broke in.
“Rubbish,” snapped Annin, and pushed Corson back onto the bed. “Sit down.”
“I don’t have time to argue, Annin, I—”
“Then don’t. If you want to warn someone, you can send a message.”
“That’s right,” said Steifann. “I know my way around the waterfront. When I was 
working on the wharves—”
“No. Not you,” said Annin. “You’re so rutting big, folk take note of you. I’ll 
go myself, tonight. With a shawl over my head, no one will notice me.”
Corson shook her head. “This is my affair, Annin. I know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t know your left hand from your right. Every informer on the docks is 
looking for you. You won’t do yourself or anyone else any good by getting 
caught.” Hands on hips, she fixed Corson with a fierce, protective glare. 
“You’ll stay out of sight until we can get you safely away from here.”
“Destiver’s ship is in port,” said Steifann. “If we take the wagon down to the 
wharf before dawn, maybe we can smuggle her aboard. There’ll be plenty of carts 
unloading supplies and cargo.”
“Who’s Destiver?” Corson protested. “I’m not—”
“Good idea. I could arrange that now. Both of you wait here till I get back. Is 
that understood?”
Corson was silent.
“She’s right, you know,” said Steifann. “You can’t go down there. You might as 
well walk into their arms.”
“Where is she, Corson?” Annin demanded.
Corson got up and paced the room restlessly. She’d never involved her friends in 
this kind of thing before, but she knew that she had no choice. She couldn’t 
protect Lady Nyctasia by walking into a trap. A feeling of helplessness swept 
over her, and to Corson it seemed, as always, a foretaste of death. She clenched 
her fists. “I don’t like it.”
“I know,” said Steifann. “You’d rather get yourself and that other woman killed 
than admit you need help.” He waited.
Corson looked at the floor. “She’s at The Crow’s Nest. I’m supposed to get her 
on a ship tonight.”
Annin nodded. “I’ll see about passage for both of you then. I can take her 
straight to the ship after dark, but meanwhile I’d better go talk to Destiver. 
And, Steifann,” she added sternly, “don’t let her out of here!”
Steifann raised Corson’s head and kissed her. “Now what can I do to keep you 
here till Annin gets back?”
She put her arms around him and pulled him close. “I thought I’d be able to stay 
with you awhile,” she sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“I don’t want you to go.”
There was nothing more to say. He held her against him and stroked her back 
gently, then reached up to loosen her long braid. Corson tilted back her head 
and shook free the bronze cascade of her hair. His lips brushed along her 
throat, and he began to kiss her on the mouth and eyes. Corson pressed against 
him and slid her hand between his legs. She heard his breathing change and he 
held her even tighter.
“Corson ...”
“Mmro ... ?”
“Will you take off that rutting sword, or do you want to make a gelding of me?”
“Asye forbid!” laughed Corson, letting her sword belt slip to the floor, and 
pulling him down onto the bed.
13
no one looked up as Nyctasia entered The Crow’s Nest, or offered to assist her 
in any way. She went up to a group of idlers gathered around the fire and 
slammed her stick down across a bench. “Ho, the house! Who keeps this vipers’ 
den?”
A man and woman glanced askance at each other. The man shrugged. “What do you 
want?”
“What do I want?” echoed Nyctasia. “I want accommodations fit for a queen, of 
course. I want splendor, gaiety, and lordly fare. Spiced delicacies and ruby 
wine! That’s what I want!”
Shouts of agreement arose from the other guests. This was the best entertainment 
they’d seen in some time.
“I could do with some of that myself!”
“Tell us more, woman!”
“I want decent lodgings,” Nyctasia concluded, “but I’ll settle for what you’ve 
got to offer.”
This sally too was met with cheers. “Best lodgings this side of the gutter, 
right here!”
“If you happen to be a rat or a roach—”
“Most of you are,” said the landlady, and spat into the fire. She stood and 
walked from the room, giving Nyctasia a hard look as she pushed past her. 
Nyctasia bowed elaborately, sweeping her shabby cloak out of the woman’s way 
with an ironic flourish.
The group made room for her on the bench, hoping for more sport. “Do you have 
any money?” said the landlord. “We don’t take clever speeches in payment.”
“Oh, of course I’m carrying a fortune in gold and jewels,” sneered Nyctasia. She 
tossed him a small silver coin. “Two nights,” she said. She did not intend to 
stay for a single night, but it might be safer to mislead her listeners.
He examined the coin carefully, then nodded. “Any bed upstairs.”
Nyctasia repressed a shudder. She was prepared to face danger and hardship, but 
nothing could reconcile her to the prospect of bed-lice. After joking with the 
other guests for a time, she made her way upstairs, claiming to be exhausted 
from a day’s hard walking. She entered a large, slant-ceilinged room at the head 
of the stairs, noting that it had no other door and only one small window high 
on the far wall. There were several straw pallets in the room, but none that 
Nyctasia would have lain or even sat upon under any circumstances.
The other two rooms were similar, and she returned to the first, satisfied that 
she was alone. When she’d latched the door, she pulled a small leather bag from 
her shirt and took from it a pair of exquisite golden earrings. The lustrous 
red-gold shone softly, even in the dim light from the gable window. Edonaris 
heirlooms, they were part of the legacy from her late, unlamented Great-Uncle 
Brethald.
She smiled grimly. How it must have galled him to know that Nyctasia, a traitor 
to the name of Edonaris, would inherit the better part of his goods and 
properties. But he was childless, and inflexible tradition decreed that family 
property follow very specific lines of descent. It was no wonder he’d tried to 
ensure that Nyctasia would die before him.
Now she brooded over the beautiful golden earrings and thought how outraged he 
would have been to know that she considered giving family treasure to a 
base-born hireling. But Corson had surely earned them. She’d lost her own in 
Nyctasia’s service, and it would be most appropriate to reward her with a new 
pair. Nyctasia herself wore only adornments of silver, to accentuate her grey 
eyes and fair complexion—gold was for honey-skinned Corson, or dark Erystalben.
But still Nyctasia’s blood reproached her at the thought of thus estranging 
ancient Edonaris property. She weighed the jewelry in her hand thoughtfully. 
After all, had she not broken with her family? Why not celebrate her freedom 
with this gesture, if only to spite the memory of Great-Uncle Brethald?
Suddenly she leapt to her feet, hastily concealing the earrings. She could hear 
people climbing the stairs. The door was forced open before she could unlatch 
it, and three armed guards entered the room.
“We have orders not to harm you, my lady, unless you resist us. Will you 
surrender your weapons?”
Nyctasia at once resorted to the most convincing lie of all: she laughed. “My 
lady?” she cried, in seeming delight. “Oh, I like that! What would a lady be 
doing here, you imbeciles?” She minced up to the guard who had spoken, with the 
affected grandeur of an ill-bred student imitating a noblewoman. “Pray enter my 
ancestral halls,” she invited. “Lady Maggot of Vermin Hall bids you welcome!”
The guards looked at one another, uncertain. “Maybe—” one of them began.
“Well?” demanded Nyctasia. “Here I am, arrest me! Her Ladyship of Quills and 
Patches!” She seemed to be having a wonderful time. “Ho, friends!” she shouted, 
for the benefit of the listeners downstairs, “you people didn’t know you had a 
great lady in your midst, did you?”
But the laughter that answered her from the stairway was not that of her fellow 
lodgers. “Forgive me if I fail to applaud such a fine performance, cousin, but 
you see that I have the use of only one arm.” The guards moved aside, and Lord 
Thierran ar’n Edonaris entered, smiling. His right arm was bound in a bandage 
and sling, “Be sure to gag her,” he ordered. “She’ll convince you that no one’s 
here at all if she isn’t silenced.”
Nyctasia passed from desperation to despair. No one would come to her rescue 
now, for no one knew where to find her. She had been careful about that, as 
always. “But not careful enough,” she thought bitterly. Only Corson had known 
where she was hiding. It must have amused her to be paid for changing sides once 
again. She must be very well pleased with herself.
14
steifann entered the room quietly. Corson was still asleep, her hair spread 
loose on the pillows. He stood over her a moment and then placed his hand on her 
back. Without opening her eyes she grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him down 
on top of her.
“Stop that, woman,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Get up.” He slid his arms 
under her and lifted her up beside him. She leaned against him and mumbled 
something into his neck.
“What?”
“I’m cold.”
He pulled her closer, cupping her breast in his hand. “Better?”
She nodded, then raised her head and kissed him.
“Will you listen to me? Some madman’s got half the city hunting for you, and all 
you can think of is screwing.”
“I’m thinking of food, too. I’m hungry.”
“Corson—!”
“Yes. I’m listening.”
“The Windhover leaves with the morning tide. Destiver’s agreed to take the two 
of you.”
“Oh,” said Corson dispiritedly. “How much will it cost?”
Steifann cleared his throat and mentioned a sum. Corson gasped.
“If you don’t have the money, Corson, I’ll get it for you.”
She was disgusted. The price would take most of what Nyctasia had paid her. All 
that hard-earned money gone—and for what? Curse Lady Nyctasia and her stinking 
family! “No, I can pay it. But what about the captain, Steifann, and the crew? 
Can they be trusted? What’s to keep them from trying to collect the passage 
money and the reward too?”
“Don’t worry, I know Destiver. She’ll keep her word.”
“She?” said Corson, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “How well do you know her?”
“We’re old friends,” he grinned. “She’d do anything for me.”
“Old friends? I know what that—”
They were interrupted by the arrival of Annin. “Corson, keep your voice down! 
And put your clothes on. There’s no time to lose.”
“What happened?” Corson demanded. “Did you find her?”
“I’m sorry, Corson, she’s been taken. It’s all over the docks.”
Corson cursed softly. “What have you heard?” she said, pulling on her breeches.
“Wild rumors, mostly. This woman’s a spy. A faithless wife. A foreign 
princess—or a prince, for that matter. They took her asleep, or, if you like, 
she fought like a demon and killed three guards.” Annin shrugged. “But all the 
tales agree that they found her at The Crow’s Nest and took her prisoner.”
“Where did they go?”
“To Rhostshyl. Or to Liruvath. To a mansion in the center of town! Nobody knows. 
The question is, has she told them where you are? They might be here at any 
moment—we have to get you to the ship now! I’ll fetch the cart. You lovebirds 
say your farewells, and don’t be long about it.”
As soon as she was gone, Corson belted on her sword. “They won’t be after me, 
now that they’ve found her. They probably thought I could lead them to her. I’ll 
be safe enough.”
Steifann caught her in a bear hug and kissed her. “Why don’t you take up some 
sort of honest work, you worthless wretch?”
Corson broke away reluctantly. “I’ll be careful. Tell Annin not to worry.”
He followed her to the door, trying to bar her way. “Corson, you can’t go after 
that woman—you don’t even know where she is! Or do you?”
“I might. If I’m wrong, I’ll go to the ship without her.”
“And if you’re right?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ll probably go to the ship without her anyway. 
I’m not about to try anything foolish. I’ll be back in a month or two, when this 
affair’s forgotten.” She kissed Steifann on the ear. “And if I find out you’ve 
been sleeping with this Destiver,” she whispered, “when I come back, I’ll kill 
you!”
Steifann cuffed her gently and let her go. “Send me word that you’re safe,” he 
said.
“I will—soon. Nothing will happen to me.”
He watched her cross the courtyard. At the gate she turned and waved to him, 
then disappeared into the alleyway.
“I must be out of my mind,” she thought. “I’m going to get myself killed!”
15
nyctasia had let herself be taken prisoner without resisting, She was no match 
for three swords, and it better suited her dignity to surrender than to be 
seized by force. The one gesture of defiance left to her was to die in her own 
way, as befitted a devotee of the Indwelling Spirit.
She had known herself for dead the moment she’d heard Thierran’s voice, and she 
wasted no time on flip replies or futile struggles. Even as he gave his orders, 
while the guards bound her wrists behind her, she had begun the spell that would 
end her own life. She had spoken the truth when she told Corson that it was 
harder to kill with spells than to heal, but magic is always easier to work upon 
one’s self than upon another. And death itself may sometimes be a healing.
Nyctasia was hardly aware of where she was taken, or how. She did not notice the 
landlady’s satisfied smirk, or the wondering stares of the others, as she was 
led out of The Crow’s Nest. She heeded nothing but the voice of the vahn within 
her as it ceaselessly repeated her name. By the time she found herself alone 
with her captor, she had already achieved the trance known as the First 
Consolation—her name no longer held the slightest meaning for her.
Lord Thierran removed the gag from her mouth. “Well, ’Tasia, surely by now 
you’ve prepared some fabulous lie to persuade me to release you. Perhaps you can 
convince me that I died along with Mescrisdan.”
His words came to Nyctasia from a vast distance. She considered them 
dispassionately, judged them unworthy of her attention, and forgot them at once. 
In a vague way, she knew that she was bound to a chair, that Thierran stood over 
her, but she no longer took an interest. She had begun to move towards the 
Second Consolation.
“Answer me, fool, while you have the chance. I have you and I can break you!”
Threats could not reach Nyctasia now, but the hard slap across her face did 
disturb her concentration for a moment. She looked up at Thierran without 
recognition and said the only thing that was in her mind, repeating it over in a 
flat, lifeless voice.
“Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris nyctasia arnedonaris nyctasiarnedonaris nycta ...”
“Stop that!” Lord Thierran struck her again and again, infuriated by her 
indifference. It was precisely Nyctasia’s indifference that had always enraged 
him. The blows stopped her chanting, but pain was only another Influence to 
hasten her towards death. Her eyes slowly closed, and Thierran could sense her 
calm conviction that he did not exist. For a moment it frightened him.
Like most of the aristocracy, Lord Thierran had been raised as a Vahnite in name 
only. He had never practiced the Influences, Balances, or Consolations, but he 
knew of them, and he knew that Nyctasia took the Discipline seriously. She 
rarely drank spirits. She never wept. There was no doubt in his mind that she 
was capable of dying from sheer willfulness.
“Nyctasia!” But it was useless to call her by name. He seized her shoulder, 
shook her. “Listen to me, curse you! I want you alive!”
Though shielded by the profound apathy of the Second Consolation, Nyctasia could 
not dismiss Thierran’s promises as easily as she had his threats. The vahn would 
destroy itself only if the alternative were a less desirable death. If Thierran 
offered her life, she would have to listen.
“Do you hear me? You throw away your life to no purpose, witch! I have no mind 
to kill you!”
Without allowing a shadow of emotion to disturb the even surface of her 
impassivity, Nyctasia decided on her response. Eyes still closed, and with the 
same toneless, unnatural voice, she said, “You tried to kill me only days ago.”
He smiled, triumphant. “No, cousin—I tried to capture you. If I had tried to 
kill you, you would be dead.”
She considered this with detached impartiality. True, he could have killed her 
easily enough before Corson arrived, while Mescrisdan still pinioned her arms. 
But instead he’d toyed with her, taunted her....
She would hear more. She allowed herself to look at him, but her face remained 
as expressionless as her voice. “What do you want of me, then?”
“Only two things, my dear ’Tasia. The first, of course, is your hand in 
marriage.” He leaned toward her. “You know that the family thinks it my duty to 
take a hand in the management of your affairs. Scholars are a fanciful lot, 
after all, ill-suited for governing. When we’re wed, you’ll be able to devote 
yourself to your studies and leave such things to me.”
Reluctantly, Nyctasia accepted the burden of hope. She would have to make an 
effort after all. “I see. You stand to inherit much more if I die as your wife.”
He had wanted to make her look at him, but now he found her even gaze unnerving. 
He walked around behind her, “You might live longer as my wife than as my 
cousin, ’Tasia,” he murmured, laying his hand lightly against her throat.
Nyctasia controlled her urge to pull away from his touch. Instead, she only 
stiffened her shoulders slightly, enough resistance to flatter his pride, but 
not enough to provoke him. If she pretended to consent too easily, he would not 
be fooled. “And how long do you think you’d live as my husband, Thierran?” she 
asked coldly.
He laughed. “Oh, ’Tasia, you’ll have to hope that nothing happens to me. While 
you’re under my protection the family will tolerate you, but if I should meet 
with an untimely death, my grieving widow would bear the blame, guilty or not. 
You wouldn’t live through the funeral, my dear.”
“That would be a pity,” said Nyctasia, “I look ravishing in black.”
She understood, now. She’d be forced to sign a marriage-alliance ceding control 
of her major estates to Thierran. Then, if she were not killed at once, she’d be 
held under guard in her own household. She would stay alive as long as it amused 
Thierran to keep her. “And what is the second thing you want?” she asked, 
without agreeing to the first.
His hand tightened on her shoulder. “The mercenary.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well. Your hireling, who killed Mescrisdan and crippled my arm. 
It may never heal! Where is she?”
Nyctasia gave no sign of her astonishment. It was not Corson who had betrayed 
her, then .... This meant more to her than she would have expected.
“She could be anywhere on the coast by now,” she said, with a slight shrug. “I 
sent her away long before I came to Chiastelm. She’d have told my whereabouts to 
anyone who paid the price. For that matter, how did you know where to find me?”
“I did not know, I suspected. When Shiastred left these parts he took ship from 
here. Others may have forgotten your upstart lover, but I was sure you’d follow 
after him. My people have combed the docks between here and Ochram, offering a 
large reward for you.”
“Of course,” thought Nyctasia wearily, “I betrayed myself.” Aloud, she said, “I 
see I’ve underestimated you, cousin.” He’d like that, the gloating snake. “I’ll 
have to be more careful of that in the future, if I have a future.”
“We’ll discuss your future after you’ve told me where to find the mercenary.”
“For vahn’s sake, Thierran, forget about her! I told you I got rid of her days 
ago. She rode north on the border road and that was the last I saw of her. I 
don’t know where she is now!”
“And will you pretend that you don’t know who she is, either? Her name?”
“Well, she called herself Brendal, but—”
He chuckled. “’Tasia, I’ve known you all your life. Do you think I still believe 
your ridiculous lies? You called her Corson that night, have you forgotten? I 
mean to find her, and I’ll have the truth from you one way or another, I promise 
you.”
Nyctasia shook her head. “An Edonaris does not take revenge on an inferior. She 
acted on my orders, and only I am accountable, you know that. If you want 
vengeance so badly, you have me—and you can strangle me with only one hand!”
“I have other plans for you, but you will not shield my brother’s killer from 
me, Nyctasia. You dare speak of the honor of an Edonaris, who have done 
everything in your power to disgrace our house!” He gripped Nyctasia’s hair, 
pulling her head back. “This assassin is only part of the price you’ll pay for 
your life, do you understand me?”
It was useless, Nyctasia realized. Nothing but Corson’s blood would satisfy him. 
“No,” she said simply. “I do not understand you. I never have.”
“What does that mean?” he demanded, coming around to face her, furious. “You’re 
in no position to—”
“It means that you can kill me any way you choose, Thierran, except one. I can 
still prevent you from boring me to death.”
The way was still open to her, and she followed it easily now, meeting no 
resistance. She did not even have to close her eyes this time—past the Second 
Consolation, it made no difference.
Peace was within her reach at last, and life and death were reconciled. To cease 
to be part was to become one with the whole, to be not merely a life, but Life 
itself.
Nyctasia was content.
16
“i’m going to get myself killed,” Corson thought. “He probably has a dozen 
guards in there.” From where she crouched behind a broken-down section of wall, 
Corson could see a light from one of the windows on the topmost story. The house 
was supposed to be deserted.
Corson knew she’d guessed right, and she hated herself for it. The last thing 
she wanted to do was to risk her life looking for Lady Nyctasia, but the 
Smugglers’ House was the obvious place for Lord Thierran to bring her. It was 
Edonaris property, and it stood empty on an isolated stretch of cliffs.
She watched as two guards made a leisurely circuit of the house. “This is 
madness,” she thought. “If I’m caught here that bastard will feed me to the 
seagulls. And Lady Nyctasia is probably dead already, there’s nothing I can do. 
I’d better get away from here while I still can.”
As the two sentries came around the corner into view again, Corson stood. “Ho, 
you there!” she shouted. “What are you doing here?” She scrambled over the wall 
and stepped out of the shadows. “I’m caretaker here and you’d best explain your 
presence before I summon the watch!”
The guards came up to her, swords drawn. “You’ll have to speak with Lord 
Thierran,” one of them said. “The house was opened at his orders.”
Corson stepped back. “I’ve had no word of this. You’re a couple of thieves and 
smugglers!” She continued to back away, drawing them further from the house.
“Don’t be a fool. Come back here!”
Corson let him get within arm’s reach, then swiftly brought up her sword. The 
sentry clutched at his stomach and crumpled to the ground. As the other ran to 
give the alarm, she bent and pulled the knife from its sheath on her boot, then 
sent it into the back of the fleeing figure.
Corson dragged the bodies out of sight behind the wall, then dashed for the 
house. The lighted window seemed to be miles above her, but she found a foothold 
in the uneven masonry and started to climb, cursing under her breath. She felt 
sick. She was sure that she would either be discovered, or fall and break her 
neck.
There were plenty of holds in the stonework, but heights made Corson dizzy, and 
she felt exposed and vulnerable, an easy target for anyone below. Sweat ran down 
her back and between her breasts. She knew better than to look down.
“Steifann is right,” she thought with disgust. “Only a halfwit would do this 
sort of thing. With my looks, I could have been a royal courtesan, I could have 
had a palace. Silks. Satins. Ropes of pearls.” She continued to climb.
Soon she was near enough to hear shouting from the open window. “I mean to find 
her, and I’ll have the truth from you—”
Corson had to move up closer before she could hear Nyctasia’s reply. “She acted 
on my orders, and only I am accountable.”
Corson slowly climbed up alongside the window and edged over to peer around the 
casement. Lord Thierran stood with his back to her, hiding Nyctasia from view, 
and there was no one else in sight. Corson smiled and reached for her knife. It 
would be an easy throw.
“Simm! Danin! Where are you two?” someone shouted. The patrol had not reported 
on time, and some of the other guards had been sent to find their missing 
cohorts. “What are you doing out there, screwing in the bushes?”
For a moment, Corson froze. Then, shaking off her panic, she swarmed up the last 
few feet to the roof and threw herself flat behind a chimney. Soon she heard 
shouting and confusion, and she knew that the bodies had been discovered. Her 
one chance had been to get in unobserved, and now a whole company of guards was 
alerted to her presence.
When the noise had died away, Corson inched forward carefully to look over the 
edge of the roof. She could see no one in the yard, but they’d soon be searching 
the grounds for her, and her escape would be cut off completely. If she could 
reach the ground without being seen, she might be able to save herself, but it 
was too late to help Lady Nyctasia. By now Lord Thierran must have been warned. 
There was no time for duty or pride or sentiment.
But she had barely begun her descent when she heard footsteps approaching from 
the front of the house. Her last hope of escape was lost, and she felt a chill 
tingling between her shoulder blades where the arrow would strike.
The window was only a few feet to her left, and in a moment Corson had made up 
her mind and clambered over the sill. If she was going to die anyway, maybe she 
could at least kill Lord Thierran first.
But Lady Nyctasia was alone. There was blood on her mouth, and her shirt was 
torn at the shoulder. She gave no sign of seeing Corson, though her eyes were 
open and staring.
Corson hurried past her and flattened herself against the wall by the doorway. 
Lord Thierran was coming up the corridor, still shouting orders to his 
retainers. “I want guards at every entrance! Search the stables and the 
gatehouse!”
He strode across the room to the window and looked out anxiously over the 
grounds, watching for any movement.
Corson kicked the door shut. At the sound, Lord Thierran wheeled around and 
stared at her in disbelief. She was coming towards him, smiling, a dagger in her 
left hand.
17
nyctasia was disturbed by a faint impression that she had once, long ago, seen 
something that she should remember. She drifted in lazy indifference, beyond 
reach of thought or time. As easy to admit illusions as to dismiss them, now, 
for illusion and substance were the same. Calmly, incuriously, she enveloped the 
distant memory.
Two people crossed in front of her, going in opposite ways. Then they turned to 
face one another, and came together. One held out a hand, and the other bowed.
This dance did not interest Nyctasia. Memory was for the living. She withdrew, 
but the images continued to haunt her. Patiently, passively, she followed the 
vision again.
A woman passed before her and turned, then a man crossed to the other side, and 
turned. The woman went to him and reached for him. He bowed before her, fell at 
her feet.
Nyctasia became aware that she had witnessed a dance of death. Still she was 
unmoved. Life and death were one. Composed, remote, she waited.
Corson hurried past her, hid herself, drew her dagger. Thierran entered, 
crossing at once to the window. These shadows began to seem familiar to 
Nyctasia. She remembered Carson’s smile when Thierran had turned and seen her 
waiting for him. Paralyzed with fear, he in turn had waited for her. She pushed 
him against the wall, forcing back his head, then slashed his throat with one 
smooth sweep of her blade. Her smile was as rapt and brilliant as a lover’s.
* * * 
Nyctasia knew a certain confusion. Had she dreamed these things while she was 
among the living ... or had she seen them, unheeding, as she followed the ebb 
tide of her life? Was not dream reality, and reality dream? Surely this vision 
could not affect her now.
But other images took its place—Corson cutting her bonds with a bloody dagger, 
rubbing her wrists, trying urgently to tell her something ....
“He’s dead, look! Nyctasia, wake up!”
She herself must be Nyctasia, then. But who was Nyctasia? With the name came 
other memories, vague and confused. Who was dead, herself or another?
It seemed to Nyctasia that she pondered endlessly over events from the distant 
past, but as she moved from timelessness to the present, Corson still stood over 
her, trying to rouse her.
“Nyctasia, wake up, please wake up! If I have to carry you—”
Her deliberations had lasted less than a moment, then. She laughed. “Do you 
know,” she said to Corson, with genuine interest, “that’s the first time you’ve 
ever called me by name?”
18
corson had only hoped for a chance to take vengeance on Lord Thierran, and now 
that it was done she was almost surprised to find herself still alive. The house 
was still, and she realized that it might yet be possible to escape unseen, but 
precious time passed before she could rouse Nyctasia from her indifference.
Peering out the window, Corson saw lanterns moving below as guards searched the 
grounds for her. “We’ll not get out this way.”
Nyctasia looked down at Thierran’s body curiously. “Ah,” she said with 
satisfaction, “that really happened, then.”
“Stop dreaming! They’ll come to report to him soon—we’ve no time to waste. Do 
you understand?”
Nyctasia picked up her satchel and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “I’m 
ready.”
Corson didn’t believe her, but this was their only chance. She listened at the 
door, then opened it cautiously. “Is there another stairway?”
“The servants’ stairs, through the room at the end of the hail.” Taking a torch 
from the wall, Nyctasia led the way, moving as calmly as a sleepwalker.
It seemed to Corson that they had been descending the narrow staircase forever. 
“Where are we?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Almost down to the kitchen. But there’s—”
Corson clutched her arm. “Quiet! Listen ... they’ve found him,” They raced down 
the remaining steps to the scullery, but Nyctasia continued down the dark 
stairway to the cellars.
“Come back! We’ll be trapped down there!” Corson followed, cursing softly. She 
was going to die like a rat in a hole because of this witless witch! Already 
there were footsteps on the stairs behind her.
When she reached the bottom the door to the cellars stood open, but before she 
could enter, Nyctasia called from somewhere behind her. A faint light showed 
from the crawlspace beneath the stairs.
Corson crouched and squeezed herself into the angular opening, nearly falling 
headlong through a gaping hole in the floor. Nyctasia had already descended to 
an underground chamber and stood waiting at the foot of the ladder, her white 
face peering up anxiously in the torchlight.
Halfway down the steps, Corson let the flagstone drop gently back into place 
over her. She could hear the guards on the stairs just above her head.
“They can search the cellars for hours,” Nyctasia whispered. “We’re underneath 
them, so walk softly. There’s a tunnel leading down to the cove.”
Corson nodded. The smugglers’ tunnel was a legend in Chiastelm, but its exact 
location had remained a mystery. They moved quietly away from the ladder, 
listening for footsteps overhead.
The chamber narrowed to a low passageway at the far end, and Corson had to stoop 
as she followed Nyctasia down the dark corridor. “I’ve heard stories of this 
place,” she said, “but I thought they were all moonshine.”
“So did I, till I bought the house. But then of course I searched for the 
tunnel. It wasn’t hard to find.”
“Then why haven’t folk found it?”
“I suppose they did—if there was any treasure it was looted long ago. The City 
Governors secured the house after the owners were hanged.”
“They say it’s haunted,” Corson remembered.
“Very likely it is,” Nyctasia agreed absently. She paused, sniffing the air, and 
sneezed. A fresh salt scent cut through the dank air of the tunnel. “This is the 
place, you can smell the sea.” She walked on for a few steps until a wide 
fissure appeared in the wall to their left. “We have to climb down there and 
jump.”
Dropping to her knees, she thrust the torch out over the edge, and Corson looked 
down uneasily, trying to measure the distance.
“I can’t see the ground.”
“It’s about ten feet, I think. But there are holds cut into the rock for part of 
the way down.” She dropped the torch over the side and threw her bookbag after 
it.
“I hate heights,” said Corson sadly. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Oh yes, it’s simple.” Nyctasia lay on her stomach and edged her legs out over 
the side, feeling for footholds. As she disappeared over the edge, Corson heard 
her remark, “Of course, we did it with ropes ...” Sounds of scraping and kicking 
were followed by a loud thud and curses.
Nyctasia held up the torch, rubbing at her hip with the other hand. “Simple!” 
she said brightly, grinning up at Corson.
“I could have been a royal courtesan,” grumbled Corson. “Get out of the way!” 
She landed on her feet by Nyctasia. They were in a large, natural cavern. “How 
far are we from the docks? Our ship leaves with the early tide.”
“An hour’s walk, I’d say. This way.” They started off again, Nyctasia limping 
slightly. “Aren’t you staying in Chiastelm. Corson?”
“I’d planned to, but your loving cousin offered a handsome reward for both of 
us. Now that he’s been murdered, I’ll be suspected.”
Nyctasia considered. “It might be as well for you to stay away for a time, but I 
doubt that my family is much interested in you—they’ll blame me for Thierran’s 
death ... and lay claim to my properties.” She drew a breath. “The matter has 
gotten out of hand, you see. It’s one thing for Mhairestri to have me killed 
secretly, but another to herald it abroad that the Edonaris are at each other’s 
throats. As for you, you’ll soon be forgotten if you stay shy of Rhostshyl and 
keep quiet about this affair.”
“Oh well, I have friends in Lhestreq,” Corson said resignedly. “I hope you have 
plenty of money, because we’ll have to pay an outrageous sum for our passage.”
“Don’t worry, you know I can conjure gold from the elements.”
Corson stopped in her tracks. “I want an answer,” she said in deliberate, 
measured tones, “not a riddle, not a jibe! Can you pay or can’t you?”
“You’ve no call to doubt—”
Nyctasia was silent. Corson had earned her confidence, but trust had always been 
a luxury she could ill afford.
Corson faced her, arms folded. “Make an effort,” she said drily. “You can answer 
a question if you try. Out with it!”
Nyctasia succumbed with a laugh. “Of course I can pay. Thierran would have 
killed me with pleasure and thrown my body off the cliff, but it would never 
have occurred to him to pick my pockets first.”
“Of course. A gentleman.”
“An Edonaris,” said Nyctasia.
The ground grew uneven, sloping sharply downward, and Nyctasia found it harder 
to keep up the pace. She abandoned the dying torch and they stumbled on in the 
darkness until a dim light revealed the mouth of the cave ahead. Corson cleared 
a way through the barrier of roots and bracken, and helped Nyctasia scramble 
down the steep outcropping of rock to the beach. It still lacked some two hours 
to dawn.
But they had not gone far before Nyctasia stopped to lean against a pile of 
boulders. “Can we rest here awhile?”
“Not for long. We haven’t much time.”
“It isn’t time I need,” Nyctasia said obscurely. She pulled off her boots and 
walked to the ocean’s edge, then knelt, motionless, head bowed, her hands in the 
water.
It was easier, much easier, than Nyctasia had expected, perhaps simply because 
she was exhausted. She had often undertaken fasts and vigils to achieve the same 
end, but now, almost effortlessly, she emptied herself of fear, of pain, of 
weariness. She allowed sensation and sentiment alike to flow out from her with 
the waves that caressed her and drew away again. She rested and was renewed.
Corson sat on a rock and watched her, worried. It was growing lighter. But 
Nyctasia knelt on the shore for only a moment, then rose and returned to her, 
ready to go on.
She was transfigured. Her grey eyes were silver in the sea’s reflected light. 
She blazed with a vivid elation she could barely contain. Pointing out across 
the waves, she cried, “There is power! Why, the reason I bought the Smugglers’ 
House in the first place—”
“I don’t care! Just put these on and be quiet!” She shoved Nyctasia’s boots at 
her. “We have to go faster.”
To her relief, Nyctasia obeyed and fell into step beside her. But now she kept 
pace with Corson’s long stride with seeming ease.
“I suppose that was more of your spell-healing?”
“No, that takes time, as I told you. This is a borrowed power. It’s easy, you 
see, but therefore fleeting ... Lightly won is lightly lost,” she sang:
 
“Lightly won is lightly lost 
Early flower, early frost. 
Wont to wanton, wont to weep, 
What is lent is not to keep, 
What is lent is not to keep!”
 
She laughed to herself. “I’ve never tried it before. It’s called a spell of 
Perilous Threshold. It’s really most interesting.”
“I hate magicians,” said Corson with feeling. “The only thing that keeps you on 
your feet is that you’re just too crazy to know you can’t go on.”
“There’s something in that,” Nyctasia agreed.
But by the time they reached the clusters of fishermen’s huts scattered along 
the shore outside of town, Nyctasia had begun to falter again. “No more of your 
witchery,” Corson warned. “You’ll draw attention to us.” They had already 
attracted curious glances from the fisherfolk readying their nets in the 
half-light of early dawn.
“No fear. I’d not survive another attempt at that spell.”
“We’re not far from the docks. Lean on me.”
“For anything one takes, one pays,” Nyctasia sighed. She took Corson’s arm and 
somehow kept walking. When they reached Merchants’ Wharf, Corson was practically 
dragging her.
On board the Windhover, preparations for sailing were already underway, but some 
of the crew were still loading cargo from a wagon on the dock. A thin, 
middle-aged woman came up to Corson. “You’re Steifann’s friend?”
Corson nodded curtly. “Destiver?”
“Yes. You have the money?”
“I have it,” said Nyctasia, before Corson could reply. “All of it.”
“Follow me.” Destiver motioned the sailors aside and led the way up the 
gangplank.
“You don’t even know how much it is,” Corson said to Nyctasia in an undertone.
“I imagine she’ll tell me ...”
Stopping at an open hatchway, the captain turned to Corson. “Get below and stay 
out of sight till we cast off. I’ll settle with her now.” Without a word, Corson 
climbed down the ladder into the cargo hold.
The only cabin below deck was a narrow, airless cubicle walled off from the rest 
of the hold. Corson had been in dozens of others like it, and every time she’d 
felt trapped and suffocated. She sat down on the bunk, which was too short for 
her to stretch out on, and mulled over her situation with resentment.
“Giving me orders!” she muttered. “Scrawny, swaggering, leather-faced bitch!”
Nyctasia entered the cabin and sat down, leaning against Corson. “I feel 
terrible,” she remarked.
“Do you think she’s good-looking?” Corson demanded.
“Who?”
“That filthy pirate!”
“Her?” Nyctasia yawned. “I don’t know, I suppose so.” She curled up on the end 
of the bunk and buried her face in her arms.
“She is not!”
“All right, she’s hideous,” Nyctasia mumbled. “Whatever you say.” Her face was 
battered—a dark bruise had appeared over one cheekbone, and her lip was cut and 
swollen.
“Nyc...?” said Corson. There was no reply. She sighed, and pulled Nyctasia to 
the center of the bunk, wrapping the thin blanket around her.
Nyctasia half-opened one eye. “Wha ... ?”
“I decided to cut your throat after all.”
“Oh.” Nyctasia shifted to a more comfortable position, too worn even to object 
to the dirty pallet and coverings.
Corson sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall—she would not sleep until 
the ship was safely out of port. To pass the time, she took the precious hand 
mirror from her pack, and studied her features critically. She looked as tired 
and grimy as she felt. Her reflection grimaced back at her, and she laid aside 
the mirror to paw through her pack for something to eat.
“He’s probably screwing Trask right now,” she thought sourly.
19
“she’s probably lying dead in a dungeon by now—I tell you, she’s gone too far 
this time. She thinks she can treat this like one of her fool escapades, but 
these are powerful people! Rich nobles, whoever they are—they’ll crush her!” 
Steifann groaned and reached for the pitcher on the table before him. It was 
nearly empty.
“No more of that,” the cook said sternly, snatching it away. “You’re drunk 
enough already.” He turned back to the great mass of dough, kneading it 
rhythmically. The kitchen was already fragrant with the smell of baking loaves, 
“Corson knows what she’s about. You fret over her every time like a broody hen 
and she always comes back whole and hearty.”
“This is different, I tell you—”
“You always say that. I’ve no time for your babbling. And you should be on your 
way to market by now—it’s almost light. The best’ll be picked over before you 
get yourself there. If you come back with flyblown meat and rotten cabbage 
you’ll cook it yourself!”
Steifann got to his feet with a grant. “You’ll see,” he said thickly, “I’ve more 
to think of than cabbages!”
“That’s right,” said the cook, pushing him out the door, “onions. I want a 
bushelful, Don’t forget.”
In the courtyard, children of all ages were feeding the hens, gathering eggs, 
drawing water, and loading their arms with firewood for the kitchen hearth—all 
in the noisiest possible manner. They were mostly the offspring of the cook and 
his wife, who lived across the court, but they spent most of the day about the 
tavern, doing kitchen chores and running errands. Seeing Steifann harnessing the 
cart-horse, two of the smallest stopped throwing corn at each other and ran up 
to him shrieking demands to be taken along to market.
Steifann, who was feeling the effects of a sleepless night and too much ale, 
winced at their clamor and shooed them away. “Not today,” he said absently, 
pushing the hair back from his face and frowning at nothing. “I shouldn’t have 
let her go,” he thought for the hundredth time. But he knew full well that the 
cook had spoken the truth.
 
When Corson heard the ladder creak under a heavy tread, she got silently to her 
feet and drew her sword, watching the door anxiously. She would be at a 
disadvantage in such close quarters, where she could barely stand upright. 
Surely it was only one of the crew ....
“Corson, are you in there?” Steifann pushed open the cabin door, laughing at her 
surprise. “Must you always greet me with that sword in your hand? It’s not 
manners. If I’m not welcome, I’ll take myself off.”
Corson’s eager embrace left no doubt as to his welcome., “What are you doing 
here? Is something wrong?”
“Oh, I just thought I’d come see you off ... not that I was really worried, I 
knew you’d be all right.”
“You’re drunk!” laughed Corson. “You must have been up all night fretting, and 
there was nothing to it—it was a lark.”
Steifann peered over her shoulder with bloodshot eyes. “Who’s that?” he 
demanded. “Hlann Asye, Corson, you’ve only just come on board and you’re already 
in bed with the cabin boy!” He crossed to the berth in two strides and glared 
down at the sleeping Nyctasia. “Oh ....” he said uneasily, turning away. “Never 
mind. I don’t want to know.” He stooped to avoid a low beam and leaned back 
against the wall, fumbling in his pouch. “You must need some money, Corson.”
She pulled his hand away and pressed it to her cheek. “No, she paid our 
passage,” she said, nodding towards Nyctasia. “That one has no end of money.” 
She nestled against him and murmured, “but you don’t want to hear about her.” 
Steifann reached his arm around her waist and drew her close.
“You’ve not changed, I see, Steifann. Stinking drunk and still hot as a buck in 
nit!” Destiver leaned in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “But you’d best get 
yourself ashore unless you plan to sail with us. The tide won’t wait for you, 
lover.”
Steifann stifled a yawn. “Well, if it isn’t Black Destiver, the terror of the 
coast,” he remarked amiably. “No thanks, Destiver. I’ve sailed with you before, 
and that was enough to sake a landsman of me forever.”
Corson was looking from one to the other with a frown. Steifann gave her a 
parting squeeze and she kissed him quickly.
Destiver stepped aside to let him through the doorway and slapped him on the 
backside as he passed her. “You were no rutting good as a sailor, that’s what 
made a landsman of you.”
“Corson, write and let me know where you are,” he called over his shoulder, and 
disappeared up the hatchway with Destiver at his heels.
“I’ll see you when I’m back in port,” Corson heard her remark.
Corson spat after them and slammed the door shut. She felt the ship lurch and 
move out with the tide. Harboring bloody thoughts, she settled herself to sleep.
* * *
Steifann was late getting to market, but nothing could dispel his good humor 
that morning. He listened with considerable interest to the tales making the 
rounds of the marketplace. The talk was all of a monstrous demon that had 
murdered a nobleman and half his guard at the Smugglers’ House the night before.
“Just vanished into the air, it did,” gossiped a cheesemonger. “They say it’s 
the Witch of Rhostshyl’s doing.”
Steifann nodded sagely. “It sounds like witchery to me,” he agreed. He purchased 
a packet of gingerbread for the cook’s children and loaded his provisions into 
the cart. He forgot the onions.
20
nyctasia slept for a day and a night, and woke feeling worse than ever. Not only 
was she stiff and sore in every limb, but she felt violently ill as well. Spasms 
of acute nausea racked her, and each slow roll of the boat was an agony. She was 
sure that she’d been poisoned.
Corson strolled in, chewing on a piece of fresh-cooked fish, “Time enough that 
you woke up,” she said. “I brought you some breakfast.” She held out a tin plate 
with half a steaming fish on it.
Nyctasia gasped and rolled to the edge of the berth, her empty stomach 
contracting painfully, her throat constricted. “Take that away!” she choked.
“Hmm, seasick,” Corson observed. She helpfully ate the rest of the fish.
Nyctasia lay back and shut her eyes. Her face was grey. “Is that all it is? But 
I’m dying!”
“That’s how it feels. It takes a few days to pass, but you’ll live.”
Nyctasia’s stomach began to heave again. She leaned over the side of the berth 
and groaned. “I don’t want to live.”
“Everyone says that. I’ll get you some water. And a bucket.”
“Days ... ?” whispered Nyctasia faintly. She tried holding her breath but it 
didn’t help.
“You should try to get some of this down,” Corson suggested. “It’s better to 
puke up water than your own insides.”
“I know. Leave me alone.”
Corson hesitated at the door. “Why can’t you cure this the way you healed that 
wound?”
“Must you always ask questions?” said Nyctasia feverishly.
“Must you always tell lies? You said healing was simple.”
“I’ve called on the vahn for so much already, Corson—to do it again so soon 
would violate the Balance ... between the Dwelling and the Indwelling ....”
The ship struck rougher water and Corson could see the sweat break out on 
Nyctasia’s face. Between fits of retching, the sorceress gasped, “There’s more 
than enough imbalance aboard this vessel!”
She was bedridden for the next three days and slept as much as she could. There 
was some relief when the Windhover docked at coastal towns to take on or deliver 
cargo. While they rode at anchor, the rolling of the ship was easier to bear, 
but the time between ports seemed endless to her.
Corson slept on deck, only coming in now and again to see that Nyctasia drank a 
mouthful of water, and to complain about her own lot.
“You’re just as well off without the swill they eat on this floating dung heap,” 
she grumbled, sitting on the edge of the narrow berth and crowding Nyctasia. “If 
not for you, I could be feasting at the Hare right now. Steifann has the best 
cook on the coast.”
“Will you please talk about something else, if you must talk?”
“There’s nothing else to talk about. I’ve never been so rutting bored.”
“Pity,” said Nyctasia drowsily. “Let me sleep.”
Corson wanted company—she missed Steifann. Nyctasia was an unsympathetic 
listener, and the crew regarded her with obvious suspicion. They were a 
close-mouthed lot who rebuffed her friendly advances, and she was certainly not 
willing to approach the captain. She chafed at the idleness and confinement she 
was forced to endure aboard ship—fishing was a poor pastime, and it was not yet 
safe for her to go ashore when they made port.
In desperation, Corson pulled over Nyctasia’s satchel of books and opened one at 
random. Dead languages! Why couldn’t Nyctasia have something that a person could 
read? The first passage that was intelligible to her seemed to be a recipe—but 
for what? What was bloodroot?
Corson hastily turned the page. She leafed through ballads, riddles, and 
puzzling verses that looked suspiciously like incantations. The rest of the book 
was blank. She chose another volume and began laboriously to spell out a long 
poem about a warrior’s encounter with a seductive demon. This was much more to 
her taste.
Before long, Nyctasia turned over and groaned fitfully.
“Are you awake?” Corson asked.
“Unfortunately.”
“What does lirihran mean?”
“It’s an old word for ‘twilight,’” Nyctasia answered dreamily. “But it means 
‘half-darkness,’ you see, not ‘half-light’.... It’s only found in poetry 
nowadays.” She suddenly sat upright, wide awake, “What are you doing? Leave that 
alone!”
“Why? I’m not reading your foul spells.”
“Well, what are you reading?”
“I’m cursed if I know—it’s about a demon, and it’s nothing I’d have thought a 
lady would write.”
“Oh, that,” said Nyctasia, relieved. “I only translated it. That poem was 
written centuries ago.”
“Really? Folk haven’t changed much, then.”
“Yes, that’s the lesson of it. Perhaps I’ll make a scholar of you yet.”
Corson snorted. “I could teach you a few things—this chart’s all wrong.” She 
turned to a map of the southern constellations. “Everyone knows you can only see 
the Wolf in winter, and the Chalice should be further over here. If you tried to 
travel by this, you’d never know where you were.”
“It’s hard to make accurate charts from old books and hearsay. Show me the right 
positions,” Nyctasia said eagerly.
“Surely,” said Corson, stretching, “As soon as I’ve finished this story.”
Nyctasia hadn’t the strength for an argument. “Please yourself, that’s harmless 
enough. But be careful how you meddle with my books, Corson. Words can be 
dangerous.”
“What does wisranupre mean?”
“Give me that,” laughed Nyctasia, “I’ll read it to you.” She found that she was 
feeling much better.
 
The Windhover was a small, single-masted merchantman with a crew of only six, 
including the captain. It was built for coastal trading but, as Corson soon 
discovered, the ship was more than a simple cargo-runner.
One night she awoke with the moon still high overhead. Some change that she 
could not immediately recognize had disturbed her sleep, and after a puzzled 
moment she realized that the Windhover was no longer moving—they must have 
dropped anchor. She soon heard the ship’s boat being lowered and the crew moving 
about, talking in low tones.
Surely they weren’t putting into port in the middle of the night? Curious, 
Corson stood and looked over the rail towards land, but she could see only an 
occasional flash of light on the beach. The boat was making silently for shore, 
the oars dipping without a splash.
Corson smiled complacently. Of course, a pack of smugglers! That’s why the crew 
was so wary of strangers.
“What are you doing here?” Destiver demanded in a harsh whisper. “Get below 
where you belong and stop your spying!”
Corson rounded on her angrily, keeping her voice low with an effort. “Don’t try 
me, you slinking water rat! Save your bullying for your crew! What’s it to me if 
you cheat the trade laws?”
“Listen,” hissed Destiver, “Steifann’s vouched for you, but there’s a fat price 
on your head—remember that, and forget what you’ve seen tonight.”
“And I remember that they still have gibbets for smugglers in the Maritime 
cities.”
“Then we understand each other,” said Destiver. “But while you’re on my ship 
you’ll do as you’re told.”
Before Corson could reply, one of the sailors came over to fetch Destiver, who 
went off muttering imprecations against Steifann for involving her in this 
affair.
For once, Corson agreed with her.
21
nyctasia was disappointed to learn that the Windhover never sailed out of sight 
of land. She had never been on a ship before, and once she’d recovered from her 
seasickness she was eager to learn all the workings of the vessel. She drew 
diagrams of the rigging in her commonplace book, inquiring the name and purpose 
of every part of the ship.
Corson was far too familiar with ships to share Nyctasia’s enthusiasm, and she 
was more bored than ever now that Nyctasia was taken up with this new-found 
interest. The sight of Destiver was a constant goad to her temper, and the crew 
continued to shun her, taking their lead from the captain. She took to spending 
more time in the cabin, brooding and trying to puzzle out Nyctasia’s books.
For a time, an illustrated herbal took her fancy, with its detailed drawings of 
leaves and brightly inked paintings of flower petals. She read: “The leaf of the 
Wolfhead Yarrow, when seethed in water or wine yields a tisane which may be 
taken against the catarrh, and when crushed in a mortar is most profitably 
employed in the preparation of a poultice for staunching of blood and the other 
humors of the body, for it possesses certain beneficial properties which make 
the flesh to draw together in such manner as may aid in the closing of wounds 
and the healing of purulence and suchlike maladies.”
Corson yawned. She passed over the lengthy instructions for the preparation of 
the poultice, and turned to the next picture, which showed a thick-stemmed plant 
with large, dark purple blossoms. Here, as elsewhere in the book, a dry, faded 
cutting was pressed between the pages. This was Royal Swinebane, Corson learned, 
and its juice was so deadly that even its touch was dangerous. When it was set 
afire it gave off evil fumes that burned the eye and choked the throat. It was 
not safe even to smell the thing.
“Poisonous little witch!” Corson muttered. She closed the herbal, being careful 
not to touch the flattened Swinebane, and took up the last of the books, which 
was so small it fit in the palm of her hand. It was closely written in a minute 
script that Corson read with difficulty in the dim light of the cabin. But, as 
she began to decipher the text, she found to her dismay that it was a long, 
ponderous treatise of Vahnite philosophy, even more dull than Wolfhead Yarrow. 
Corson paged through chapter after incomprehensible chapter of Influences, 
Reflections, and Balances until she came at last to something that looked like 
poetry. Here, a note in Nyctasia’s handwriting read, “Debased Version of the 
Fourth Reflection:”
 
See in this enchanted mirror 
All things from afar draw nearer 
Till yond is nigh, and all is here 
 
For nothing is lost, as shall appear.
Pierce if you please the shining’s seeming 
Wake if you will the sleeper’s dreaming 
Learn of lover, reck of foe, 
Find thy friend, thy rival know.
 
Lift, if you like, the veil of distance 
Dare to deny its false Resistance 
Set at naught a thousand paces 
Recall thy steps, erase thy traces.
 
Corson read the verse again, then the brief precepts that followed. The spell 
made no sense, but it seemed simple enough to do—all that was needed was a 
mirror. “Learn of lover?” she repeated. It would be underhanded of her to spy on 
Steifann, of course, but no one would be the wiser, and no harm done.
Nyctasia had warned her to leave the books alone, and she herself distrusted 
magic, but the temptation was a powerful one for someone as jealous as Corson. 
She looked around guiltily, undecided, then quietly shut the door of the cabin. 
Fetching the mirror from her pack, she unwrapped it slowly, half hoping that 
Nyctasia would return and catch her out.
The cabin seemed to grow closer and smaller than ever as she knelt beside the 
book, clutching the mirror in one clammy hand. Her own voice sounded strange to 
her while she recited the words of the spell, and the mirror felt suddenly 
heavier. She glanced down at it, then remembered that she was not to look at it 
yet, and turned away. Had she seen something move in the glass just then? Corson 
resolutely shut her eyes, whispering Steifann’s name, then waited for the space 
of twelve heartbeats. It was time—but Corson still hesitated, seized with 
nameless forebodings. Then, steeling herself, she opened her eyes wide and 
stared into the mirror.
22
nyctasia’s curiosity about the Windhover only served to put the crew on their 
guard against her. It generally boded no good for them when someone took such an 
interest in their doings, and Destiver was doubly suspicious of her passengers 
after her encounter with Corson. When she found Nyctasia seated by the open 
hatchway making notations in her commonplace book, she was certain that the game 
was up.
“Give me that!” She snatched the book away, ignoring Nyctasia’s protests. “What 
are you writing?”
Nyctasia pointed. “A description of those ropes securing the mast, all 
supporting each other. I find the balance of forces most interesting.” She held 
out her hand for the book, but Destiver paid no heed. “See here,” Nyctasia said 
coldly, “it merely says that two ropes attach to each side, and one each to the 
front and back.”
Destiver could not read and she would probably have doubted the truth of this, 
had the drawings not confirmed Nyctasia’s words. “Front and back!” she snorted, 
“The stays run fore and aft, and the shrouds run athwartships.” She threw the 
book down beside Nyctasia, who seized it and immediately began writing again.
“Wait a bit!” she called after Destiver. “Which did you say were the shrouds?”
Destiver lost all patience. “Get out of my sight,” she yelled. “Get below and 
stay out from underfoot or I’ll have you keelhauled!”
Nyctasia was wise enough to obey, despite her vexation.
How dare a common sailor address an Edonaris in that manner! In Rhostshyl she’d 
have been pilloried and flogged for such insolence. “Peace, peace!” Nyctasia 
counseled herself. There were sure to be many more such indignities before her 
journey’s end.
But these thoughts were driven from her mind at once when she pushed open the 
cabin door and saw Corson kneeling over the book of spells, staring into the 
silver mirror. “Corson!” she gasped. “What have you done?”
“Not a rutting thing!” shouted Corson. “I did just as it says, and here I am 
looking at my own face! I could do that without this crazy nonsense of yours.”
Nyctasia picked up the book and looked at the spell with horror. “Vahn help us!” 
she whispered, sinking onto the bunk. “Corson, you fool—! Be thankful you didn’t 
understand it. That’s all that saved you.”
“Saved me? From what?”
“From getting what you wanted! You might succeed in working that spell if you 
could read its meaning, but there’d still be the price to pay. All power has its 
price.”
Corson had not considered this. “Like the spell you did on the way to the 
docks?”
“In a way. It’s always dangerous to draw upon a power you don’t possess. But if 
I use a spell of Reflection, I know what will be demanded of me in return, to 
restore Balance. When it’s done blindly, without the proper preparation, it’s 
like a weapon in the hands of a child. More is lost than gained.”
“But I did as the book said. I followed it to the letter.”
“I don’t mean that absurd ritual,” Nyctasia said impatiently. “All that’s mere 
superstition to deceive the ignorant. Even the words of the spell are only the 
outward sign of the Principles of Power—power that could destroy you! To learn 
to wield that power takes years of discipline and study. That’s the preparation 
I speak of. If that is lacking in you, the magic will exact its own sacrifice.”
Corson was trying to find a way through the maze of Nyctasia’s explanation. 
“Well, what would be taken from me?”
“There’s no saying—I can only tell you what’s happened to others.” She opened 
the book of spells, turned over a few leaves, and began to read. “It is said 
that those who’ve seen their loved ones in the glass have never seen them again 
in life.”
Corson paled.
“There is a tale,” Nyctasia continued, “of a poor student who desired to learn 
whether he would marry the one he loved. Commanding a Reflection of the future, 
he saw the maiden lying upon her bier, at which sight he was so stricken with 
grief that he straightway took his own life. When tidings of this reached his 
lady, she did in truth perish of sorrow, and thus did the vision of the student 
come to pass.
“Others have been shown more than they could bear to see, and have lost their 
reason in consequence. There have been those who tore out their own eyes to 
escape from the sight—”
Corson had heard enough. “Very well, suppose you did it, what then?”
Nyctasia shook her head. “It would be safer for me than for most, but one 
doesn’t undertake any spell lightly. The Discipline lessens the danger but 
cannot abolish it. Only the veriest simpleton would squander such hard-won 
mastery without good cause.”
Corson knew that Nyctasia wouldn’t find her jealousy sufficient reason for using 
the spell. “Oh, no matter,” she said, disappointed. “I don’t care about it, I 
was only looking for some amusement.”
“For vahn’s sake, Corson, you can’t toy with such things! Promise you’ll not try 
this again, please!”
“All right, all right, I promise. But the boredom’s more deadly than those 
wretched spells anyway.” She kicked fretfully at the side of the bunk. “What do 
you find to do all day on this rat-ridden scow?”
“Well, I was trying to learn something about the ship, but the captain ordered 
me to stop asking questions and stay below. What a surly-tempered creature she 
is.”
Corson laughed. “You call me a fool, but at least I’ve the sense not to ask too 
many questions of a shipful of smugglers.”
“Smugglers!” Nyctasia was shocked. Smugglers were the bane of the Maritime 
cities. As Rhaicime of Rhostshyl it was her duty to see the lot of them 
arrested, and instead she found herself in league with them.
“Use your sense. Who else would smuggle us out of Chiastelm?”
“Small wonder they don’t like questions, then,” Nyctasia admitted. “Corson, what 
does it mean to keelhaul someone?”
Carson succinctly described the brutal punishment. “It’s murder, really. No one 
survives it.” She grinned at Nyctasia’s discomfiture. “But Destiver’s all talk 
and swagger—she’s not about to keelhaul anyone. She’d simply cut our throats and 
throw us overboard. Just keep out of her way. I’ve not saved your worthless life 
twice over just so that you could be food for the fish.”
“As to that,” said Nyctasia, “why did you save my worthless life a second time? 
You owed me no further service once we’d reached Chiastelm.”
Corson was taken aback. “Why? Well, because ... you’d not paid the rest of my 
fee. And you still haven’t,” she added.
“And I thought,” said Nyctasia in wounded tones, “that it was for loyalty and 
friendship’s sake. You like me—admit it!”
Corson flushed. “Like you!” she blustered. “Plague take you! You silly, 
conceited, devious, high-born witch!”
Nyctasia sat back, helpless with laughter. She was the most irritating person 
Corson had ever met. You couldn’t argue with her, she was too glib. And you 
couldn’t fight with her, she was too small. To get the better of her somehow was 
a constant challenge to Corson.
“But you’re right,” Nyctasia said when she’d caught her breath, “I do owe you 
the rest of your fee.” She picked up her cloak from the floor and shook it out, 
“And an Edonaris always pays her debts.” She suddenly ripped one of the patches 
from the cloak and removed the gemstone concealed beneath it. “Will this 
suffice?” she asked, tossing the large, brilliant diamond to Corson.
Abashed, Corson stared at the priceless jewel, “Won’t you need this? You’re a 
fugitive—how will you pay your way?”
“I only have to go as far as Hlasven. I’ll not want for anything with ’Ben.”
“Ben?” It was a commoner’s name. “I thought he’d have forty names and a score of 
titles, like you.”
“Not quite like me, but you’re near the mark. He’s the Lord Erystalben Cador 
Jhaice brenn Rhostshyl ar’n Shiastred. Unless you care to hear the ancillary 
distinctions as well?”
“Spare me,” said Corson. “But what makes you so free with your answers this 
morning? It’s not like you to give names and destinations.”
“I’d have to tell you sooner or later, since I assume you’re coming with me.”
“Why? You won’t need a bodyguard once we’ve landed in Lhestreq.”
Nyctasia shrugged. “You’ve no other plans at present, and I could profit from a 
few lessons in sword fighting. Besides, I enjoy your company.”
Corson didn’t know whether to be flattered or indignant. Nyctasia was probably 
laughing at her. “I may as well go that way as another,” she said finally, 
pocketing the splendid diamond. “I suppose I owe you that much if I take this in 
fee.”
“Nonsense—you’ve more than earned it. And there’s something more due to you as 
well.” She took the golden earrings from her pouch and pressed them into 
Corson’s hand. “Do try not to lose this pair.”
Corson was no longer surprised by anything Nyctasia did. She accepted the gift 
coolly and put them on.
“I was right,” said Nyctasia, “they do bring out the gold in your hair. Now 
we’re quits.”
“Not quite. There’s still something I owe you.”
“What’s that?”
For answer, she suddenly caught Nyctasia up in her arms and laid her down on the 
berth.
“Corson—”
Corson knelt beside the berth, bending over her. “Don’t be afraid,” she teased. 
“I’m casting a spell on you.”
Nyctasia put her arms around Corson’s neck and started unpinning the long braid. 
“Don’t you know, a witch whose passions are aroused may turn into a ravening 
demon?”
“Oh, hold your tongue for once!” Corson exclaimed, and silenced her with a long, 
fierce kiss.
It was past noon when Nyctasia emerged from below deck, and the midday meal was 
almost over. She looked suspiciously at a thick grey soup, consisting mainly of 
lentils and rubbery potatoes, with an occasional shred of meat which she did not 
attempt to identify. She had found the food on board ship nearly as bad as 
Corson had described it, but she was too hungry to be particular. Hard bread and 
dried apples, with a cup of dark ale, completed the meal. Nyctasia took 
everything and joined Corson on the long bench.
“Now we’re quits,” Corson remarked smugly.
Nyctasia glanced at her, suppressing a smile. “You’re a dangerous woman,” she 
said, biting off a piece of stale bread.
Corson grinned into her soup. “Especially when I’m bored.” She wolfed down the 
rest of her food. “By the way, what does isnathon scrathling mean?”
“Corson!” Nyctasia choked on her bread.
“What’s the matter?” asked Corson innocently. “You kept saying it to me this 
morning.”
“I called you that?”
“And a lot of other things I’ve never heard before. What does it mean?”
Nyctasia shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s quite impossible to translate—”
“Try.”
“Really, I ...” Nyctasia protested, giggling. Corson couldn’t get another word 
out of her for the rest of the meal.
23
that night nyctasia could not fall asleep. The cabin seemed more dank and close 
than ever, and she understood why most of the crew slept on deck in mild 
weather. “Why should I suffocate in here?” she asked herself. “Even a lady has 
to breathe.” She went above and moved about silently, stepping over sleeping 
sailors, until she found Corson sprawled by the windlass.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Corson sleepily. “What did it mean, what you called me?”
Nyctasia lay down beside her. “Go back to sleep.”
“Rutting bitch,” said Corson. She threw one arm over Nyctasia and promptly fell 
asleep again.
But Nyctasia was still wakeful. She lay for a long time looking up at the stars 
and listening to the mysterious creaking and sloshing sounds of the ship. The 
strong smell of resin and brine was almost as soothing to her as the scent of 
Maegor’s spices, but sleep did not come, and finally she detached herself from 
Corson and rose. Corson mumbled an incoherent protest and turned away, sighing 
in her sleep.
Nyctasia wandered restlessly up to the bow and climbed into the forecastle to 
look out across the sea, A horizon unbounded by city walls was a novelty she 
never tired of contemplating.
Someone was there before her, leaning on the rail, watching the water. Nyctasia 
wondered what the night watch on board ship kept guard against. “A fine night,” 
she said politely. “May I join you?”
He turned toward her and bowed. “I should be honored, Rhaicime.”
Nyctasia was startled to be addressed by her title of rank—the crew knew who she 
was, then. But she had paid well for their silence, and Corson claimed they 
could be trusted.
She stood her ground but remained wary. “You have the advantage of me, sailor,” 
she said evenly.
“Oh, I am but a passenger like yourself, my lady. We have met once before in 
Rhostshyl, though you’ve no doubt forgotten.”
She could not see his features clearly in the darkness, but it was this very 
obscurity which seemed somehow familiar. And his voice ... of course, this was 
Erystalben’s messenger! Now completely at her ease, she joined him at the rail, 
leaning into the fresh breeze. “Certainly I remember. Have you another letter 
for me?”
“No, but I bring you a riddle. I am told that you enjoy them.” He paused. “Which 
is the greater power, Lady Nyctasia, the Indwelling or the Invited?”
Nyctasia smiled, thinking of the hours she and ’Ben had spent in arguing this 
question, trying to reconcile the two. “I will tell you that,” she said, “if you 
can tell me which is the greater—wind or water.”
He nodded thoughtfully, “A good answer.”
“It is the only answer.”
“No question has only one answer. You who are Mistress of Ambiguities must know 
that.”
It was one of ’Ben’s nicknames for her. Hearing it, Nyctasia was pierced with 
longing for him.
“A hand without a weapon may be weak,” she said slowly, “but a weapon without a 
hand is useless.”
“Thus, vahn is the greater power.”
The Mistress of Ambiguities shook her head. “Yet those who are unarmed will fall 
before swords.”
Both were silent for some moments, and Nyctasia suddenly realized how tired 
she’d become.
“Then there is no answer?” he said at last.
“I have given you two.” Nyctasia yawned. “And I fear I’m too weary to devise a 
third tonight. But I expect we shall meet again.”
“I hope so, my lady.”
He continued to look out over the dark water. Nyctasia returned to Corson’s side 
and fell asleep at once.
Over the next few days she made certain to speak to every man on board, but none 
of them sounded like Erystalben’s nameless messenger.
Finally, she questioned the captain, who denied having any other passengers on 
board. “... and the only reason I don’t have you two thrown overboard is that 
we’ll reach Lhestreq in two days anyway. And you can tell that rutting friend of 
yours to stop looking at me like she means to cut my throat!”
Nyctasia was bewildered. “I hadn’t noticed that she does. I’ll ... er ... speak 
to her about it.”
“You do that,” said Destiver and stalked away.
Corson was nowhere on deck, but Nyctasia soon found her in the cabin, sitting on 
the berth, her head in her hands.
“Feeling bored?” Nyctasia suggested. She sat down and put her arm around 
Corson’s waist, Corson only shook her head without looking up.
“What’s the matter with you? The captain says you want to murder her.”
“Let me be, can’t you?”
Nyctasia began to rub her back and shoulders. Corson shrugged stiffly. “Do that 
up higher,” she said grudgingly. “My head hurts.” She hated to admit to any sort 
of weakness.
“Is that all? Poor thing!” Nyctasia knelt on the berth and started kneading the 
muscles of Corson’s neck. “We’ll be in Lhestreq in just two days,” she remarked.
“I know.”
“Do you know the city well?”
“Of course. I’ve been there many times.”
“And I’ve never been this far from Rhostshyl in my life.”
“Asye! How did you stand it? I left Torisk when I was little more than a child, 
and I’ve never been back.”
“Where is Torisk? I’ve never heard of it.”
“South,” Corson said grimly. “Far south. No one’s ever heard of it, it’s mostly 
swamp.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“Explains what?” Corson bristled.
“Did you think I meant your manners? Nothing could explain your manners! I was 
curious about the name—it’s very like the word for ‘bog’ in Ancient Eswraine. 
Words for features of the land often stay the same, even when—”
Corson was in no mood for one of Nyctasia’s lectures. “What of your own name?” 
she interrupted. “They make an Edonaris wine in the valley lands. I’ve never had 
it, it’s too costly, but it’s famous in the east. They say the same family’s 
made it for centuries. Are you kin to them?”
“I don’t know ... it’s the first I’ve ever heard of them. But it’s just 
possible,” Nyctasia mused. “A remote ancestor of mine married into a family of 
foreign merchants who dealt in fine wines. It was a monstrous scandal, of 
course. He went with them when they returned to their own country, and they 
could never trade the coastal markets after that, for fear of the Edonaris. His 
name was stricken from the family records—I only came upon the story by chance 
in an old chronicle. If these people are his descendants, they’d be my distant 
cousins. Perhaps I’ll write them a letter.”
Corson was disappointed. She’d hoped Nyctasia would take offense at the 
suggestion that these common vintners were her relations. “My manners are good 
enough for the company of a wine seller’s daughter,” she taunted.
“You malign a respectable trade,” said Nyctasia.
Corson looked back at her over her shoulder. “What does isnathon scrathling 
mean?” she demanded.
24
lhestreq was a good-sized port town with a thriving merchant community. There 
was nothing to distinguish it from any of a dozen similar cities along the 
coast, but to Corson and Nyctasia it seemed a haven of comfort and luxury after 
their stay on the Windhover. As they ambled through the marketplace on their way 
to find lodgings, they were enticed by the odors of pastries and cooking meats.
A child ran up to them holding a tray heaped with dates, figs and dried honeyed 
apricots, all stuffed with nuts. “Buy a sweet, two for a copper!”
Their hands were soon full of sticky fruit, hot meatcakes and small sausages. 
They ate oranges, sweet buns and gingerbread. “I haven’t felt this good for 
days,” Corson said through a mouthful of pastry.
“I thought you must be sick—you’d stopped complaining about the ship’s food.”
“It was the ship’s food making me sick.”
“We’ll both be sick if we keep this up,” said Nyctasia happily. She daintily 
licked the last sticky crumbs from her fingers. “I have never in my life needed 
a bath so badly. I stink. So do you, for that matter.”
“What?” said Corson absently. Her attention had been caught by a display of 
glittering jewelry and trinkets. She wandered over to the stall and began 
covetously fingering the golden chains and gaudy ornaments. She held up a glass 
bracelet, admiring the way it sparkled in the sunlight. “What do you think of 
this?” she asked Nyctasia.
“It’s a vulgar piece of trash, unworthy to adorn your lovely wrist. Stop pawing 
through that rubbish and let’s find an inn. You know the city, where do you 
usually stay?”
“Oh, you don’t want to stay there,” laughed Corson. “And neither do I, not when 
I have money.” She reluctantly laid down the bracelet and pointed across the 
square. “There’s a place up that way, on High Street, that caters to the 
quality. I’ve never had the price of a room there, but now I want their best.”
She led the way, stopping every few feet, distracted by a new array of tempting 
wares. Buckles, copper pots, bolts of bright cloth—Corson wanted everything she 
saw, and it was some time before Nyctasia could pry her away from the 
marketplace.
When they entered The Crown and Peacock, the patrons, mostly well-to-do 
merchants, glanced at one another uneasily. Corson and Nyctasia looked more like 
the class of people who went to the kitchen door asking for work than those who 
came to the front door seeking accommodations. They were ragged and filthy and 
didn’t look as though they had a copper between them. Obviously troublemakers.
“We want a room,” said Corson, banging her fist on a table.
A portly, well-dressed man approached, regarding them with disapproval. “Our 
rooms are all taken,” he said. “Perhaps down the street ....”
Corson smiled. She opened the pouch at her belt and pulled out a few gold coins, 
tossing them in her palm. “A large room,” she continued. “The best you have.”
The owner bowed. He classed Corson as a soldier fresh from a successful 
campaign. Nyctasia he dismissed as a penniless student whom the other had 
undoubtedly picked up for the night. Students as a class were notorious whores.
He waved a servant over. “Show them the corner room upstairs. Lay on fresh 
bedding. Is there anything else you require?” he asked, turning back to Corson.
“I want a bath,” Nyctasia put in. “Hot water, and plenty of it. And something 
clean to wear.”
The innkeeper looked at Corson inquiringly.
“It’s all right,” she said, with a sweeping gesture. “Get her anything she 
wants.” She grinned at Nyctasia, who suddenly flushed as she realized how things 
appeared. Swallowing her pride, she meekly followed Corson upstairs.
Corson was delighted with the room. It was large and well-aired, with windows 
looking on the courtyard and the street. Tile bed was wide, with an oaken chest 
at its foot, and a table and two chairs stood at the hearth. There was even a 
sheepskin rug, Corson fell onto the bed and sank into the down mattresses, 
laughing.
“Get your boots off the bed,” said Nyctasia.
“A little more respect from you, slut. I’ll have you thrown into the street, 
where you belong, if you don’t behave.”
Nyctasia sighed. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
Corson pulled off her boots and dug her toes into the rug. “I’ve always wanted 
to have my way in a grand place like this.”
Nyctasia did not see fit to remark that, compared with her apartments in the 
palace of the Edonaris, this place was a kennel. She possessed to a high degree 
the aristocratic knack of making herself comfortable anywhere. And the room was 
reasonably clean. “It’s a great deal better than the ship,” she said.
Two servants soon came in, carrying a large wooden tub. They were followed by a 
girl with an armload of clothes.
“Sonic of these should fit you,” she said to Nyctasia, dropping her bundle on 
the table. She turned to Corson. “Did you want something to wear as well, 
mistress? We’ve nothing to hand really big enough for you, but we can wash your 
clothes tonight and have them dry by morning. Perhaps you could use this?” She 
lay out a large, shapeless smock on the bed. “They’re heating up the bath water 
now.” The girl curtsied to Corson and withdrew.
“Bring me some ale,” Corson called after her. She lay back on the bed and 
stretched luxuriously. “Let’s stay here for a while,” she suggested. “I want to 
visit some friends in town, settle an old debt. Maybe buy a few things.”
Nyctasia picked out a grey shift from the pile of clothes and examined it 
dubiously. “Stay if you like. I’ll be off to Mehomne as soon as I can get some 
decent clothing, and a horse. I hope to be in Hlasven in a fortnight.”
“You can’t,” said Corson. “It takes at least a month to travel around Yth 
Forest.”
“I daresay it does, but I mean to travel through it, not around it.”
Corson sat up and stared at her. “No one goes through the Yth without need—it’s 
too dangerous. If you’ve not seen your blue-eyed friend in all this time, you 
can wait another few weeks, surely!”
“There’s a road running through the forest,” Nyctasia protested. “Some merchants 
take it, to reach the eastern markets ahead of the rest.”
“I know that, and the greedy bastards usually lose a few people along the way. 
Don’t you know that wood is haunted?”
“Corson,” Nyctasia said patiently, “I want to go through the Yth because I know 
it’s haunted.”
“I should have known,” groaned Corson, lying back again. “I hate magicians.” She 
glared balefully at the ceiling.
“Perhaps you really should stay here,” Nyctasia said hesitantly. “You certainly 
won’t like—” She stopped abruptly as the servants returned with kettles of 
steaming water and began to fill the tub. “Tell them to start heating up more,” 
she instructed. “We’ll want at least another tubful.” She had soon forgotten all 
else in the soothing luxury of the bath.
Corson dried her hair before the fire, trying to comb out the worst of the 
snarls. She cursed and yanked at a tangled knot, then gave up and left the comb 
stuck there while she reached for the mug of ale on the hearthstone.
“Do you want some help?” Nyctasia offered. She was lying across the bed with the 
contents of her pouch scattered before her. She toyed with a crystal pendant, 
then picked out a pair of silver, crescent-shaped earrings and put them on. 
There was a knock on the door.
“Shall we take away the bath now?”
At a nod from Nyctasia, they dragged the tub to the window and tipped it out 
over the courtyard. The serving-girl came in for their clothes.
“Have these burned,” said Nyctasia imperiously. “And have the best tailors in 
the city here first thing in the morning to take my measurements.” Her voice had 
taken on the assured tone of one accustomed to giving orders. Barefoot, and 
dressed in the plain grey shift, she nevertheless conveyed the air of a great 
aristocrat.
“Yes ... um ... my lady,” said the girl, bewildered. “Will there be anything 
else?”
Nyctasia considered. “I’ll give you a letter to deliver to the moneydealer 
Eisatt on Bow Street, Fetch me paper and sealing wax, child.” She held out a 
coin. “That will be all.”
“Yes, m’lady. Thank you, m’lady.” The girl had made up her mind about Nyctasia. 
She could hardly wait to tell them downstairs.
“Bow Street?” Corson asked suspiciously. “I thought you said you’d never been 
here before.”
“I haven’t, but my agents have. I’ve had this journey planned for a long time, 
you know.” She came over and stirred up the fire. Plucking the comb from 
Corson’s unruly hair, she began to gently smooth out the stubborn tangles.
“Even when you play the great lady you don’t mean it,” said Corson. “It’s just 
another act. You don’t fool me.”
Next morning she watched, fascinated, as Nyctasia matter-of-factly gave 
instructions to tailors and seamstresses while concluding her business 
arrangements and eating a large breakfast at the same time.
Corson’s clothes were stiff and uncomfortable from drying before the fire all 
night. When Nyctasia dismissed the tailors, she beckoned to one of them herself. 
“You can take my measurements now,” she said grandly.
25
it would take at least two days to complete their garments, and Nyctasia spent 
most of the time pacing and planning, impatient to be on her way. But Corson 
would have been contented to spend the whole season at Lhestreq. She made the 
most of the opportunity to renew old acquaintances and flaunt her unwonted 
wealth. Sauntering into The Wanton Mermaid one afternoon, she threw down a 
handful of silver and called for ale all around.
There were only a few idlers there to take advantage of her hospitality. The 
Wanton Mermaid did most of its business after dark.
“Corson!” The host, a small, canny fellow known as Cricket, threw his arms 
around her enthusiastically, “I’d given up hope of ever seeing you again—my 
heart was broken. You owe me thirty crescents.”
Cricket owed his success as a taverner to three inviolable rules: He never 
watered his ale, he never betrayed a secret, and he never forgot a debt. Eyeing 
Corson’s silver skeptically, he picked up a coin and weighed it in his hand.
“Satisfied?” laughed Corson. “It’s not false.”
“Ah, the girl’s picked a rich pocket,” said Dorrit, a dark, thin woman who eked 
out a living as a petty thief.
“This money’s honestly come by, Dorrit. I’ve come up a good deal since you saw 
me fast. I know folk in high places nowadays.”
“The gallows ... ?” suggested Dorrit. Cricket snorted.
“I’m the traveling companion of a great lady, a Rhaicime!” Corson continued. 
“She’s very elegant, and a scholar too—”
“Who’d you kill, Corson?” Cricket interrupted.
“Here, if you don’t believe me, look at these earrings.”‘ She bent toward 
Dorrit. “She gave them to me, just because she enjoys my company.”
Dorrit touched one wistfully, “These are really valuable, Corson, They’re old.”
Cricket whistled. “Sweet Asye! She’s killed a Rhaicime! We’ll probably all be 
hung.”
Corson hit the table with her fist. “I told you that—”
“Don’t be so touchy, pet. Since you’re in such favor with the nobility, no doubt 
you can pay me those thirty crescents, eh?” He winked at Dorrit.
“That’s what I’ve come for.” Corson began to count out coins from her pouch.
Cricket leaped to his feet, astonished. “Not here!” he said, looking around 
anxiously. “Let’s go in back.”
“Watch out, Cricket.” Dorrit called after them. “You don’t want to end up owing 
her. She fetches a high price these days!”
Cricket barred the door behind them and dragged the moneybox out from beneath 
his cot. Corson sat on a stool and watched him unlock the chest with one of the 
keys at his belt When it was safely stored away again she rose to go, but 
Cricket caught her hand. “Why so hasty, Corson?” he grinned. “No time for old 
friends now that you’re the favorite of Rhaicimes?”
Corson made an insulting gesture with her free hand. “It’s true, all the same,” 
she insisted.
“Then let’s celebrate your good fortune.” He hugged her hard. “I love tall 
women,” he sighed, nuzzling her breasts.
Corson smiled down at him. “But you know I don’t like short men.”
“Well, I’m not short all over, pet,” said Cricket. “Remember ... ?”
26
corson was flushed and rather unsteady on her feet when she returned to The 
Crown and Peacock that evening. Nyctasia was at the table, reading by 
candlelight. “You look like you’ve had a good time,” she observed.
Corson sat down, leaning her head on her hand. “I’m not drunk.”
“No?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days,” Corson complained, shaking her 
head. “One moment I feel fine, then I’m dizzy and my head aches. I must be 
getting the grippe. I’m going to bed.” She sounded quite sober.
“Don’t you even want some supper?”
Corson pulled off her boots and climbed into the bed, drawing the covers over 
her. “I’m not hungry.”
“This sounds serious,” said Nyctasia. She sat on the bed and leaned over Corson. 
“You do look feverish.”
Corson’s forehead was beaded with sweat. “I’m freezing. It’s too cold in here.”
Nyctasia frowned. If anything, the room was rather too warm. She went to the 
table and wrote out a list of simples, then summoned a servant. “Take this to an 
apothecary’s immediately,” she instructed, wrapping the paper around some coins, 
“and bring me a pitcher of strong red wine when you return. Hurry.”
“I know an excellent remedy for fever,” she assured Corson.
“Does it have bloodroot in it?” Corson asked, suspicious.
“No, why?”
Corson mumbled something and turned away.
When the servant returned, Nyctasia measured out small amounts of the dried 
herbs and mixed them in a cup of wine which she held over the fire with tongs. 
“Drink this,” she ordered, bringing Corson the hot, fragrant drink.
Corson sipped at it warily. “This is good!” She swallowed it greedily and handed 
the empty mug back to Nyctasia. “Give me some more.”
Corson slept through the evening and late into the following morning. When the 
tailors arrived to do a first fitting, she felt quite well again, as hungry as 
ever, and excited at the prospect of her new clothes. She’d never before had 
clothing made for her, nor had she possessed any of such fine quality. The 
garments provided by her employers had generally been plain, sturdy goods, which 
had already seen much use.
The tailors and apprentices flattered her and called her “madame.” She was 
draped in new lambskin and linen which they deftly pulled into place, snipping 
and stitching, as they turned Corson about and fussed with the materials. She 
twisted and laughed under their prodding, enjoying herself thoroughly. It took 
half the time to fit Nyctasia.
Though she fretted about the delay all the next day, at the final fitting 
Nyctasia had to admit that the results were worth the wait. She had commissioned 
a suit of plain traveling clothes of a serviceable grey stuff, as well as an 
elegant outfit of black velvet with silver trimmings. She admired her reflection 
in the tailors’ glass as they made a few final adjustments on the soft, svelte 
doublet. “Quite satisfactory,” she said, smiling. She was equally at home in 
fine clothes or in her shabby students’ garb, but the graceful tailored black 
was undeniably becoming.
But it was Corson who was really transformed. Instead of a bedraggled layabout, 
she seemed a young noblewoman dressed for the road. In clothing cut to her 
measure, her naturally proud carriage and statuesque beauty were set off to the 
fullest advantage. She wore a close-fitting tunic of fine lambskin over a russet 
linen shirt, open at the throat, with the full sleeves gathered at the wrist. 
Her leggings were made of a soft, dark suede.
She stretched like a cat and turned before the mirror, trying to see herself 
from all sides. “Do I look all right?” she asked anxiously.
Nyctasia broke into astonished laughter.
Corson’s face fell. “What’s the matter?”
“Do you look all right? Are you blind? You look like sunrise over the rippling 
wheat! You look like a pillar of golden flame! You look like a fountain of topaz 
and amber! Corson—yes, you look all right.”
27
nyctasia traveled alone to Mehomne. On the morning of her departure, Corson did 
not even get out of bed. “You can get yourself eaten by werewolves if you like,” 
she said. “Only a fool would cross the Yth without need.”
“Your concern for me is most touching,” Nyctasia said cheerfully, pulling on her 
traveling clothes. “I’ll be grieved to part with you, but I suppose I must bear 
it somehow.” In truth, she was rather relieved at Corson’s decision. Where 
Nyctasia was bound, Corson’s company might well be more of a hazard than a help. 
The dangers of the Yth could not be met with a sword. “According to the most 
respected authorities, werewolves do not eat human beings,” she remarked. 
“They’re said to regard it as a sort of cannibalism.”
“If the werewolves don’t kill you something else will.”
“I never said they don’t kill people, I said they don’t eat them.”
Corson raised herself on one elbow. “Nyc, do you know what you’re doing?”
Nyctasia perched on the edge of the bed and tugged on her boots. After a 
moment’s thought, she said, “Yth means magic, did you know that? ‘Yth Wood’ 
wasn’t really a name at first—it simply meant, ‘the enchanted forest.’”
“Interesting,” said Corson, “but not an answer to my question.”
“Patience, if you please. I can explain. Do you remember when I told you that 
magic is a difficult art, that it takes time and study to effect the simplest 
spell ... ?”
“You were lying?” asked Corson without the slightest surprise.
“Well, not altogether. The power of the vahn is only won through toil and 
discipline, as I said, and it is limited by one’s own strength. My power is 
slight because my spirit is weak and undisciplined.
“But, yth is that power drawn from outside oneself—from sources so much greater 
than the paltry human spirit!” She began to pace about the room excitedly, and 
Corson thought she must be telling the truth. Nyctasia was always quite at her 
ease when she was lying.
“You remember the sea spell I tried when we walked to the Windhover?”
“I remember that you half-killed yourself with it!”
“Yth can be dangerous and unpredictable. I tried to take power away, to make it 
part of myself when I was not part of it.,. You see, a spell of Perilous 
Threshold draws upon the power of yth swiftly—there’s no chance to prepare 
oneself. It must be done blindly, without knowing what the cost will be, and one 
can only hope that the power will be worth the price. It’s a reckless measure—I 
only tried it because I was desperate. Oh, I asked little enough, so the risk 
was not very great; but if much is demanded, the sacrifice to Balance may be 
anything—even life itself.”
“And the forest?” Corson prompted her.
“The forest was called Yth because it is a source of magic—a source that can be 
drawn upon if one knows the way.”
“And at what price?”
“When nothing is taken away, there is nothing to pay. When nothing is lost what 
is the cost? What does a mill wheel take from a river? Turn as it may, there is 
yet as much water as ever”
“Rhymes and riddles!” said Corson with contempt.
“Corson, I am trying to answer you. Don’t you see, I have nothing to fear from 
the Yth because the power belongs to those who belong to it. It cannot be a 
danger to itself.”
“You can’t mean to become part of that cursed forest!”
“No one can become one with the Yth itself and remain human ... but there are 
places near the forest so steeped in its Influence that those who hold them have 
vast powers at their command.”
“So that’s where you’re going. Not to Hlasven.”
“I don’t know exactly where I’m going, yet, but Hlasven is the nearest place 
with a name. The land belongs to ’Ben now—or he to it. When I’ve joined him that 
power will be mine as well, and we shall both be stronger.”
“But only as long as you stay there?”
“If we left, we would lose the land to others, as the mage Vhar Kastenid lost it 
to ’Ben. There are those now who would wrest it from him if they could—Kastenid 
himself has tried to reclaim it more than once.” She shrugged. “If you would 
have a water wheel, you must dwell at a river, but a miller doesn’t think that a 
sacrifice.”
Corson was dismayed at the idea of being bound to one place for any reason. 
“It’s madness! You’ll be the prisoner of your own power!”
Nyctasia smiled. “I shall be free, for the first time in my life.” She bent over 
Corson and kissed her. “And if you’re ever bored, you’ll know where to look for 
me.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Corson, turning away and pulling the bedclothes over 
her head. She heard Nyctasia laugh and heft her satchel onto her shoulder, then 
close the door and start down the stairs.
Corson tried to sleep, She told herself that she was well rid of Nyctasia, that 
there was no reason to follow the witch any further. Not even to herself would 
she admit that she felt too weak to make the journey.
 
It was no great distance to Mehomne, and Nyctasia made the journey in two days. 
She rode at a leisurely pace and spent the night at a farmhouse along the way. 
There was no need to hurry, no need to look behind her. She felt that she was no 
longer running away, but traveling toward her destination.
It was midday when she reached the city and made her way to The Crossroads Inn. 
According to ’Ben’s directions, this was the usual place to join a party of 
travelers bound for Yth Forest.
But the news at The Crossroads was disappointing. It might be a fortnight yet 
before their departure, since they were still too few in the company. Nyctasia 
only made the ninth, and no one would venture into the Yth with fewer than 
twenty together.
Nyctasia resigned herself to the wait, but found that her companions at the inn 
were either unfriendly or too friendly to suit her. She would have been 
graciously received by any of the local nobility, as a courtesy due to one of 
her rank, but she was unwilling to make herself known, even this far from 
Rhostshyl. The habit of secrecy was too strong for her and made her prefer the 
obscurity of the inn, though she had to share a room with a dealer in silks and 
spices, who talked too much, and snored. She found herself missing Corson. 
Corson snored too, but she was never boring.
Nyctasia had no preparations to make in Mehomne, so she spent her time exploring 
the city, an amusement which soon wore thin. Mehomne was only a stopping place 
for travelers on their way inland, mainly tradesfolk carrying goods from up and 
down the coast. When Nyctasia visited the marketplace, she was pestered by a 
swarm of beggar-children who knew her for an aristocrat as surely as if she were 
attended by a large retinue. They could seldom be deceived on such a point, 
which was one reason that Nyctasia had often employed their like as spies. 
Scattering a handful of coins among them, she escaped into the crowd. Though 
Nyctasia had long dreamt of traveling far from Rhostshyl, it seemed to her now 
that all cities were much the same.
“There you are at last, Lady!” said a voice just behind her. “I’ve been waiting 
for you. Don’t you know the danger—”
Nyctasia turned quickly, her hand on her sword hilt, and found herself facing a 
thin man wearing three hats, one on top of another, and carrying a long pole 
hung with a score of others. “... the danger of walking bareheaded in the sun?” 
he continued. “Now, ever since I made this hat I’ve been waiting for you to come 
along and buy it. Anyone could see that it was made for you alone.” He deftly 
unhooked a broad-brimmed, grey hat from the pole and handed it to Nyctasia with 
a bow, somehow contriving not to lose any of the hats he was wearing.
She stroked the black plume pinned to the hat with a silver clasp. Nyctasia 
could be something of a dandy when she had the leisure. “How much?”
“Five silver crescents, mistress, since I’ve been saving it specially for you. I 
could have sold it a dozen times, but it would be a crime to let anyone else 
have it.”
“I’ll give you four because I won at dice last night,” said Nyctasia. “The hat 
isn’t worth so much, of course, but the performance certainly is.”
Her offer was promptly accepted—the hatter would have been glad to get three—and 
Nyctasia strolled off, equally pleased with the bargain.
“Perhaps some new boots,” she thought, but that could wait. Her instinctive lie 
about the gambling had put her in mind of another errand. She made her way to 
the artisans’ quarter and soon found a goldsmith’s shop. There was no mistaking 
the sign, with its great golden sun and stars.
As she entered the shop, the goldsmith turned from the fire holding a small 
crucible with slender tongs, and carefully poured the molten gold into a clay 
mold. A young apprentice laid aside the bellows, brushing the hot hair back from 
his face with one ringed hand. Both he and the smith were covered with golden 
jewelry and trinkets. Their bare arms were decked with golden bracelets, and 
bright pendants swung from their ears. There were gold beads threaded in their 
hair, and even the heavy work aprons were stitched with flat stars of gold foil.
The apprentice came up to Nyctasia. “How may we serve you, mistress?” he asked 
politely.
Nyctasia shielded her eyes, as if dazzled by his glittering splendor. “Well, I 
was wanting a locket, but perhaps I’ll buy you instead.”
The boy chuckled. “I daresay Desskyres would gladly sell me, but I’ll fetch some 
lockets for you anyway, shall I?” He set a stool at the table for Nyctasia and 
went into the back room of the workshop.
The smith, Desskyres, eyed Nyctasia with unconcealed interest and smiled, 
revealing a gold tooth, “You can have him for a copper penny and welcome, lady! 
In truth, I’d pay you to take him off my hands.”
The boy reappeared with a tray, which he set before Nyctasia. “That one 
mistreats me something dreadful,” he told her in a loud whisper. “Starves me and 
beats me—it’s a wonder I can stand!”
“You look like it,” laughed Nyctasia.
Like the rest of the market folk, these two took her for a trader—as she 
intended—and called her ‘lady’ simply to flatter her. Had they guessed at her 
real title, neither would have dared to joke or flirt with her.
She was intrigued by the pair—and especially by the beautiful, dark-skinned 
smith. She could hardly take her eyes from those lean, muscled arms, ringed with 
gleaming gold.
Glancing at the tray of jewelry, she saw what she wanted at once. “This one,” 
she said, holding up a highly polished, heart-shaped locket. “This is perfect.”
The smith came over to inspect her choice and nodded approval. “That’s a fine 
piece of work. Feel how smooth it is—burnished with soft sand for hours. It’s 
costly, you know.”
Nyctasia only smiled. “Can you engrave a name on it?”
“Surely. Write it out, if you will.”
The apprentice fetched a slate covered with designs and words, and offered 
Nyctasia a piece of chalkstone. She handed the locket to Desskyres, letting her 
fingers brush lightly across the smith’s warm palm. Then, taking up the stone, 
she scratched out, “MELLIS.”
“That’s easily done,” said Desskyres. “I could have it ready tomorrow, if need 
be. Or the next day.”
“There’s no great hurry—just let me know when it’s finished. I’m staying at The 
Crossroads.”
The smith frowned. “Vahn, lady, you don’t want to go among such people. 
Criminals, the lot of them!”
“Indeed?”
“Don’t you know? That’s where folk gather who want to travel through the Yth. 
Who’d be so desperate as that if they weren’t pursued for some crime?”
“I would, for one,” Nyctasia said mildly.
“Are you mad?” the smith cried, then looked at her sharply, “or are you a 
witch?”
“Oh, a bit of both, perhaps. But what of you—are you a man or a woman? I’ve been 
wondering all this while.”
The apprentice snickered. “A bit of both, perhaps?” he suggested.
“Clear those things away!” ordered the smith. “And go buy some lamb’s wool. I 
told you yesterday we’ve need of more.”
“I’m going!” The boy winked at Nyctasia and went out.
Desskyres sat on the table, leaning toward Nyctasia. “As to your question, 
pretty one, if you were very curious, I could suggest an excellent way for you 
to find out.”
“A fair answer,” murmured Nyctasia. She too leaned forward, tracing one finger 
along the prominent cheekbone that reminded her of Erystalben’s. “Alas that 
there’s no privacy to be had at The Crossroads.”
“The Crossroads is no place for you, and neither is the Yth. You’d do better to 
stay here—you’re such a tiny thing you’d not take up much space.” The smith’s 
lips brushed her ear, whispering, “I’d make you forget that nonsense about the 
forest.”
Nyctasia shivered. A fortnight in Mehomne no longer seemed such a tedious 
prospect.
As she left the smithy, Nyctasia met the apprentice returning. He bowed. “What, 
leaving so soon, mistress? Were you not pleased with our wares?”
“I mean to return later,” said Nyctasia, “when I can study them at my leisure.”
“You’ll not be disappointed. ’Kyres was smitten with you, plain to see! I fear 
I’ll have to sleep on the hearth tonight.”
“Not you, lad. I’ll wager you have a dozen other lovers who’d be glad to take 
you in.”
“Oh, well, if you’ve heard my reputation—!” he replied, with a modest shrug. 
“You mustn’t believe all that folk say.”
“I believe very little of what I hear,” Nyctasia said drily. Reputation indeed, 
the puppy! All the same, he was nowhere to be seen when she returned that night 
to the smithy.
The room over the workshop was surprisingly comfortable. The furnishings were 
dark, carved oak of fine workmanship, and intricately wrought lamps stood on 
brackets in the corners. One wall was draped with a tapestry of a great tree 
with bright leaves of all colors.
As Nyctasia admired it, Desskyres came up behind her and clasped her around the 
waist. “What are you thinking of, little one?”
She leaned back and drew the smith’s gold-ringed arms around her. “I was 
thinking,” she lied, “that although I never wear gold, tonight I shall make an 
exception.”
“Never wear gold—what blasphemy under my roof! Then you yourself are not 
Mellis?”
“By no means. I’m Nyc.”
“And who’s this Mellis, then?” Desskyres demanded, pretending jealousy.
“Why, no one at all, just a child,” said Nyctasia, beginning to unfasten her 
shirt.
“That’s what you like, eh?”
“You’re what I like. Whatever you are.”
“What would you prefer me to be?” whispered Desskyres, slipping the shirt from 
Nyctasia’s shoulders. “I like to please.”
“Hlann! I don’t care!” exclaimed Nyctasia. She tilted her head back and kissed 
the smith under the chin. Strong hands pressed her breasts and gently caught the 
swelling nipples between thumb and forefinger. Nyctasia drew a sharp breath. 
Desskyres kissed her temple.
Nyctasia started to turn, but felt a painful tug at her neck. One long, gold 
earring had caught in the soft hair at her nape. Desskyres carefully pulled it 
free. “There now.”
“Those are dangerous, smith. Traps for the unwary!”
“Of course they are—anyone who wears my jewelry is irresistible.” Desskyres 
laughed and set the gold pendants swinging, burning as they caught the 
candlelight.
For a moment, the sight struck Nyctasia as strangely familiar ... then she 
remembered—Corson, at the inn in Lhestreq, shaking her head in the same way, the 
candlelight gleaming on the gold Edonaris earrings. But Corson had not laughed. 
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she’d said. “One moment I feel fine, then 
I’m dizzy ....”
Nyctasia’s heart froze in horror. She knew those signs. The headaches, the 
sudden fever ... but only now did she realize when they’d begun.
Desskyres touched her cheek. “Nyc, what’s the matter?”
“No, nothing. I—” Nyctasia began to pull on her shirt.
“Where are yon going?! You are mad!”
“Vahn! I hope so,” cried Nyctasia. She flung her arms around the smith for a 
swift kiss. “I’ve no time to explain—I’ll send a message. I’m so sorry!”
Within a moment she was down the stairs and out of the smithy. Before nightfall 
the next day she was at the gates of Lhestreq.
28
“what would you have me say?” asked the host of The Crown and Peacock. “I know 
nothing more about it. As I told you, she went on her way days ago.” He looked 
as if he wished that Nyctasia would do the same.
It was not easy to get a lie past a practiced liar like Nyctasia. “I see,” she 
said coldly. “The truth of it is, you threw her out because she was sick.” But 
she could get nothing more from the landlord, and she was at a loss as to where 
to look next.
As she paced back and forth in front of the shops on High Street, the 
serving-girl from the inn darted up to her and curtsied hurriedly. “M’lady, you 
might find her on Cobble Row—there’s places there anyone can stay.”
“How sick was she?” Nyctasia asked, anxious.
“Well, she could ride, m’lady, but she looked very poorly. The master was afraid 
to let her stay lest it spread to others.”
Nyctasia paid the girl for her information and let her go. She knew now that she 
must find Corson at all costs. If what she suspected was true, there might not 
be much time left.
After hours of fruitless inquiry among the denizens of Cobble Row, and a good 
deal of money wasted on false clues, Nyctasia was discouraged, tired, and no 
nearer to finding Corson. Only at a seamy tavern called The Wanton Mermaid had 
anyone even admitted to having seen Corson, but they could not (or would not) 
tell her anything helpful.
“She said she was staying at the Peacock with a wealthy Rhaicime,” scoffed one 
of the women. “Of course, nobody believed that. She had plenty of money, 
though.”
Nyctasia had hastily departed, avoiding the curious stares directed her way.
Toward midnight she ordered a meal in a tavern that seemed slightly less squalid 
than the rest. A large, middle-aged woman was scraping food from the tables and 
gathering empty mugs while keeping a wary eye on her remaining customers. A 
young man carried ale and food from the kitchen. Nyctasia paid him, took a few 
cautious bites of the bread, then gave up all pretense at eating. She laid 
another coin, a heavy silver Meridian, on the table and addressed the busy 
woman.
“Perhaps you’ve seen a friend of mine—a tall swordswoman called Corson, with 
money to spend—”
“Lady, I get soldiers in here all the time,” said the woman impatiently. She did 
not pick up the coin.
“You’d remember this one—she’s beautiful. Bright brown hair in a long braid, and 
wide blue eyes. She was probably sick, maybe feeling mean ....”
“What kind of fool soldier wears long hair?”
Nyctasia sighed. “Vanity makes fools of us all,” she said wearily. “You’ve not 
seen her then?”
At that, the young man came up to them. “Ma, I’ll wager she means the crazy one, 
over at Merl’s.”
“I never heard that she was beautiful.”
He shrugged. “I never heard she wasn’t. And she sure is sick. Merl’s just 
waiting for her to die so he can throw her out. Last time he tried, she broke 
his arm,” he told Nyctasia with a giggle.
She stood. “Where is this place?”
“I’ll show you,” he said eagerly. “It’s not far.”
The woman pocketed Nyctasia’s money. “All right, but bring yourself right back 
here after. There’s work to do.”
“That one has to be into everything,” she complained, watching them from the 
doorway. She frowned and suddenly called after Nyctasia, “Lady, don’t tell Merl 
you’re a friend of hers!”
* * *
“Has that madwoman upstairs died yet, Merl?” shouted Nyctasia’s guide.
“I don’t know,” growled a heavyset, bearded man with one arm in a sling. “Why 
don’t you go up and look for yourself?”
“I will,” said Nyctasia. “Show me where she is.” She started up the stairs.
Merl shrugged and followed her, with the youth and a few curious customers 
trailing after them. “In here,” he said. “Watch out, she’s rutting dangerous.”
The others prudently fell back, as Nyctasia went in. She shut the door behind 
her and hastened to Corson’s bedside. “Corson, take off those earrings! That 
bastard Brethald poisoned them!”
But Corson didn’t move. She lay on a dirty straw pallet, her unsheathed sword on 
the floor at her left hand. Only her labored breathing showed that she was still 
alive.
Nyctasia knelt beside her and began to draw off the golden earrings but Corson 
lunged without warning and dragged her to the floor. Before she could call out 
for help, Corson had her by the throat.
Corson was back in the woods, surrounded by the band of jeering thieves. “We’ll 
have the jewelry too,” said the leader, and reached to take her prized earrings. 
This time he’d not get the better of her so easily! She threw him to the ground 
and fell upon him savagely, her hands closing around his throat. But as she 
stared down into the robber’s face, his features began to break and shift like 
reflections on the surface of a pond ....
Nyctasia was unprepared for the attack, and struggled vainly to break Corson’s 
grip. There was a ringing in her ears and dazzling black patches clouded her 
vision. Desperate, she groped for her dagger but Corson suddenly went limp, 
overcome by weakness, and collapsed, senseless.
When Nyctasia had somewhat recovered her breath she bent over Corson and 
listened for her heartbeat, then quickly drew off the earrings, wrapping them in 
a handkerchief. Satisfied, she got to her feet, still gasping, and went out to 
the landing.
“Is she dead?” said Merl eagerly.
Nyctasia leaned on the doorframe, one hand to her throat, and looked at him with 
disgust. “Get me some rope,” she ordered.
With Corson seemingly lifeless, and safely bound, the innkeeper felt much bolder 
about entering the room. He glared at Nyctasia, who was laying her folded cloak 
under Corson’s head. “She’s not staying here!” he said.
Nyctasia stood. “Don’t worry, man, it isn’t catching. She’s not sick, she’s 
poisoned.”
“How do you know?”
For answer, Nyctasia unwrapped the glittering earrings. “These were prepared 
with a deadly poison, but it wasn’t intended for her—she stole them. It’s unwise 
to steal from me.” The lie would serve as a warning. Nyctasia knew that everyone 
at the inn probably had plans to rob her already.
Merl looked uneasy. “Well, I don’t care what’s wrong with her, she’s not going 
to die under my roof. Folk will stay away for a year if they hear about it. You 
get her out of here or I will.”
“She’ll not die, I promise you,” Nyctasia said, hoping that she spoke the truth. 
“I’m a healer, I’ll see to her.”
“She’s trouble, dead or alive,” said Merl stubbornly.
“Listen to me, man—! don’t want her here any more than you do. I’d rather have 
her someplace clean! But she’s too sick to be moved yet, and anyone who tries it 
will regret it!” She spoke firmly, looking straight at the man like one who can 
make good her threats. He dropped his eyes. As ever, Nyctasia was convincing.
“I’ll take her away when she’s stronger,” she continued, “but I can make it well 
worth your while to keep her here for now.”
This made a better impression on Merl. “You’ll pay what she owes? She broke some 
furniture too, you know.”
“You’ll be satisfied.” Nyctasia paced rapidly around the room, hands clasped 
behind her, then pointed to the weapons she’d taken from Corson. “Lock those up 
somewhere. And have this room cleaned. Thoroughly!”
“How do I know you can do what you say? If she dies—”
Nyctasia smiled. “Very well, you shall have proof.” Her face assumed a strange 
dreamy expression which the burly innkeeper viewed with misgiving. He backed 
away a step as Nyctasia approached him.
29
corson could see nothing but a thin film of mist that crept around her feet. She 
tried to struggle, but something held her until she lay with her strength spent, 
watching as the fog swirled about her knees. It clung to her waist, then moved 
up over her breasts, and from behind her came a pitiful, low, moaning sound. Her 
head was held still and something pressed against her lips. Wetness filled her 
mouth.
She awoke and found Nyctasia standing over her. “Nyc,” she whispered, “I have to 
tell you ... burning ... we’re burning! Who can help us?” She spoke hurriedly, 
sure that she had to warn Nyctasia, but to her horror she heard herself babbling 
nonsense. Nyctasia’s face withdrew, retreating farther and farther away until it 
seemed no nearer than a star in the night sky. Then, there was only darkness 
....
Once Nyctasia had healed his broken arm, and paid handsomely for Corson’s board, 
Merl was won over and even became helpful. He let it be known at the inn that 
anyone who troubled Nyctasia would have him to deal with, and he’d see to it 
that they never again troubled anyone.
Before long, Corson’s room was comfortably furnished, though Corson herself was 
hardly aware of the difference. Still delirious and dangerous, she had to be 
forced to submit to any care, and to swallow the antidotal potions Nyctasia 
prepared for her.
Nyctasia kept a constant watch over her, sleeping little, pacing, always 
reproaching herself. She should have foreseen such a thing! It was intolerable 
to her that someone else should suffer for her carelessness, that Corson should 
die like this, not at the hands of enemies, not in fair fight, but by pure 
mischance!
But it was not only Corson’s danger that troubled her—she was haunted by the 
memory of her henchman, Sandor, as well. He had served her faithfully and risked 
his life in her service more than once, yet when Thierran had killed him she’d 
sorrowed less than for a hound lost in the hunt. Sandor had always done his 
duty, but Nyctasia felt that she had somehow failed in hers. Failed, not only in 
her duty to Sandor, but to some principle of her own philosophy. Who had killed 
him, in truth, Thierran or herself? When she tried to think about Sandor, she 
could hardly recall his face. And now, had Corson too outlived her usefulness?
Surely Corson was different, though. Such a wanton, winning creature with her 
bold tongue and her reckless courage, her generous laughter and her prickly 
pride. So quick to take offense, so ready to be cajoled.
But Corson was not so very different from others of her station; rather, 
Nyctasia was different from the woman she had been. For a Vahnite, there was no 
forgiveness for an offense against the Indwelling Spirit. One could only make 
amends by becoming a person who was incapable of such a crime.
Nyctasia had been, by turns, amused and angered by Corson, as she might have 
been by some half-wild household pet. Now, with a pang, she remembered the ways 
she had tricked Corson, trapped her, used her. She knew that her servants 
thought her a just and generous mistress—such was the proper role for an 
Edonaris. Nyctasia had always performed her part well, but it had never been 
more than a performance. She was not aware of how much she was changing. She 
only knew that Corson’s death would weigh on her heart as well as her spirit.
Corson whimpered. “Nyc, where are you? There’s blood on the sand—” but she did 
not know that Nyctasia was bending over her, bathing her face with cool water. 
She was wandering along a beach at dusk, looking for something lost, her feet 
bare and bleeding. The cold wind from the sea threw spray in her face, and she 
shivered.
Nyctasia brushed back the damp hair from Corson’s hot, fever-flushed face. 
Corson’s magnificent hair was lank and dull now, her skin sallow. It was too 
late for medicines to save her, the poison had been at work too long—long enough 
to have killed the small, slight Nyctasia. Had she worn the earrings herself, as 
Brethald intended, there would not have been time for her to realize what ailed 
her.
Corson was seized with a fit of trembling, and Nyctasia, still watching her, 
finally came to a decision. With a determined nod, she rose and barred the door. 
So be it. She would try to work a healing trance, whatever the risk. It was not 
a spell she should attempt without help, for Corson was far nearer to death than 
anyone she had tried to heal before. There should be someone at hand to recall 
her at the proper time and sever the spell. She thought for a moment of 
enlisting the aid of Merl, who had become her champion, but she dared not trust 
his goodwill as far as that. She would be utterly at the mercy of anyone who 
attended her.
Very well, she must take the chance—not only for Corson’s sake, but for her own.
Nyctasia wasted no more time. Sitting on the bed, she unlaced Corson’s shirt and 
placed her hand over Corson’s heart. She lowered her head and waited, eyes 
closed, pacing her thoughts to the measured rhythm of Corson’s heartbeat and 
entering gently into the pattern of the first Recognition, the commencement of 
the Influence Toward Life.
 
Sleeping one, dream of me. 
Distant one, greet me,
Silent one, speak to me. 
Secret one, heed me.
Lonely one, lean to me. 
Lost one, seek me.
Captive one, reach to me. 
Fugitive, flee to me.
Hider, draw near to me. 
Wild one, be dear to me.
Stranger, receive me.
 
As the words possessed her, all else receded and became unreal. There was 
nothing but the seeking in darkness, the reaching of one spirit to another. Then 
even the words gave way, and only the rhythm remained to guide her. She followed 
it blindly, trustingly, until she came to its source—the black waves beating on 
the dark shore.
A still figure lay just out of reach of the breaking waves, and Nyctasia went to 
her, trying not to see the familiar likeness of Corson, but only to be aware of 
her presence. The pulse of the surf now said to her, “Neither land nor sea. 
Neither earth nor air.” Nyctasia knew that she was here only in spirit, but it 
was all-important that she not only know this but believe it, not only believe 
but remember. Remember. Remember that this was not a place but a state of being. 
Remember that one could not truly be here, that one must not, above all, stay 
here.,.. Everything that she thought she saw or felt or heard, she must deny.
She would not even think of Corson by name. “Friend,” she said, “it is time we 
were away from here. The tide is coming in.” Neither sea nor sky. Neither shore 
nor star.
The being who was Corson and yet was not Corson, replied faintly, “I cannot. I 
am too weak.”
“That is your dream, but I am here to wake you. Arise. You are whole, you are 
healed.”
The only answer was the ghost of a sigh.
“Trust in me, do you not know me?” Neither lips nor tongue. Neither voice nor 
word.
A hesitation. “I ... know you ....”
“And I know you. You are a warrior! This battle is not done yet.”
“No ...”
“You have only to face the enemy to defeat them. They are mere shadows who war 
against you. Come away. Lean on me.” Neither hands nor limbs. Neither tears nor 
blood.
Together, they moved away from the black waves, Corson’s steps growing firmer 
even as Nyctasia’s weakened.
“Don’t leave me,” Corson cried.
“You can stand alone now,” Nyctasia said aloud, but there was no one to hear 
her. She was kneeling beside the bed where Corson still lay senseless, beyond 
the reach of her voice. For a long while Nyctasia knelt there, trembling, ashen, 
unable to rise. Then, gripping the bedstead, she pulled herself to her feet and 
staggered to her cot, where she lay gasping like a drowning woman.
30
because she remembered nothing that she had experienced during her trance, 
Nyctasia had no way of knowing whether she had been successful. Her own weakness 
told her that she had given strength to Corson, but had it come in time to shift 
the balance towards life? Corson seemed unchanged, still wandering in her fever 
dreams, and Nyctasia could only continue to nurse her and hope for some 
encouraging sign.
Corson thought that she had been walking for days on end without finding her 
way. She longed for rest but felt that she must keep moving on, though she no 
longer remembered why.
Then someone called to her, and she saw a tall figure coming towards her over 
the dunes. “Steifann ... ?” She tried to run to him, but soon stopped, 
exhausted. “Steifann, help me! I’m so tired ...” But it was not Steifann who 
reached to embrace her. Corson frantically felt for her sword, but it had been 
lost somehow. She screamed as the grinning specter bent over her, sliding its 
arm around her waist, trying to force open her mouth with its tongue. Suddenly 
furious, she struck out wildly at the creature with all her remaining strength, 
only to find herself lying in a strange room, staring at her own hand. For some 
reason, a bed slat had been tied to her arm.
Nyctasia scrambled to her feet and ran to throw open the door so that she could 
summon help if Corson broke free to attack her. She watched from a safe distance 
as Corson tried to sit up, looking about in bewilderment.
“Steifann ... ?”
Nyctasia approached cautiously. “It’s Nyc.”
Corson stared at her. “Why is your shirt all wet?”
“This is the broth I was trying to feed you when you knocked me down just now.” 
She picked up a broken bowl and set it on the table.
“I did not,” said Corson. She lay back and tugged at the cord at her other 
wrist. “Help me!”
Nyctasia hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed and undid the knots. “Who 
did this?” Corson demanded, frightened.
“I did. You keep trying to kill me.”
Corson looked puzzled. “We have to hurry,” she said vaguely. “It’s almost dawn.” 
She fell asleep again before Nyctasia could reply.
Nyctasia laid her palm against Corson’s temple, and smiled. The fever had 
broken.
 
“I’m not hungry.”
Nyctasia sighed. “How in the Hlann’s name do you think to get your strength back 
if you won’t eat?” She began to straighten Corson’s tangled bedclothes again.
Corson picked unenthusiastically at the plate of stew before her. “It’s probably 
poisoned,” she muttered.
But Nyctasia only laughed. “Do you want me to eat some of it first?”
“As soon as I do get my strength back, the first thing I’m going to do is tear 
you into shreds, you murderous bitch.”
“I know, you told me. But last time you mentioned it you were planning to cut 
out my heart and liver and skewer them. Let me know when you’ve decided which 
it’s to be.”
“I will.” She started to eat the stew, which was not at all bad.
Corson was bored with being confined to bed. She’d been trying for days to 
provoke Nyctasia, but all her threats and insults had been met with a 
good-humored patience that was driving her mad. She liked Nyctasia better as a 
sharp-tongued shrew. “What are you doing now?” she demanded.
“Writing a letter.”
“Where are my weapons?”
Nyctasia paid no attention. Corson looked for something to throw at her, but 
there was nothing at hand except the stew. She hit the wall with her fist.
Nyctasia looked up. “Do you want something, or are you just trying to annoy me?”
Corson didn’t know what she wanted. When Nyctasia tried to amuse her, she wanted 
to be left alone, and when Nyctasia ignored her, she felt neglected. Unused to 
illness, she had no idea that her despair and frustration were only the 
aftermath of fever. Suddenly she burst into tears.
Nyctasia went to her and embraced her. “You’re a goose! Hush now, listen to 
me—if you like, I’ll ...” she lowered her voice. “I’ll tell you what isnathon 
scrathling means.”
Corson grabbed her arm. “Tell me.”
Nyctasia whispered something to her and she gasped. “You filthy ...! Get away 
from me!” She kicked out at Nyctasia who backed away and dropped into her chair, 
laughing.
“I think I’ll write a letter,” Corson announced.
“Very well.” Nyctasia cut another sheet from her book and dipped the quill 
afresh. Writing was a difficult skill, practiced mainly by students and scribes. 
The wealthy employed secretaries to write their correspondence, and others 
patronized public scriveners. Nyctasia naturally assumed that Corson meant to 
dictate the letter to her. “Very well, what do you want to say?”
“No, give it to me. I’ll write it myself.”
Skeptical, but curious, Nyctasia brought her the book and quill, and sat on the 
bed to watch, holding the ink.
Corson was clearly a self-taught scribe. As she laboriously dragged the quill 
over the rough paper, the point frequently caught in the fiber, spattering ink 
across the page. But Corson persisted. “MY DEAREST STEIFANN,” she scrawled.
Nyctasia couldn’t bear it. “Corson, that is a pen, not a sword—don’t stab the 
paper with it. Hold it loosely and let it slide over the surface.”
“I don’t want lessons in penmanship!”
Nyctasia stood. “I’m going out, then. Shall I bring you anything?”
Corson only shook her head, intent on her writing. As soon as Nyctasia was gone, 
she tried to follow her suggestions—but it only became harder to control the 
pen. She tore out page after page and used them up, practicing. The point of the 
quill soon wore down, but there was nothing to sharpen it with.
When Nyctasia returned after an hour, she found Corson hunched scowling over yet 
another ragged and blotchy effort. Her hand was cramped and ink-stained, and 
there was a black smear across the bridge of her nose. She crumpled up the page 
and threw it at Nyctasia. “Let it slide over the surface!” she shouted. “How, 
curse you?!”
Nyctasia set down her satchel and looked at the mess Corson had made of her 
commonplace book. It required all her powers of self-discipline just to keep her 
temper. “I thought you didn’t want lessons in penmanship. You should be resting, 
not wearing yourself out over trifles. Lie down!” To Corson’s relief, she 
cleared the rubbish from the bed and threw it on the fire.
Corson lay back and shut her eyes, too tired even to give Nyctasia an argument. 
Her own weakness frightened her more than any enemy. How could an hour of 
sitting up and scribbling be so exhausting? “I’ll never be well again!”
“You just need time to mend, that’s all. If you’d stop fretting yourself, you’d 
feel a good deal better. Look—” She reached in her satchel and brought out a 
matching silver comb and hairbrush. “These are for you. Perhaps they’ll keep you 
amused for a while. After all, you are the vainest person I’ve ever known.”
Corson was already unpinning her braid. She gathered up her hair and drew the 
brush through it a few times, but even this soon became tiring.
“Shall I do it for you?” Nyctasia offered.
“Mmm, all right.” Corson loved to have her hair brushed. She toyed with the 
silver comb. “These are just of a piece with my mirror. Look in my pack—it’s 
wrapped in a cloth. I meant to leave it with Steifann, but I forgot about it, 
with all the trouble you caused me.”
“Steifann ... is that your friend the taverner?”
Corson nodded. “Best lover in the land. He arranged the passage for us with that 
Destiver. ‘Old friends,’” she scoffed. “Hah!”
“That’s what you had against her!” said Nyctasia, enlightened. “Corson, I don’t 
think you need to worry.”
“You don’t know Steifann. He’ll bed down with anyone.”
“Not like you.”
“Are you going to brush my hair or aren’t you?”
“At once, milady!” She wrapped one long coil of hair around her hand and started 
to brush it slowly.
“He’s probably whoring all over the city by now, and me dying,” Corson mourned.
“The women of ancient Kehs-Edre wore a certain perfume in their hair, when they 
wanted to keep their men in thrall,” Nyctasia remarked. “I have the recipe in 
one of those useless books of mine.”
“How can you perfume your hair?”
“Soak a wooden comb in it for three nights and three days, then let it dry. You 
just comb your hair with it and the scent lingers ... men can’t resist it.”
“What a story!”
“It’s true, though,” said Nyctasia, with the conviction of one who has made the 
experiment. “In hair like yours, the effect would be maddening. I’ll make you a 
comb like that someday, if you like.”
“When?” Corson asked. She began to feel that she might recover after all.
Over the next week Corson’s health, as well as her handwriting, made rapid 
improvement. When several days had passed without a recurrence of the delirium, 
Nyctasia succumbed to Corson’s insistent demands that her weapons be returned.
“Er ... do you want these back as well?” Nyctasia asked hesitantly, holding out 
the golden earrings. “I’ve washed them in vinegar—they’re quite safe.”
“You wear them. If you live long enough, I’ll take them back.”
“Gold doesn’t suit me.”
Corson shrugged. “Keep them.”
With a sigh, Nyctasia changed her silver earrings for the gold.
31
“you’re right,” said Corson, some days later, “they look better on me. Give them 
back.”
They were sitting in The Crossroads in Mehomne, indulging in one of their usual 
arguments. They had arrived on the eve of a caravan’s departure for the Yth, and 
Corson had been hired by the travelers as an extra guard. It was a job few were 
willing to undertake, and the wages were more than liberal. Corson felt that the 
occasion warranted celebration, and she had already downed several tankards of 
ale.
Nyctasia too was in high spirits. “I’ve never known a man to equal ’Ben,” she 
said, resuming their earlier discussion. She returned the gold earrings to 
Corson and put on her silver ones.
“That’s because you don’t know Steifann. I’ve had them all—gentlemen, peasants, 
townsmen—nobody compares with Steifann.”
“Nobody ... ?” said Nyctasia, glancing towards a man who had just entered. 
Corson turned to look.
The newcomer was a striking, black-skinned man with strong, sharply chiseled 
features and a powerful, well-knit frame. He was of average height, but his 
proud, graceful bearing gave him greater stature.
“I see what you mean,” said Corson. For once, she and Nyctasia were in complete 
agreement.
“We could throw dice for him,” Nyctasia suggested.
“You’d charm the dice. Let’s arm wrestle instead. I’ll even use my right hand.”
“Thanks, but I’m afraid I’d find it difficult to write with all of my knuckles 
broken.”
“Well, we’ll just have to share him, then.”
“Done,” said Nyctasia.
They were delighted when the stranger, after glancing around the room, came 
straight to their table. Corson gave him her most winning smile but he only 
nodded to her, then turned to Nyctasia with a formal bow. “Give you good 
evening, my lady.”
Nyctasia frowned for a moment, but then broke into laughter. “Do sit down, sir,” 
she said graciously. “So you’ve come into the light at last—it was a shame to 
hide such beauty in the shadows. Are you still following me?”
“Let us put it that we have the same destination, my lady.”
Corson did not care for the turn events were taking. “Why didn’t you tell me you 
knew him?” she demanded.
“I wasn’t aware of it till he spoke,” Nyctasia explained. “An occasional 
conversation with an unseen person is not considered a proper introduction. But 
he’s been two steps behind me since before we left Rhostshyl.”
“I’d have known if someone was following you!”
“Corson, you are the best of bodyguards, but even you can’t watch for shadows in 
your sleep.”
“Another rutting magician!” Corson said with disgust, “They come out of nowhere 
like maggots these days.” She drained her ale and waved for another. “Do you 
want me to kill him?”
Nyctasia was enjoying herself. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“Too sure, perhaps,” the stranger interrupted, suddenly abandoning his 
deference. “You are too sure of a number of things, lady.”
Nyctasia leaned back, one eyebrow raised, as she contemplated this insolence. 
“What is this?” she said slowly, “another riddle?”
“No, a warning.” He paused, then exclaimed with vehemence, “You have made 
sacrifices, Edonaris, but you do not understand that for power one must 
sacrifice everything!” He did not take his eyes from Nyctasia’s, and she 
returned his stare. Bored, Corson finished her ale.
“What price have you paid for power?” Nyctasia said sharply. “Why have I never 
seen you by daylight? Why do you give no name?”
He looked away. “I have not given up what was not mine to give.”
Nyctasia’s grey eyes were the color of steel. “You dare say that I have done 
so?”
He shook his head. “If I still suspected you, you would never have seen my face. 
Nor would I risk my life to warn you.”
“What is this warning, then?”
“Do not go to Hlasven,” he said softly.
“You are no servant of Shiastred!”
“Nor are you, Lady Nyctasia. Not yet.”
Nyctasia glared at him in disbelief. “I suppose you bribed ’Ben’s messenger to 
give you the letter?”
He made a gesture of dismissal. “The letter did not interest me. To command a 
Reflection of the spirit I needed to see you and receive a token from you. This 
has served my purpose,” he said, handing Nyctasia her glove.
“I’m sorry to have put you to such trouble.” Nyctasia said coldly. “It would 
have been easier with a lock of my hair.”
“It would have been easier to kill you! I preferred to try the spell. If I’d 
found you were no different from Shiastred, I’d have used any means to keep you 
from him. I can’t hope to fight both of you.”
“You will have to kill me, then.”
“We’ll see. I don’t expect you to believe me now—only listen. When you’ve 
learned the truth about Shiastred, come to me.”
For answer, Nyctasia threw the glove in his face, and rose to walk away without 
a word.
The stranger seized her arm. “Hear me—”
Corson had long since stopped listening and devoted herself to her drinking, but 
suddenly she too was on her feet. Kicking aside her chair, she pulled the man 
away from Nyctasia and stepped between them, sword in hand. Everyone in the room 
was watching them by now. “Nyc, do you want me to kill him or not?” she asked 
reasonably. “Make up your mind.”
Nyctasia smiled at her and shook her head.
Corson put up her sword. “Well, what are you lot staring at?” she inquired of 
the room at large, and people turned back to their own affairs.
The stranger sighed, rubbing his arm where Corson had twisted it. “My lady, you 
have nothing to fear from me. Will you not speak to me alone?”
“Very well,” Nyctasia said flatly. “I will listen, but I have nothing more to 
say.” She followed him to the door.
“Wait!” Corson protested, “We had an agreement. We’re supposed to share him.”
Nyctasia glanced back at her, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”
Corson stared after them, wondering whether she should follow Nyctasia. “That 
little slut,” she muttered, “let her fend for herself. He probably thinks she’s 
a boy, anyway.” She consoled herself with more ale and finally staggered off to 
bed, ignoring with drunken dignity several offers of company for the night.
 
“Move over!” Nyctasia demanded, trying to shove Corson to one side of the bed.
Corson grunted. “You’re back already,” she mumbled. “He must have been a 
disappointment.”
“I said move, you overgrown sow!”
“What happened?”
Nyctasia climbed over her. “Go back to sleep. The caravan leaves at sunrise, you 
know.”
“Tell me about him,” Corson insisted, still half asleep.
Nyctasia was silent for a time. “I should have let you kill him,” she said 
quietly. “He’s Vahr Kastenid.”
“What?”
“Go to sleep!”
Corson yawned. “It serves you right,” she said with satisfaction.
32
it was a good two days’ journey to the marches of the Yth, and the countryside 
grew ever wilder and more desolate on the way. They made camp early on the 
second night, at the edge of the wood, refusing to enter the Yth at nightfall. 
Everyone in the party felt oppressed and uneasy except Nyctasia, who was afire 
with anticipation. She argued that they would be no safer by day, since the Yth 
was known to harbor an unvarying twilight at all hours, but the others chose to 
wait for dawn, nevertheless.
Disappointed and restless, Nyctasia wandered around the camp, listening for 
sounds from the forest. Finally she came and sat by Corson, who was keeping 
watch by the campfire.
“Stop prowling about,” Corson ordered. “Stay where I can see you.”
“Look at this.” Nyctasia unclenched her fist, and a small flame appeared, 
dancing above her open hand as if an invisible wick grew from her palm.
Corson frowned at it. “Magicians!” she said, and spat.
“Must you do that?”
Corson pointed to the eerie flame over Nyctasia’s hand. “Must you do that?”
“I never could do it before. It’s the Influence of the Yth—so close, I’ve only 
to reach out for it!” She spoke as if to herself, and Corson looked off into the 
shadowy forest, ill at ease. Nyctasia had begun to seem a stranger to her.
“You’ve been different ever since we got near this cursed forest. You act like 
you’re listening to something no one else can hear. I don’t like it.”
“I do.” Nyctasia closed her hand over the flame and it vanished. “You could 
still turn back. There’s no need for you to make this journey.”
“I’m being paid handsomely for it—I’ll go back to Steifann’s with a fortune. I’m 
not afraid of spirits.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Your watch is up, Corson.” Another guard had arrived to relieve her. “Have you 
seen anything strange?”
“Just her,” said Corson, jerking her thumb at Nyctasia. They went off together, 
still arguing.
“Well, if everything’s so simple for you here, why don’t you do that mirror 
spell for me? The one I tried to do on the Windhover.”
“Oh, very well,” said Nyctasia, “but I’ll wager you’ll be disappointed. Fetch 
your mirror and meet me over there.” She pointed to a nearby stand of trees.
Corson had never expected her to agree, and now that Nyctasia was willing, she 
had her own misgivings. When she went for the mirror she remembered what had 
befallen those who’d used the spell unwisely, and her apprehensions began to get 
the better of her.
“Nyc ... are you sure it’s safe to do this? It won’t show me something 
monstrous, will it?”
“I’m glad you take your lessons so much to heart, Corson—you do me credit. No, 
there’s nothing to fear now. The power of this place is free to those within its 
bounds, if they’ve the knowledge to wield it. That’s what draws magicians here—”
“Like crows to carrion,” Corson suggested, “All right, I remember about that. 
Just get on with it, can’t you?”
Nyctasia shook her head indulgently and picked up the mirror, turning it towards 
Corson.
“Should I close my eyes?” Corson asked anxiously.
“You won’t see much if you do. Just think of what you want to see. Leave the 
rest to me.” She calmly recited the spell of Reflection, holding the mirror 
steadily before Corson’s fascinated gaze. The words sounded different from the 
way Corson remembered them.
At first the mirror showed Corson nothing at all, not even her own features. It 
was like staring through a window at a colorless winter sky. She tried to think 
only of Steifann. What would he be doing now? Sleeping, most likely, at this 
hour—he was always up before daybreak to go to market. But would anyone be 
sharing his bed?
Suddenly Corson gasped and leaned closer, straining to make out the distant 
shape barely visible in the glass. In her excitement, she forgot the mirror and 
her own surroundings. She could not have said whether the hazy images were 
drawing closer to her, or she to them.
“Ohh,” Corson whispered, transfixed.
Steifann was not asleep. He sat at the table in his room with his account books 
spread before him, carefully sliding the stones back and forth along the wires 
of a small counting-frame. He was hunched over his work, leaning on one elbow, 
his hair falling into his eyes. Every so often he glanced longingly at the bed. 
The candles had burned low. Yawning, he picked up a quill and began to enter 
figures in the ledger, but then the nib splayed out and left a blot of ink on 
the page. Steifann threw down the pen in disgust and got to his feet, stretching 
wearily. He went to the washstand and bent over the basin to splash water in his 
face, then shook his head briskly. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he returned to 
his stool and resignedly scraped away at the inkstain with a sharp knife. 
Steifann prided himself on keeping neat records.
Corson hated to see him so tired. “Steifann, get to bed, leave that for 
tomorrow. I can go to market with Annin in the morning.” Reaching out to touch 
his shoulder, she struck her hand against the silver mirror, and it was Nyctasia 
who answered her.
“Come to your senses, Corson, he can’t hear you.” She laid the mirror face down 
on the ground.
“Where ...” cried Corson, looking around in dismay. She snatched at the mirror 
but it showed her only her own baffled face. “But I ... he ...”
“I know,” Nyctasia said gently.
“It’s—it’s a cheat!”
“Yes, in a way. It’s a corrupt spell, turned to self-serving ends. It rarely 
gives what it promises.”
Corson was both angry and ashamed—she felt guilty not only for spying on 
Steifann, but for taking more from him than she ever gave in return. If she were 
there now, Steifann wouldn’t have to work all day and half the night, too.
The wretched mirror spell had revealed her reflection after all, and Corson 
wasn’t pleased with what she saw. “Does magic always make folk feel worse than 
they did before?” she demanded.
“Usually,” said Nyctasia.
 
The perpetual twilight of the forest made it impossible to tell day from night, 
and the travelers soon lost all track of time. Even when the sky was visible 
through the densely laced treetops, it showed a monotonous grey cast that might 
have been seen at any hour.
There were no definite landmarks, and they seemed always to be riding through 
the same stretch of wilderness again and again. When they halted to rest, the 
light from their cooking fire made the surrounding gloom seem even deeper and 
more forbidding. They spoke in whispers, while the sounds of the forest, usually 
distant and elusive, drew all too near.
“That’s only wolves, that howling,” said one of the merchants. “They won’t come 
close to a fire.”
“Werewolves, most likely. We should make torches.”
“Werewolves don’t fear fire,” Nyctasia said. “They make fires themselves. In 
fact, the sort of werewolves that inhabit the Yth only assume human form in 
order to make fires, or tend wounds—tasks that require hands, you see.” She 
warmed to her subject. “It’s also said they prefer to mate that way, though I 
don’t claim to know how that particular information was obtained. For most 
things they consider the human form inferior to the lupine.”
“Then how can you kill them?” someone interrupted.
“Why, just as you’d kill any animal. But they hunt in packs like other wolves. 
Of course ....”
Corson nudged her, and she looked up to meet hostile stares on all sides. Those 
who had been worried that a werewolf might spring into their midst were not 
heartened at the prospect of being attacked by an entire pack. Nyctasia smiled 
disarmingly, “But of course there’s no danger if we stay on the road—nothing in 
the forest will set foot on it. Just don’t let anything tempt you from the 
road!”
“No fear of that. Nothing could get me into that cursed forest!”
Everyone in the party agreed, but when they next woke, the guard who had last 
been on watch was not to be found.
They broke camp hurriedly. “There’s no use in our waiting. He won’t come back.”
“No one ever does.”
“That’s not so!” said Nyctasia sharply. “Some come back. If you see him by the 
side of the road, don’t listen to him, don’t look at him! And for vahn’s sake, 
stay out of his reach.”
“But how could we be sure?” asked another of the guards, unhappily. “He’s my 
friend.”
“If he comes onto the road he’s your friend. But don’t try to help him. If you 
were his friend you’re in more danger than the rest of us.”
“That’s true,” someone agreed. “You know the song about the enchanted groom.”
People nodded. ‘The Marriage of Makine.’
Nyctasia rode up beside the grieving woman. “Do you know the song?”
“No, lady.”
“Perhaps you should. It’s a pretty song, though a sad one.” Her clear voice 
pierced the eerie silence.
 
“There was dancing by the river 
On the eve of the marriage-tide, 
Till a calling from the forest 
Drew the bridegroom from the bride.
 
He left his friends, he left the feast, 
And the dancing in the meadow. 
He left the one he loved the best 
To follow a shining shadow.
 
She waited all night in the field alone, 
All night she called his name 
To guide him back from the forest black, 
And with the dawn he came.
 
She ran and took him in her arms 
She kissed his eyes that were so wild. 
‘Oh look at me, my love,’ said she, 
And he looked on her and smiled.
 
‘Oh speak to me, my love,’ she said, 
‘This very morn shall we be wed.’ 
She kissed his lips that were so cold—
‘I heard you call,’ was all he said.
 
She led him from the wood away, 
Across the field to the river’s edge, 
But he would not ford the rushing stream 
Nor set his foot upon the bridge.
 
And then she knew what thing it was 
That came to take her lover’s place. 
She saw its image mirrored clear 
Upon the water’s face.
 
Swiftly o’er the bridge she fled, 
Nor stayed for him that sought her, 
For only those of the living dead 
Will not cross living water.
 
It was the calling from the forest 
Drew the bridegroom from the bride. 
And there was never a wedding-fest 
Again at the riverside.”
 
“Bad luck to sing that here, maybe,” someone said, after a while.
They rode on in the timeless twilight.
From then on, Nyctasia insisted on staying with Corson whenever she was on guard 
duty. Corson was secretly glad of the company, but she indignantly denied that 
she needed Nyctasia’s protection.
“Nothing in that forest could be more of a nuisance than you are,” Corson took 
up a stick and raked a potato from under the ashes. She bit off half and wiped 
her mouth on her sleeve.
“Corson, you have the manners of an ox.”
“Mulghfth?” said Corson. She swallowed, and offered the half-eaten potato to 
Nyctasia. “Did you want some?”
Nyctasia hid her face in her hands and groaned. “You must be joking.”
But there was no answer, and she looked up to see Corson staring past her, 
open-mouthed. Nyctasia turned, and a sickening fear rose within her.
It was just as perilously beautiful as she’d heard. It held out its arms and 
laughed, and its laughter was sweet, melodic, entrancing. Burning with a 
sinister splendor, the Yth-Elf leaned toward them, and its body was a ripple of 
flame and shadow in the half-light of the forest.
Corson rose to her feet slowly, and the movement roused Nyctasia from her dazed 
contemplation of the radiant, sensual figure. “Corson!” she cried. “Don’t look! 
Wait!” She tried to pull Corson back, but Corson only thrust her roughly aside 
and started to move toward the Elf.
Nyctasia seized Corson’s pack and hastily spilled out the contents. She found 
the silver mirror and ran to hold it up before Corson’s eyes, frantically 
chanting a spell:
“Behold in this enchanted mirror 
Images reversed, but clearer. 
Herein all things reveal themselves. 
Behold the passion of the Elves!”
Corson backed away, but she could not take her eyes from the glass. 
Horrorstricken, she dashed the mirror from Nyctasia’s hand and fell to her 
knees, sobbing and retching.
Nyctasia stood over her protectively and dared to look back once at the Elf. It 
glared at her now, its exquisite features contorted with fury. For a moment she 
met the creature’s challenging gaze before it retreated among the trees. She 
heard it laugh again—not with seductive sweetness, but in a shrill, mindless 
titter that seemed to mock her.
“So that’s the game, is it?” Nyctasia thought, with a certain satisfaction. So 
be it. She would not be taken unawares.
Corson looked dubiously at the cup of thick, greenish liquid Nyctasia had given 
her. “It smells disgusting.”
“I’m afraid it probably tastes disgusting, too,” Nyctasia said apologetically. 
“Dried herbs wouldn’t be as bitter, but there’s no apothecary’s shop to hand, so 
fresh ones will have to do. It will give you a dreamless sleep, I promise you.”
Corson had not had an easy night’s rest since she’d seen the Elf. She lay awake 
for hours, and when at last she fell asleep she was plagued by terrifying 
nightmares that left her wakeful again. With a grimace, she shut her eyes and 
drank down the potion in two gulps. “Hlann’s blood, that’s foul!”
“I had nothing to sweeten it with. You’ll soon sleep, all the same.” Nyctasia 
spread a blanket on the floor of the tent. “Come lie down.”
Corson swallowed some water to wash away the taste of the sleeping draught, then 
threw herself down beside Nyctasia. “I don’t feel any sleepier than I did,” she 
complained. “That slime of yours probably won’t help at all.”
“It will help, if you let it,” Nyctasia said patiently. “Just lie quiet. If I 
had my harp I’d sing you a lullaby.”
“You ought to read to me from one of those books of yours. They’re dull enough 
to make anyone sleep.”
Nyctasia laughed. “Goodnight, Corson.”
“Night!” Corson mumbled. “Who knows whether it’s night or day in this 
Hlann-forsaken forest ...” She yawned.
Nyctasia watched her for a time. “Corson—”
“Hmm?”
“May I borrow your dagger and leave you mine in its place? I’ll bring yours back 
to you—I swear it on my honor as a Vahnite.”
“If you like,” said Corson drowsily. It seemed an odd request. Bring it back 
from where? And there was something else she should ask Nyctasia, but she was so 
sleepy .... For a moment it came to her and she roused herself just long enough 
to say, “Nyc, where did you find those herbs?”
Nyctasia leaned over her, gently stroking her hair. “Hush, Corson, sleep now. 
Don’t worry.”
33
entering the forest was, for Nyctasia, like coming into a garden after years in 
a barren wasteland. It was radiant with life, a wellspring of power. She felt 
that the world she had known until now was the domain of death—that she had 
escaped from some dire captivity.
She looked back at the road and was overcome with terror. It looked to her like 
the ghost of a dead, dried river—a river of evil that hungered to draw her in 
and drown her. The very dust of the road seemed to be the powdered bones of its 
victims. Surely, if she set foot upon it, it would leech the life from her and 
leave her one of the lost, shadowy creatures who wandered the road, only fit to 
be prey for ghouls or the perverse Elves. She shuddered, not at the ways of the 
Yth, but at the horror of the road—banishment from the source of life. She 
turned her eyes away in loathing.
Nyctasia willingly allowed herself to harbor the inhuman feelings that flooded 
her. She wished to know the voice of the Yth in all its treacherous glamour—to 
resist its lure because she chose to do so, not because she refused to hear it. 
To understand the Yth’s power was to master it.
She touched the hilt of Corson’s dagger, the token of the oath that bound her to 
return. It was a primitive spell, but all the more powerful for that. She forced 
herself to look back at the road, to see it as it was, and she smiled at the 
sight of it, familiar and reassuring. It was the way to her true home and her 
own kind. Unafraid, she turned and moved off deeper into the Yth.
The forest was as curious about Nyctasia as she was about it. Leaves brushed her 
face as she passed, and a grey bird lit on her shoulder and tried to steal one 
of her silver earrings. But she was not to be caught so easily. She would leave 
nothing belonging to her within the Yth’s power.
All about her there was a furtive rustling that quieted whenever she paused to 
listen. Even the wind seemed to follow her, whispering, carrying the sound of 
distant voices.
Nyctasia knelt to study a cluster of pale yellow mushrooms growing at the foot 
of a hollow tree. She held herself very still and watched from the corner of her 
eye, hoping that whatever hid nearby would take courage and draw nearer. The 
thickets stirred with wary, sly movements. She thought a pallid face peered out 
from the branches of a tree, but it vanished before she could turn to look. 
There was a frantic scurrying of shadows and Nyctasia was left in an absolute, 
ominous silence.
She looked up to see that the missing guard from the caravan was approaching 
her. He moved haltingly and his face was set in a mirthless, tight-lipped smile. 
He did nor speak to her.
Nyctasia had expected this. Rising unhurriedly, she faced him and made a Sign of 
Command, then uttered a simple spell of Unveiling. He backed away, grinning in 
rage, and Nyctasia saw that his teeth were sharp and jagged, and slanted back 
towards his throat. Then the creature lost all resemblance to the guard. It 
crouched on its haunches, snarling at Nyctasia, but when she took a step towards 
it, it turned and swiftly loped away.
Nyctasia meant to find the man, alive or dead, and this creature could lead her 
to him. She started in pursuit, but it ran faster than a person could follow on 
foot.
She would not be a person, then. This was the Yth, where one’s form only 
reflected the need of the moment, and her need was for speed and stealth and the 
keen senses of a hunter. Almost at once, a shape like a small silver fox darted 
through the trees and took up the chase.
Nyctasia was familiar with the Principle of Transformation. A shifting spell was 
not intended to change one thing into another, but to manifest the truth that 
all things were, in essence, one and the same. But only here, with the power of 
the Yth at her command, could she avail herself of this knowledge without risk. 
The teaching had always seemed to her more of an ideal than a reality.
Now it seemed altogether natural to take on a different shape, for this shape 
belonged to her as well. When it no longer suited her ends, she would simply 
discard it for another. She ran effortlessly, keeping track of her quarry by 
scent and hearing alone. She was assailed by a myriad of smells and sounds, some 
alluring and some threatening, but she kept to her course unswervingly.
All at once there was a familiar scent on the wind that made her stop and hug 
the ground, prowling about and sniffing. She gave a sharp whine. It was the 
smell of man, the smell of death. Nyctasia had found what she was seeking.
 
“Wake up, you! Your friend’s gone. Do you know what’s become of her?”
Still muzzy-headed, Corson said vaguely, “Who, Nyc? She was right here a moment 
ago.”
“She’s nowhere in camp, I tell you! Get up, everyone’s to be counted.”
It was soon determined that no one was missing except Nyctasia.
“She’s the one who knew all about the forest. If it could get her, no one is 
safe!”
“She knew too much about it, if you ask me. I never did trust that one.”
Corson was sure that Nyctasia had left the road by her own wish, but would she 
return? She wanted to wait, but the others insisted on moving the camp. Whatever 
had taken Nyctasia might still be close by.
While they took down the tents and harnessed the horses, Corson paced back and 
forth along the edge of the road, shouting for Nyctasia. No one told her to help 
load the wagons, but neither did they help her to call. Corson knew what they 
were thinking. She was thinking the same thing—what if Nyctasia did come back 
...?
 
Nyctasia was walking beside a stream, gathering some sweet-smelling herbs, when 
she heard Corson’s voice calling. She paid no heed to it at first but kept on 
her way, following the stream until she found that it was leading her back to 
camp. Surely not so soon? She stopped and sat down beside a shallow pool, trying 
to sort out her thoughts.
She dipped her hand in the clear water, and silvery minnows swam into her palm, 
curious and unafraid. Her reflection rippled as though with laughter. Gazing 
down at it, Nyctasia hardly knew its features for her own.
“Images reversed but clearer,” she murmured. Why should she renounce the power 
and freedom of the Yth for the sake of that stranger mirrored in the pool? What 
would she lose by yielding to the fascination of the forest?
Corson’s voice pulled at her like an answer to her questions, but she set her 
back to it and struck off aimlessly through the forest. She wandered among the 
whispering leaves and beckoning shadows, wishing to lose herself in the depths 
of the Yth, but still she could hear Corson calling her. Whichever way she 
turned, the shouting only grew louder, and she was soon within sight of the road 
again. Resigned, Nyctasia drew nearer to the campsite until she stood almost at 
the edge of the road. Half-hidden by the thickly tangled bushes, she watched the 
caravan prepare to depart. They were almost ready. She must have been gone 
longer than she’d intended.
Corson was no longer shouting. She stood in the middle of the road, looking 
about her hopelessly. Someone came over to her, and Nyctasia could hear them 
arguing, then Corson shrugged and followed after him.
Nyctasia approached reluctantly. Try as she might, she could not let her promise 
go unfulfilled.
“Wait!” She came to the edge of the road and held the dagger out to Corson.
For a moment, everyone was frightened into silence, then people shouted to 
Corson to keep her place.
Corson needed no warning. She made no move towards Nyctasia, but only drew her 
sword and waited, her face cold as stone.
Their fear amused Nyctasia. And Corson seemed most laughable of all, brandishing 
a sword as if such a weapon could avail against the Yin’s magic. She could 
destroy the lot of them if she chose!
“Corson, come away! Leave her!” the drivers whipped up the cart horses, and folk 
scrambled to mount the wagons, calling to each other to hurry. Corson began to 
back away, never taking her eyes from Nyctasia. Drawn against her will out of 
the shelter of the forest, Nyctasia followed her, still proffering the dagger.
Seeing her walk onto the road, Corson allowed her to approach. “Nyc ... ?”
“I told you I’d bring it back. You needn’t have worried.”
Corson’s relief was overmastered by rage. Seizing Nyctasia by the collar, she 
shook her roughly and shouted, “If you ever try a fool’s trick like that again, 
you’ll wish you’d been keelhauled before I finish with you!”
Nyctasia let herself be railed at and buffeted about, without a word of protest. 
When Corson paused for breath, she merely straightened her clothes and said 
mildly, “It is written, ‘If the Yth fails to make you its prey, beware lest it 
make you a predator.’ You’re quite right, Corson, I shouldn’t have gone. I’m 
sorry.”
“You are?!”
“Yes, I was wrong. It was far more dangerous than I expected.”
Corson was dumbfounded. Nothing she had anticipated was as unsettling as winning 
an argument with Nyctasia.
“It takes a witch to enter the Yth and return, so be thankful you have a witch 
with you!” Nyctasia said defiantly. “If I hadn’t gone she would have, and we’d 
have lost her as well.” She pointed at one of the guards. “You’ve seen him, 
haven’t you?”
The woman nodded. “He wouldn’t speak to me,” she said softly.
“We wouldn’t let her go to him. She wanted to,” one of the others volunteered.
“I thought as much. Listen to me, I found him—he’s dead, you must understand 
that. Here, I brought you this as proof.” Nyctasia handed her a brass armlet. “I 
don’t think you’ll see him again.”
“Thank you, lady,” the woman sobbed.
“Now, if you’re all satisfied, I should like to get some rest,” Nyctasia said 
scornfully.
No one answered her, but when she was out of earshot someone muttered, “We ought 
to kill that one, if you ask me.”
“No one’s asked you!” Corson snapped, loud enough for the rest to hear. “If 
anyone’s to kill her, it’ll be me. I’ve earned the pleasure!”
34
nyctasia had put on her new suit of black velvet for the first time that 
morning, and she looked more the lady than Corson had ever seen her.
But Corson was haggard and worn, and she didn’t even try to conceal it. “What 
are you waiting for?” she asked Nyctasia impatiently.
Nyctasia had reined in her horse at the crossroads and was letting the rest of 
the party pass her by, “I’m not going into Hlasven itself. The other road leads 
closer to my way.”
“You go where you like. I want to spend the night at the inn. I’m tired, Nyc.”
“I know. You’ll find a bed sooner if you come with me. We’re closer to ’Ben’s 
home now than to the hostel.”
Corson turned her horse. “All right then. I’d like to see if he’s as beautiful 
as you say.”
Nyctasia took the lead. The road gradually gave way to an overgrown track which 
branched and meandered, sometimes disappearing completely—but Nyctasia never 
hesitated. She rode through pathless fields and stretches of dense woods as 
confidently as if the way were clearly marked before her.
“You must have been here before!” Corson accused. “You know the way too well.”
“’Ben gave me very careful directions. I’ve studied them so often, I know them 
by rote.”
“That won’t do.” Corson halted her horse. “I know you think me a fool, but even 
a fool knows that no one could travel so surely through land unknown to them—not 
even with a good map in hand. You’ve lied to me all along.” She did not sound 
angry, only resigned and weary.
“Corson, no ... I’m sorry ... I didn’t think you’d care to hear the truth. I’ve 
not been here before, but I don’t have to look for the way because the way is 
looking for me.”
“You’re right, I don’t want to hear this. I’d rather you were just lying. How 
much farther is it, can you tell?”
“We’re close, Corson, I feel it!” She laughed excitedly. “Close to home!”
Soon the path reappeared and widened to a broad track that led through cleared 
ground. Nyctasia suddenly spurred her horse to a gallop.
Corson followed more slowly. Far ahead of her, she saw Nyctasia race to meet 
another rider. He lifted Nyctasia onto his own horse and, to Corson, they seemed 
to become one figure.
As she approached them, he was saying, “’Tasia, how could you cut off your hair? 
You look like a street urchin.” He held the reins with one arm and Nyctasia with 
the other.
“Or a vagabond student?” suggested Nyctasia. “But perhaps I’ll let it grow 
again, now.”
Corson had never seen her so carefree and elated. “She’s beautiful,” Corson 
realized, trying unsuccessfully to picture Nyctasia with long hair.
Watching them, Corson had to admit that for once Nyctasia had been telling the 
truth when she’d boasted of her handsome lover. He was all she’d claimed—lean 
and graceful, with a tense, whiplike frame that suggested carefully controlled 
power. Intense blue eyes burned against his dark skin, and thick black hair 
framed the sculpted planes of his face. Corson could well understand Nyctasia’s 
passion for him.
“And this is Corson,” Nyctasia was saying. “I’d never have reached the coast 
alive without her.”
Lord Erystalben looked at Corson for the first time. “Then she is welcome,” he 
said. Without waiting for a reply, he wheeled his horse about and rode ahead, 
leaving Corson to follow with Nyctasia’s mount. She had only to ride straight 
before her, for the walls of the keep could now be seen in the distance.
Corson was not offended by his treatment of her. He and Nyctasia had been parted 
for so long—how should he spare a thought for anyone else? And in truth, it was 
a relief to be spared further courtesies when all she wanted to do was rest.
She was met at the gates by a groom who took charge of the horses, while another 
servant offered to show her to her quarters. Corson gratefully followed.
Even when she found herself assigned to cramped servants’ quarters, Corson made 
no objection. She fell onto the narrow bed and was asleep at once.
Corson woke suddenly, confused, and for a sickening moment thought that she was 
still in the forest. Yet even as she realized where she was, the feeling 
persisted, like a dream she could neither quite remember nor quite forget. She 
would not have admitted to being frightened, but she rose at once and went in 
search of company.
Everyone fell silent as she entered the kitchen.
“Good day to all. My name’s Corson.”
No one offered a name in return. Finally, one of the women said, “You’ll have 
something to eat? Some ham and dripping-bread?”
Corson remembered that it was said to be unwise to speak one’s name in an 
enchanted place—or to eat or drink anything offered. She’d never put much faith 
in such tales, but she found that she had no appetite now. “No, I thank you. Let 
someone tell the Lady Nyctasia that I want to see her.”
“She’s with His Lordship.”
“I don’t care if she’s with all the gentry of the Maritime Alliance—she’ll see 
me! Take me to her!”
But they paid no attention to her demands. The woman went back to rendering ham 
fat in a pan. Scullions continued their scrubbing, and cleared ashes from the 
hearth.
“If you’re sent for, you’ll be told,” said a man whom Corson took for the 
steward.
That Lord Erystalben should think her a lackey was understandable, but why had 
Nyctasia sent her no word? She glared at Shiastred’s people, whose very calmness 
was unnerving. “Are you folk of flesh and blood, or of sand and smoke and 
spells?! This place reeks of magic. I’m leaving! Tell Her Ladyship I’d better 
things to do than wait on her pleasure. Tell her I’ve gone, if she thinks to 
ask!”
The steward rose. “You are free to go. We’ve no orders to hold you here. I’ll 
have your horse brought. Follow me.”
Corson lost most of that afternoon searching for the elusive path that led back 
to the road, and it was late in the day before she came upon familiar landmarks. 
Knowing that she would lose her way again if she traveled by night, she resigned 
herself to sleeping in the open.
As daylight faded, she made a tidy pile of dry twigs and bark for a fire, Flint 
and steel were in her pack, and she soon coaxed the spark into a small but 
comforting blaze that allayed her solitude. If she set out at first light, she 
could reach the crossroads by noon. Soon she would be on the great trunk road 
that skirted the Yth and led back towards Mehomne. She was going home—and with 
enough money in her pockets to set the folk at Steifann’s back on their heels.
Corson stared into the fire, wondering, not for the first time, if the real 
reason she continued in her restless, wandering ways was the pleasure she took 
in coming home to the Hare. She always reveled in the commotion she caused when 
she arrived, unlocked for, loaded with gifts and full of wild, exaggerated tales 
about her daring exploits. Naturally, no one believed these stories—except for 
the cook’s children, who could never hear enough of her adventures. They’d run 
about waving wooden swords, playing at warriors, until Walden threatened to use 
Corson for stew-meat if she didn’t stop filling their heads with her rubbish.
But after the excitement of her homecoming had waned, Corson would soon begin to 
tire of the familiar pattern of life at the Hare. There was plenty of work to be 
done, and Corson did her share, but she could never get used to the monotony of 
doing the same chores day after day.
Steifann always gave her a hearty welcome and urged her to stay, but his time 
was largely taken up with the responsibilities of keeping the tavern. He never 
seemed to tire of the endless round of marketing and cooking, overseeing both 
the help and the customers, and studying his account books. Despite his 
generosity and good humor, Steifann was known as a shrewd man of business, and 
the tavern turned a tidy profit under his direction.
“You’re a slave to this place!” Corson had once complained. “You won’t even come 
on a fortnight’s journey with me. What good’s all this to you, if you’re just a 
drudge?”
“At least I know where my next meal’s coming from, which is more than you 
do—except when you’re cadging from me!” Though Corson earned her way at the 
Hare, Steifann always joked that she ate enough for three. “I’ll probably end my 
days in the alms-house from feeding you.”
Corson tugged playfully at his beard. “I do well enough on my own.”
“So does a stray dog, but that doesn’t mean that you should live like an animal. 
And die like an animal,” he added soberly. “You’ve never had a home, Corson, but 
if you live long enough to learn common sense you’ll be glad of a roof over your 
head.”
“And just remember,” he teased, “if you don’t choose to settle down with me, 
there are others who’d be glad of the chance—”
He got no further because Corson gave a yell of outrage and shoved him out of 
the bed, which put an end to the argument for then.
Though Corson’s carping about Steifann’s other bedmates was mostly in jest, she 
did worry that he might find someone else better suited to his way of life. When 
the boredom of chopping wood and peeling vegetables grew too great, she 
sometimes hired on with the city guard of Chiastelm just to be near him, but her 
days in the army had left her with little taste for routine and regimentation. 
Anything that curbed her freedom felt like a trap to Corson, even Steifann’s 
concern for her.
Still, looking back over her bleak and brutal past, she could see that what 
Steifann offered her was better by far than any life she had yet known. In the 
army, she’d only been marking time until the moment when a sword or spear would 
make her food for the crows. When she was forced to fight, she fought with 
ferocity and cunning; she ate whatever was doled out to her, then stole from 
those weaker than herself; and, hardest of all, she learned to obey her 
superiors’ orders well enough to avoid being beaten into the dirt.
When her term in the army was over, Corson had set out on her own, determined to 
live as she liked and let nothing hinder her. She went wherever a skilled sword 
was needed, traveling from place to place, squandering her pay on gambling and 
ale. Her newfound freedom often brought her nights in prison, where she lay sick 
with drink until the magistrates saw fit to release her—taking whatever money 
she might have left. It was only through good fortune that Corson had so far 
escaped the early death that was the common fate of her kind.
Her first piece of luck was Desmalkin, a young student, who was thrown into her 
cell one night for trying to cheat an innkeeper. They’d taken up with each other 
for a few months, and his company had been a civilizing influence on Corson. She 
was in awe of his sophistication and learning, and he was gratified by her 
obvious admiration. She had insisted that he teach her to read, more to gain his 
respect than from a desire to better herself. But ’Malkin was pleased with her 
progress, and even Corson began to suspect that there might be more to life than 
mere survival.
’Malkin had his own ambitions, however, and when he entered the service of a 
provincial nobleman as a scribe, he found that it no longer suited his position 
to be seen with a common ruffian like Corson. She was hurt and bitter, and 
before long had fallen back into her old habits.
Corson’s second piece of luck had been Steifann. Unlike the polished ’Malkin, he 
genuinely cared for Corson, but he couldn’t afford to harbor troublemakers at 
the Hare and he would make no exceptions for her. Time and again, Corson would 
ride off, swearing never to return. She would be again as she had been, free, 
with no thought for anyone but herself.
But wherever she went she found herself thinking, “What would Steifann say to 
this?” and “Wait till Steifann hears about that!”—and in time she’d find a 
reason to return to Chiastelm. Steifann’s hold on her was frightening, but 
Corson wasn’t sure she wanted to break free. Often, while he slept, she would 
study his face as though its features held the answer to a question she had not 
yet learned to ask. Had all her traveling been in search of that answer—and had 
she now found it only to lose it again through her own blindness? Was her 
vaunted freedom really no more than aimlessness and license?
Corson picked up a twig and began to strip off bits of bark. “After all, what 
freedom do I really have? Always following someone else’s orders—‘Very good, my 
lord ... Yes, my lady ...’ bowing and scraping and maybe dying for some nasty 
little aristocrat who can’t even be bothered to bid me farewell—!” She snapped 
the twig in two and tossed it into the fire. “Steifann’s worth the lot of them!”
The vision conjured up by the mirror spell continued to haunt her. She should be 
in Chiastelm with Steifann, not traipsing about like a tinker! Why couldn’t she 
make up her mind to stay with him, then?
If her life had been crueler before she met Steifann, at least it had been 
simpler, Corson thought ruefully. In those days she had been all of a piece—she 
had acted without hesitation and suffered no afterthoughts. But now there seemed 
to be two Corsons, each clamoring for something different. One wanted the 
affection and security that Steifann could give her, while the other still 
feared confinement more than loneliness, still drew her strength from a black 
pool of hatred and anger. Would that demon never let her rest?
Corson yawned and moved closer to the fire. The night was turning cooler and a 
light breeze had come up. “What’s the good of maundering on like this?” she 
chided herself. “I’m just tired and hungry, that’s what ails me.” She made a 
poor meal on the remains of the provisions in her saddlebag, and wished that 
she’d accepted the offer of food from Shiastred’s cook. Now that she was well 
away from the place her qualms seemed like foolishness, and the sense of shadowy 
menace had left her. Sighing, Corson stood and began to scuff out the fire, then 
lay down and shifted about, trying to find a softer spot of ground. “Asye, but I 
must be getting old. Time was when I’d sleep in the mud for weeks and not give 
it a thought.”
Overhead, the stars burned clear as candles in the cloudless night sky. “A fair 
day tomorrow and good traveling.” Corson pulled the saddle blanket over her 
shoulders and slept soundly until dawn, undisturbed by sinister dreams.
35
a day’s easy ride brought her to the roadside hostel. A meal and some strong ale 
was what she needed now.
A few of her fellow travelers from the merchant troupe were sitting together at 
supper, but when Corson greeted them she was met with a hostile silence. 
Bewildered, she turned to one of the guards who’d stood watch with her. “What’s 
the matter here?”
He gestured toward a corner table where someone sat slumped over a tankard of 
ale. “Everyone knows you’re her friend. I’d get her out of here if I were you,” 
he said, and turned his back on Corson.
“Oh no,” said Corson. “It can’t be!” But there was nothing for it. She crossed 
the room to Nyctasia’s table.
“Corson! How delightful! Will you have a drink?” She leaned back in her chair 
and waved for more ale. “Did I ever tell you that your name is a corrupt form of 
‘Corisonde’? At least I think it is.”
“You’re drunk!”
“I looked for you when I left, but you’d already gone—and very sensible of you, 
too. I thought I’d pass you on the way here.”
“I lost my way. What are you doing here? Where’s Lord Collarbone?”
Nyctasia looked at her dully. “’Ben? He’s—he’s dead, I think .... I don’t know.” 
She shuddered and took a long draught of her ale.
Corson sat down. “What are you talking about?”
For a moment, Nyctasia’s eyes held a terrible clarity. “Everything that is taken 
must be paid for,” she said. “But there are ways of making others pay for what 
one takes. The vahn forbids such a thing .... I can never return to him now, I 
must not!” Staring into her empty tankard, she said softly, “I might better have 
stayed in Rhostshyl to be murdered, what does it matter?” She began to rock back 
and forth, her face in her hands. “Kastenid tried to warn me, but how could I 
believe him? I want more ale.”
“You’ve had your fill. You’re not used to drink.”
Nyctasia laughed wildly. “That’s because I never knew it was such an effective 
Consolation!” She seemed to find this extraordinarily funny. She reached for 
Corson’s tankard and, as Corson snatched it from her, she tossed a gold coin 
into the ale. “Look!” she said proudly. A goldfish was swimming in the dark 
liquor.
Corson gasped and dropped the tankard. Ale spattered their boots, and the coin 
rolled across the floor. No one picked it up. “Nyctasia,” Corson said tensely, 
“a lady does not make a spectacle of herself in public!”
Nyctasia giggled. “So beware, my Lady Alys,” she sang tipsily. She threw back 
her head and drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly with a look of intense 
concentration. To Corson’s horror, three large, pale moths drifted from 
Nyctasia’s mouth, one after another. They fluttered about erratically then 
dissolved in the air like smoke.
“That tickles,” Nyctasia remarked, laughing.
Corson now understood the suspicion that surrounded them. Those who lived near 
the forest mistrusted magic, and the travelers had been wary of Nyctasia from 
the start. They took her for some creature of the Yth—and Corson was not quite 
sure that they were wrong.
Nyctasia had begun to trace patterns on the tabletop with the spilled ale, 
muttering to herself in some foreign tongue. “I think I’ll summon a demon,” she 
announced loudly, raising one arm in a dramatic gesture. A serving-girl shrieked 
and dashed for the kitchen. Several people started to their feet, seizing knives 
or staffs. A heavy earthenware pot struck Nyctasia’s shoulder.
Corson grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her to the door. They were both 
thrust roughly into the yard amidst shouted threats and curses. Someone threw 
Nyctasia’s satchel of books out after them, and the door was slammed and bolted.
Nyctasia sat up and tried to wipe the mud from her face with an equally muddy 
hand. “I’m an Edonaris,” she protested, slurring her words slightly, “and a 
Rhaicime! How dare they!”
Corson kicked her. “Get up, lady,” she spat. “Rhaicime! Rutting half-wit! You 
almost got our throats cut for us!”
Nyctasia rose unsteadily to her feet and regarded Corson with wounded dignity. 
“You are forthwith dismissed from my service. Leave me!”
“I ought to! I don’t know what stops me—I must be bewitched. Come along!” She 
led Nyctasia to the stables and heaved her, none too gently, onto her horse.
Even drunk, Nyctasia instinctively gripped with her knees to keep her seat. 
“Where are we going, love?” she asked amiably, following Corson out of the 
courtyard.
“There’s a village about a league down the Hlasven road. We’ll find some sort of 
shelter there.” Corson thought resentfully of the lost comforts at the hostel. 
“I didn’t even get a meal. You and your stinking sorcery! Moths ... ! It’s 
disgusting!”
“I don’t think I could really summon a demon,” Nyctasia said wistfully. “Of 
course I’ve never tried it so close to the Yth.”
Corson rode closer to her and took her roughly by the arm. “You’re not about to 
try it now, either—I’ll break your arm first!”
Nyctasia smiled blandly at her. “Yes, Maeg.”
“Asye ...!” sighed Corson, and rode ahead. They went on in silence broken only 
by snatches of songs and spells from Nyctasia.
 
“Behold in this enchanted mirror 
Images reversed but clearer. 
Patterns of shattered shadow yield 
Their mysteries in silverglass revealed. 
Read if you will the gleaming’s meaning, 
Pierce the ... something ... mmm ... seeming. 
Deep in ....”
 
“I forget the rest,” she yawned.
“Good. I don’t want to hear that. Sing something else.”
“‘The Cold Ballad’?” suggested Nyctasia.
 
“And some folk said that she had died 
Through working of a curse. 
A doll, a needle in its side, 
An image shrouded in a band? 
And others whispered worse. 
 
Had she not enemies in the land? 
Forbidden rivalry, bitter scorn—
They guessed at poison in her wine. 
A venom’d thorn, A length of twine, 
A sudden, smothering hand?
 
But no one ever shall discover, 
Nor guess, what she walked out to find. 
A rose, a shell, her demon lover 
Perhaps her peace of mind ...”
 
Nyctasia stopped abruptly.
“Is that the end?”
“No, there’s another verse, but I’ve never understood it. I don’t even like that 
song,” she said petulantly.
“Oh, hold your noise. There’s someone coming. We must be near the village.” 
Peering into the darkness, Corson could make out two figures approaching on 
foot, one holding up a lantern. “We can ask them about lodgings.”
“You there—” she called, but the man in front went straight to Nyctasia and took 
the reins of her horse.
“’Ben!” she exclaimed happily, leaning over to caress his cheek, “I’ve missed 
you terribly ...” She reached down to him and he caught her by the waist and 
lifted her from the saddle. “I can’t walk,” she laughed.
“No matter, ’Tasia, we’ve not far to go. I’ll carry you.” He picked her up 
easily, cradling her in his arms, and started back along the dark road.
Corson dismounted hastily. “My lord, where are you taking her? Wait!” 
Shiastred’s servant laid a warning hand on her arm, but she shook him off and 
followed. Nyctasia had not made much sense that evening, but she had certainly 
meant to break with Lord Erystalben, Corson stepped in front of him, barring the 
way.
“Stand aside,” he commanded. Nyctasia looked on curiously, her head nestled 
against his throat.
“Let her be, she’s out of her senses with drink. I can’t let you take her off—”
Shiastred laughed. “Your sense of duty does you credit, woman, but I assure you, 
your mistress is not in danger. I have told you once to stand aside.”
“She’s not my mistress, and I’ve told you once to let her go!” But as Corson 
stepped towards him, she was stricken with a sudden irresistible weakness that 
left her helpless. Overcome by dizziness, she fell to her knees at Shiastred’s 
feet. Raising her head with an effort she met his cold blue eyes, narrowed in 
anger.
“Call off your watchdog, ’Tasia. She’s liable to bite someone.”
Puzzled, Nyctasia looked down at Corson crouched in the road, her face mad with 
rage and hatred. “Not a watchdog, a wildcat,” Nyctasia said solemnly, “Killed 
three of my best hunting dogs.” She laid her head back on his shoulder and 
closed her eyes, sighing deeply.
“See to her,” Shiastred ordered his man, nodding towards Corson. He walked past 
her indifferently, bearing Nyctasia off into the darkness.
“The weakness will pass soon,” the servant said. He helped Corson to rise and 
mount, then led away Nyctasia’s horse. Corson could only follow.
She asked no questions, and did not look up until they halted in the yard of a 
great stone hall. “But where are we?” She knew of no manor house this side of 
the village.
“Why, at my lord’s holding, of course. He never goes far hence.”
Corson recognized the place now, and her senses reeled in protest. “But I took 
the Hlasven road,” she cried. “I know I did!”
36
the chamber had been arranged entirely to Nyctasia’s taste, as only one who knew 
her well could have done it. The furnishings were sparse but rare, of marble and 
oak and ivory. In the center of the carpet there stood a round table of 
petrified wood, and the bed filled a niche draped with curtains of dark brocade, 
shot with silver threads. A mirror in a silver frame hung on one wall, flanked 
by brackets holding silver candlesticks.
The deeply arched window overlooked a pool amid overgrown gardens, and on the 
window seat stood a small, silver-stringed harp of black ebon wood. Shiastred 
set it aside and laid Nyctasia, half-asleep, among the cushions.
Not until he had left her did she open her eyes and try to sit upright. Her head 
ached cruelly, and the sight of the chamber sobered her still more, as she began 
to remember her reasons for leaving it the day before. She took up the black 
harp and very lightly brushed the strings, but set it down again when she heard 
Shiastred’s footsteps in the corridor.
He handed her a heavy goblet of a steaming, fragrant liquid which she accepted 
gratefully, knowing that it would ease the throbbing pain behind her eyes.
“And since when have you taken to drink?” he asked.
Nyctasia looked at him over the rim of the goblet, “Since when have you taken to 
human sacrifice, ’Ben?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, ’Tasia! You too have destroyed your enemies—”
“To protect myself, not to increase my own power!”
“Which of them would not do as much to me if they could?” he demanded angrily, 
but then said more gently, “Sometimes that is the only way to protect oneself. 
You do not yet know the Yth as I do.”
Nyctasia shook her head, still too tipsy to argue. She knew there were reasons, 
but it was so hard to arrange her thoughts. “I don’t care what you do to your 
enemies, ’Ben. I care what you do to your own spirit.”
Shiastred stood over her, as if undecided whether to stay or go, but now he sat 
at her side, looking out over the dark gardens. “Are you so changed to me 
’Tasia? I would not have believed that you could mistrust me, turn from me .... 
To what end have I won this safe hold if not for you—that we might be together, 
beyond the reach of any enemy?”
“It is not I who have changed. We never thought to pay such a price for our 
freedom.”
“We were children then! Yth-land is not won for the asking, or held by the weak. 
Kastenid lost this place because he would not do all in his power to keep it. 
But together we would be proof against any challenge. We’d have no need to use 
our enemies’ ways to defend ourselves. That is what we wanted!”
He drew her into his arms, caressingly massaged her aching temples with strong, 
knowing fingers. “But if you would renounce our plans now, ’Tasia, we shall 
leave here together. Let Kastenid take back his own—what can it mean to me if 
you no longer want it? We will travel if you wish. Only tell me what you want me 
to do!”
Nyctasia closed her eyes. “I want you to hold me, ’Ben.” She knew that she was 
vulnerable, in her confusion, to Influences she should resist, and that 
lovemaking would only weaken her further. She knew that there were questions to 
be asked, plans and promises to be made. Yet she told herself that they would 
wait, that her desire would not. A chill went through her as Erystalben lightly 
kissed the back of her neck. “I want you to hold me,” she said.
 
Corson was awakened next morning by a servant who informed her that she was 
wanted by Her Ladyship and must come at once.
She had not spent a peaceful night. Too weak to seek other shelter, she’d had no 
choice but to remain under Shiastred’s roof. The sickening dizziness had 
gradually left her, but sleep had not brought her rest. In her dreams, she was 
harried by a great hawk that circled about her, raking at her with its talons. 
Each time she tried to strike down the raptor it swept out of reach of her 
sword, letting her wear herself out with useless blows, biding its time to 
strike. She woke still exhausted from the losing battle.
She was suspicious of the summons. Suppose it were a trap? She knew she was at 
Shiastred’s mercy as long as she was within his walls, but how could she get 
away if every road only led her back to this cursed place? The sense of 
confinement struck her with a cold panic terror. All her prowess would be 
unavailing against Shiastred’s sorcery. Would she really be allowed to see 
Nyctasia?
She followed the servant up a long staircase and through a series of winding 
corridors. He left her at the curtained doorway of Nyctasia’s chamber.
“Good morning, Corson. I trust you’ve been well looked after?” Nyctasia said 
graciously. She was sitting in bed, wrapped in a robe of silver-grey watered 
silk.
At first Corson was dumbfounded by Nyctasia’s distant manner, but then she saw 
Lord Erystalben watching them from the alcove window.
Corson stiffened. “I want to talk to you alone.”
“Do you hear, ’Ben?” laughed Nyctasia. “You are dismissed!”
He shook his head, smiling tolerantly. “You were always too familiar with your 
servants, ’Tasia.”
“Oh, but one must allow for some spirit. One doesn’t want a bodyguard with the 
gentle temper of a ewe-lamb.”
He came to Nyctasia and, leaning over her, lovingly raised her head. “You’ve no 
need of a bodyguard now.” Pulling her close, he gave her a lingering kiss. 
Corson moved well out of his way as he went to the door, but he passed her as 
though she weren’t there.
“You’ve changed your mind again?” Corson asked, feeling like a fool. She sat 
down on the bed by Nyctasia, uninvited, “When I found you at the hostel you said 
you would never come back here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember much of what I said last night,” Nyctasia admitted 
ruefully. “I ought not to drink. ’Ben had insisted that we make a marriage pact, 
and we quarreled—but as you can see, I gave way in the end.” She held out her 
hand to show Corson the slender golden band.
“But what of you, Corson? I thought you were eager to return to Chiastelm.” She 
pointed to a well-filled purse on the table at her bedside. “That will more than 
meet your needs, though of course you are welcome to stay. You will always be 
welcome here. I know what I owe you.”
Corson did not dare to slap her. “You owe me nothing, lady,” she said, rising. 
“I want to reach the crossroads before dark—have I your leave to go?”
“Of course. A safe journey to you, Corson.” She summoned a servant to show 
Corson out.
37
this time, corson had no difficulty finding her way to the hostel. “If that 
Yth-taken friend of yours—” the host began.
“She’s not with me! And she’s not my friend. I want a room!” Corson looked 
around defiantly, daring anyone to try and put her out. Today she’d give them a 
fight, and welcome. But no one challenged her, and she was shown at once to a 
small bedchamber. She ordered some ale and dropped wearily onto a bench by the 
window overlooking the moonlit roadway.
Corson knew that no one at the inn wanted anything to do with her, and she could 
hardly blame them. “That ungrateful bitch!” she thought, leaning her arms on the 
windowsill and staring out into the night. She cursed the day she’d met 
Nyctasia, she cursed all magicians and then all the aristocracy for good 
measure. On an angry impulse, she took off the earrings Nyctasia had given her 
and pushed them into her pouch, “I’ll sell the filthy things. I don’t want her 
cast-off trinkets.”
“Gold doesn’t suit me,” she said prissily, mimicking Nyctasia’s high voice and 
aristocratic accent. “Gold’s not good enough for her!”
Corson frowned. Some notion seemed to leap out at her like a startled fox, plain 
in the moonlight for only a moment, then scuttling back into the shadows. Lost 
in thought, she didn’t hear the hesitant knock at the door, and she was startled 
when the serving-maid appeared with her ale. The girl approached timorously and 
set a pitcher and mug on the bench next to her. “I don’t have any demons in my 
pockets!” Corson snapped, and the child hurried off in confusion.
“I might as well be a leper, thanks to Her Ladyship!”
Corson shook her head, still vexed by the memory of Nyctasia’s indifference. She 
knew what an accomplished actress Nyctasia could be, but she could not persuade 
herself that Nyctasia’s familiarity with her had all been feigned. If Nyctasia 
were really as haughty and proud as all that, she would never have taken so much 
trouble to nurse Corson back to health. She’d have thought it beneath her to 
cosset and humor a lowly servant like Corson, to wait on her with her own hands.
Had she been acting when she’d dismissed Corson with cold formality? Why should 
she perform such a masquerade for Corson’s benefit—was she afraid of Lord 
Erystalben?
Corson downed a mug of ale and poured herself another. No, Nyctasia had been 
more than willing to throw in her lot with that bloodless, spindle-shanked 
bastard, of that Corson was certain. She slammed her fist down on the 
windowsill. If only there were some way to settle her score with Shiastred! He’d 
called her a dog, and she’d slunk off like a whipped dog, too. If she could just 
fight him on her own terms—! She gulped down the last of her ale and went 
downstairs for more. Though no one was likely to drink with her, she preferred 
the busy taproom to her own chamber just then. She fetched a fresh pitcher and 
took a seat at an empty table.
To her surprise, someone did sit down across from her before long. She looked up 
from her drink. “You again! Let me be—Lady Nyctasia’s not here.”
“So I see,” said Vhar Kastenid. “Where is she?”
Corson took a long pull at her ale. “She’s dead.”
“Dead—how? What do you mean?”
“You ought to know what it means. She said you were right about him—that he was 
dead. I wish he was!”
“Then she has left him?” he asked eagerly.
“Well, she did, but she went back again. Of course, she was sotted,” Corson 
snickered.
“Impossible—Lady Nyctasia observes the Discipline. You’d best tell me everything 
from the beginning.”
Corson fell silent. Her wounded pride rankled too keenly for her to tell of her 
humiliation at Shiastred’s hands. “It’s none of your affair.”
“You don’t understand. She’s in grave danger.”
“She’s always in danger!” Corson exploded. “What’s it to me? I don’t care what 
becomes of that high-handed, treacherous vixen!”
“But I care what becomes of her, and I need your help. You want vengeance on 
Shiastred. Don’t deny it. This is no time for your cursed sullenness!”
Corson started to her feet, fists clenched. “You—!” But at a look from Kastenid 
she suddenly caught her tongue. Shiastred had looked at her in that way.
“Sit down,” he said quietly.
Corson obeyed. “You’re no better than he is,” she muttered.
“That’s as may be. We want the same things, he and I, but I perhaps am more 
particular as to how I get them.”
“What do you want with me?”
“What would I want with a mercenary but to buy her services? And I pay well,” He 
studied Corson for a long moment. “What is it you fear?”
“I’m no coward!” Corson hesitated, toying with her empty mug. “But I’m ... 
helpless. I can’t fight Shiastred.”
“I don’t want you to fight him. That is for me to do. But I cannot challenge him 
at the source of his power. If he’s drawn off his own ground he’ll be weaker, 
and with Lady Nyctasia’s help I could defeat him.”
“Are you mad? She won’t turn against him!”
“I believe she will, once she’s freed from his Influence. When she broke the 
Discipline she abandoned her defenses, and now she’s beyond my reach, within his 
domain. But you can go there freely. She trusts you, and Shiastred has no reason 
to harm you. He’ll not consider you a threat.”
“I know. I’m beneath his notice.”
He leaned closer to her. “Do you dare to return there?”
It was a wise choice of words to put Corson on her mettle. “I’ve daring enough. 
But I warn you, for such a deed I command a noble fee.” She did not much trust 
Kastenid, but without a magician’s help she could never hope to foil Lord 
Erystalben. It could do no harm to hear him out. As he talked, she reached 
absently into her pouch for the gold earrings and put them on.
 
“Come for a ride with me,” said Corson. “I want to talk to you.”
Nyctasia was more than ever a stranger to her. She treated Corson as a favorite, 
whose familiarity was to be indulged. Shiastred simply took no heed of her—how 
Nyctasia managed her servants was her own affair.
They rode along a path that led up into the hills toward the stone but where 
Kastenid was waiting. “Bring her as far as you can,” he’d told Corson. “I’ll try 
to create an Influence to draw her on, but I can do nothing while she remains 
within his walls.”
Nyctasia reined in her horse, frowning. “We’ve come far enough, Corson. What 
have you to say to me?”
Corson dismounted. She seated herself on a fallen log and waited for Nyctasia to 
join her. “I’ve been with Kastenid, Nyc. He says you’re spellcast and I believe 
it. You’re not the same.”
“One behaves more freely on the road, of course—formalities may be put aside. 
But the journey is over now.” She looked off into the hills. “So Kastenid hopes 
to use you to sway me? He is wrong to bring you into this. You do not understand 
the risks you run.”
“I don’t trust any magician. Never mind Kastenid—you should come away from here 
for your own sake. This place is a prison!”
Nyctasia rose. “This is where I belong. Go back to Chiastelm, Corson, you can do 
no good here.” She held out her hand. “Farewell.”
Corson shrugged. “I’ve done my best.” She suddenly smiled and reached her right 
hand out to meet Nyctasia’s. “Farewell, Nyc.” Her fist caught Nyctasia neatly 
under the jaw in a swift, stunning blow.
38
 “how do you, Lady Nyctasia?” Kastenid asked worriedly, holding a skin of water 
to her lips. “Can you rise?”
Nyctasia gingerly touched her sore jaw and winced. “I trust you enjoyed doing 
that,” she said to Corson.
“Oh, I did. It was a great pleasure.”
“She’s been wanting to hit me for a long time,” Nyctasia said, turning to 
Kastenid, “but I do not see what you hope to gain from this. I have answered you 
for the last time. If you cannot stand against him, you must fall!”
Kastenid was silent, shaken by Nyctasia’s unlooked-for scorn. Wearily, he passed 
his hand over his face and sighed, “At every turn you elude me, lady.”
“I’ll not be bait to lure him from his stronghold.” She went to the doorway of 
the hut, only pausing to say, “And if you’re wise, you’ll be gone from here 
before he takes up your challenge.”
“Shall I hit her again?” Corson suggested.
Kastenid looked blindly after Nyctasia. “You were right,” he said finally, “she 
is dead.”
But a moment later they heard Nyctasia’s high, clear laughter outside. “No, it 
was my own fault,” she said. “Come away.”
“Shiastred! You’ll deal with me first!” Kastenid shouted. Corson reluctantly 
followed him outside.
“Just as you will,” said Erystalben ar’n Shiastred, smiling. “I should have 
dealt with you long ago.” He was perfectly confident and at his ease.
“’Ben, there’s no need for this,” Nyctasia urged. “He can be no threat to us 
now.”
“It is not I who insist upon it. I’ve spared you once before, Kastenid. I shall 
do so again if you let me.”
Kastenid, too, smiled. “I’ll not find you so far from your lair again.”
Shiastred gestured in resignation. “Speak to him, ’Tasia. Perhaps he’ll listen 
to you.”
“Come to your senses, Kastenid. You seek your own destruction.”
He barely glanced at her. “If you will not stand with me, stand aside.”
“Enough!” said Shiastred, and suddenly they were surrounded by an intense 
silence. Corson could not tell when the conflict had begun. Neither man 
moved—they still stood facing one another across the stony ground, but they no 
longer smiled. No leaf stirred and the air grew still and heavy. But Corson 
remembered how Shiastred had struck her down on the road without a blow, and 
nothing could have made her walk between the two magicians.
Nyctasia was white and rigid with tension. She never took her eyes from 
Shiastred, and when he reached out to her she went to his side at once. Kastenid 
staggered suddenly and fell back a pace.
“Nyc, don’t!” Corson gasped, hardly knowing what she meant. Nyctasia turned to 
her, and Corson was certain that for a moment her grey eyes were a vivid blue.
“Don’t interfere in this, Corson. I have no quarrel with you.” She raised her 
hand in warning, and Corson suddenly saw what had been before her eyes all the 
time. Seizing Nyctasia’s outstretched hand, she wrenched off the golden wedding 
band and flung it from her with all her strength.
Nyctasia cried out like a lost child. At the same time, Shiastred whirled to 
face Corson, and the full force of his fury struck her before she had time to 
think. The sky seemed to wheel, and she was crushed to the ground by an 
agonizing weight. Pain seared her to the bone, but she could not even draw 
breath to scream. She knew she was dying.
“Kastenid, help me!” Nyctasia called. She stood over Corson, her face like a 
white-hot flame. Vhar Kastenid walked slowly towards them, his gaze fixed on his 
enemy, and came to stand at Nyctasia’s side.
But Shiastred took no heed of him. Stunned by Nyctasia’s betrayal, he stared at 
her in disbelief and sorrow, but Nyctasia did not waver.
He turned away, then, like a man wounded, walked aimlessly for a few paces, then 
stopped and pulled off his cloak, holding it out before him. As he tore it 
across, the air was rent with a shaft of gleaming darkness that blinded the eye.
When sight returned to them, the three who remained found nothing but the 
sundered cloak where Lord Erystalben had stood, Nyctasia walked slowly over to 
it and picked it up. “It is always carelessness that defeats one,” she said 
softly.
Vhar Kastenid helped Corson to her feet. “I owe you my life, my friend. I’ll not 
forget your courage. But how did you know?”
“She doesn’t wear gold.” Corson said brusquely. To her amazement she found 
herself uninjured. Only minutes before, she had thought that her bones must be 
crushed to dust. But she felt weak and shaken still. “Let me alone. Look to Her 
Ladyship.”
“I’m sorry,” he said gently.
Nyctasia was kneeling on the hard ground, holding the riven cloak tightly 
against her, her head bowed, her slender frame racked with sobs.
Vhar Kastenid touched her shoulder. “Come home, Lady Nyctasia.”
“I have no home!” The tears denied by years of discipline coursed down her face 
unchecked. “Only now do I know what it is to be an exile, I left everything 
without regret, but now I have lost myself!”
“What is truly yours cannot be lost or taken,” Kastenid said gravely. “Though 
the heedless may throw it away.”
39
when they returned, there was no sign of Shiastred’s servants—the halls were 
silent and empty.
“My people will return to me now,” said Kastenid, “and I shall be able to show 
you a more fitting welcome. I would have you treat my home as your own.”
Corson was relieved to find the hall deserted. It seemed a different place, and 
no longer afflicted her with nightmarish memories and forebodings. She took full 
advantage of Kastenid’s hospitality and enjoyed her unaccustomed idleness at 
first, but soon began to grow restless. Only her concern for Nyctasia made her 
reluctant to be on her way.
It seemed that nothing would ever rouse Nyctasia from her grief. She barely left 
her chamber, sitting day after day at the window, long after it grew too dark to 
see more than the moonlit surface of the quiet pool below. Her will to heal 
herself had left her.
“Do not war against the vahn in this way,” Kastenid pleaded with her. “You must 
allow it to console you. Despair destroys the spirit.”
“... and mourning denies the Discipline,” Nyctasia rejoined. She looked up from 
the piece of sewing that lay across her lap. “I know the Principles as well as 
you, my friend. But now that I need them the most, I find them hollow .... No, 
the fault is in myself, not in the Discipline, I know that. I am too weak to 
achieve Balance.”
“Then let me help you.”
“You’ve tried to help me before, and you did not find me grateful.”
“You know now that I am not your enemy.”
“No, I have been my own enemy all the while. You think me as true a vahnite as 
yourself, but I tell you I’ve done things that would turn you against me if you 
but knew—”
“You have left Rhostshyl, yet you still dwell within its walls, Edonaris. That 
life is behind you now.”
“Erystalben is part of that life.”
He watched her draw the silver needle deftly through the dark cloth. “You follow 
a dangerous course, my lady.”
“What ’Ben did was more dangerous! He couldn’t know what awaited him beyond that 
Threshold. It was madness!”
“It was his only hope of escape.”
Nyctasia’s voice trembled. “No, he wasn’t afraid. He risked that spell rather 
than strike at me—though I had turned on him!”
“You cannot blame yourself for that, you had no choice. Shiastred used you.”
Nyctasia shook her head. “I warned you that I would stand with him—you refused 
to take me at my word.” Her voice grew hard. “I turned to you because I had to 
protect Corson. But he believed that I’d betrayed him; that is why I must do 
this, danger or no. He may be dead—I have to know.” She shook out the folds of 
the mended cloak, neatly stitched where Erystalben ar’n Shiastred had torn it.
“I don’t believe it either,” Corson said. Kastenid had found her in the stable, 
busy grooming her horse. “But I don’t believe much of what Nyc says about 
anything.” She had finished with the curry comb and was going over the animal a 
second time with a soft brush. Kastenid took up another and began working on the 
horse’s other side.
“She believes it, and as long as she does she’ll, never be free of him,” he 
said.
“That one’s such a clever liar she’s begun to believe her own lies.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes. Corson knelt and gently ran her 
fingers down the horse’s foreleg. Then, lifting the hoof, she began to clean out 
the mud and pebbles with a pick.
“I’m afraid of what she may do,” he said at last.
Corson looked up at him. “You’re in love with her yourself.”
He did not deny it. “She will take nothing from me,” he said helplessly. “I have 
won, and yet I am defeated.”
40
for the most powerful spells, the preparations are the simplest. Nyctasia lifted 
the heavy mirror from the wall and laid it on the round table, then covered it 
with Shiastred’s cloak. For a long time she only stood there, calm and still, 
her hands resting on the draped mirror. At last, she silently recited the 
necessary words, and swept aside the mended cloak.
Behold in this enchanted mirror 
Images reversed but clearer. 
The silent echo of the spirit 
Speaks to those who choose to hear it.
Her reflection appeared dim and distant as though seen at the bottom of a dark 
well. But it was not her own face that she sought in the mirror.
Erystalben knelt at the edge of a pool like black glass, and Nyctasia saw her 
reflection appear to him in the quiet water. “Why did you do it?” she whispered, 
and saw that his lips formed the same words. Her tears spilled onto the mirror’s 
surface, making the images waver like broken water. She saw her pale reflection 
ripple as Shiastred leaned over to touch the pool, and a feeling of faintness 
came over her. She reached to steady herself against the table but tears blinded 
her, and her hands closed on empty air. As she fell, her forehead struck sharply 
against the heavy silver frame of the mirror.
Nyctasia drifted in darkness till a dim light glimmered somewhere above her, and 
she reached toward it, curious. A hand parted the darkness and clasped hers, 
drawing her upward easily. She stepped from the dark water, her hand still 
clasped in Erystalben’s.
“Forgive me,” both said, but no sound broke the unchanging stillness. Silent as 
shadows, then, they came together, and their wordless lips met to say all that 
was needful between them.
41
corson paced restlessly about the chamber where Nyctasia had lain all that day, 
motionless, never waking, hardly seeming to draw breath. To Corson she looked 
paler and more fragile than ever.
The mirror, cracked and blood-stained, gave back to her a crazed reflection of 
herself each time she passed by. She found herself trying to avoid the sight of 
it. Shiastred’s cloak still lay at the foot of the table and she kicked it 
aside, then, puzzled, picked it up. The material was all of a piece—there was 
not a seam or stitch to show that it had ever been torn. With a shudder, she 
dropped it over the broken mirror.
Nyctasia opened her eyes and sat up, looking around her in bewilderment. She 
smiled when she saw Corson. “You’re still here, then, my Corson? I’d have 
thought you’d be on your way to the coast by now.”
Corson crossed over to her. “It was only this morning you knocked yourself 
senseless.”
“So it was ... it seems a long time ago.”
“But I would be on my way if you could stay out of trouble for half a day.”
“You needn’t worry about me,” Nyctasia said, taking Corson’s hand. “I’m all 
right now. There’s nothing to keep you here.”
Corson hesitated. “Well, and what’s to keep you here? Why don’t you come with 
me?”
“You know I dare not show my face near Rhostshyl.”
“But I’ve a long way to go before I even reach Mehomne—I don’t mean to cross 
that rutting forest again! And you ought to see something of the world before 
you wall yourself up in some wizard’s den. Besides, you could profit from 
lessons in sword fighting,” Corson reminded her.
Nyctasia toyed absently with one silver earring. “There’s something in what you 
say,” she mused.
“We could go south to the Edonaris vineyards and visit your relatives on the 
way, if you like.” She saw a flicker of interest light Nyctasia’s wan features.
“That is tempting,” she admitted.
“Well, we shouldn’t lose any time—I want to reach Lhestreq before the turn of 
the season. Ships are scarce once the rough weather sets in.”
“Will tomorrow suit you?”
“We can’t get away from here too soon to suit me. But are you fit to travel?”
Nyctasia lay back against the pillows. “I will be.”
Corson bowed low. “With your permission, then, my lady, I shall leave you to 
your repose.”
“Corson ... I had reason to act the lady with you as I did. The Influences at 
work here could have destroyed you. Don’t you see, I had to drive you away for 
your own sake, and what better way to do it than to offend your pride? And it 
worked, but then you came back .... I warned you not to interfere ... when you 
attacked me. ’Ben knew you for Kastenid’s pawn. He had to deal with you quickly, 
before Kastenid could recover.”
Corson was unconvinced, but she knew it was useless to argue with Nyctasia. 
“What does it matter now? He’s dead, Nyc, forget him.”
Nyctasia hesitated. “Well ... he’s gone.”
“But isn’t he dead?” cried Corson, not concealing her dismay.
Nyctasia looked up at her with a ghost of her old mischievous manner. “I can 
explain—” she offered.
“Not if I know it!” Corson protested, and hurried from the chamber.
 
“I cannot stay here.” Nyctasia finished looking through the books she’d brought 
from Rhostshyl. She chose only one, and put it back in her satchel, “I’m no 
longer as sure as I was, what sacrifices I’m willing to make. I must decide that 
alone, Kastenid—away from the Yth and its temptations.”
And how to find ’Ben unless she took up her travels again? But she kept her own 
counsel as to that.
“Don’t you see that together we could hold this place without making the 
compromises Shiastred was driven to?” he urged.
“If I’d been with him he’d not have been forced to pay that price! But the city 
was in chaos—I hoped I could prevent a civil war if I stayed. But I only made 
more enemies for myself, and I failed ’Ben when I knew that he needed me here. 
You’re well rid of me, I tell you—I’m poison to those who trust me!”
“You do not know yourself, Nyctasia, but I have tested you, and I know your true 
worth. There’s no need for you to run away again—you’re making a mistake.”
“I’ve made many,” Nyctasia said bitterly. “I’m sorry.” She turned away from him 
abruptly. “Will you keep these books for me? I daresay you can make use of 
them.”
“Done.”
Nyctasia wrapped Shiastred’s long cloak about her, then took up the black harp 
and hung it at her back. “I may need this,” she said tightly. “Perhaps I’ll have 
to make my way as a minstrel.”
“Nyc!” Carson shouted from below, “I’m waiting for you! I told you I want to get 
an early start.”
“Yes, I’m coming,” Nyctasia called to her. “I’m ready now.”
42
the farther they traveled from Hlasven, the higher Corson’s spirits rose. The 
cool weather was beginning and the morning was bright and clear. Even Nyctasia 
grew less subdued and moody as they rode through the ripe, sunlit countryside.
“That fortuneteller wasn’t far from the mark after all,” Corson remarked. “I’ve 
made a dangerous journey, and I’m much the richer for it, but what of the titles 
and honors he promised me? Why don’t you make me a Lady for saving your useless 
life, you ungrateful whelp?”
“Only the majority of the Rhaicimate can confer a title—and at present I am 
unfortunately a weak minority. But if ever I regain my authority in Rhostshyl, 
you’ll get all that you deserve, never fear. I’ll have you flogged from one end 
of the city to the other to teach you your place!”
Corson shouted with laughter. This was more the Nyctasia she was used to. “I 
know what place fate intended for me. The fortuneteller said I’d become a lady 
of title and influence at the end of the journey.”
“Then perhaps the journey isn’t over yet,” said Nyctasia. “Where are we bound 
now, oh Lady Corson, favorite of fortune?”
“Time enough you took heed of that! Do you know of the harvest fair at Osela?”
“No. Is it an important market?”
“Asye, what a mooncalf!” Corson said with exasperation. “Don’t you know anything 
but spells and schemes? The Osela fair is famous—there’s nothing to match it on 
the coast. It lasts for weeks, and we’ll be there in good time to see 
everything—dancers, acrobats, troupes of players and mummers, jugglers and 
conjurors. And there are games and contests, races, wrestling, archery matches 
....”
“And minstrels, I suppose?” Nyctasia unstrapped her harp and opened the 
sound-box at the back. She took out the silver key and began turning the pegs to 
tune the strings.
“Oh yes, singers and harpers and beggars and pickpockets—all the usual rabble.”
Nyctasia gave her a dark look. “If I never make a lady of you, Corson, you may 
yet succeed in making me forget that I am one.”
“So much the better for you. What good is a title to you now?”
“What good has it ever been to me, for that matter?” said Nyctasia. She sighed 
and plucked a chord on the ebonwood harp.
 
“Oh, I could complain 
That my life is a curse. 
The grief and the pain 
Would fill many a verse. 
But it’s best to refrain—
Things could always be worse!”