Web of wind s-2

by J F Rivkin

  Corson foresaw another of Nyctasia’s learned lectures. “Don’t explain it, just do it!”

  “If you’d keep out of my way, I could get on with it! Keep everyone away from me!” She glared until Corson had retreated a few paces.

  Leaning over the thief, Nyctasia laid her hand over his heart, murmuring something ceaselessly to herself. To Corson, she seemed to be somehow drawing ever farther away, though she remained still as a figure of carven stone. Corson knew that Nyctasia’s trance would take her deep into the realm of the vahn.

  Watching her, Corson could almost feel that it was she herself who was stranded on the shore of a dream, while Nyctasia entered into the waking world.

  Corson shook herself abruptly. Magic! she thought, and spat.

  4

  it was a highly discontented party that took shelter for the night in a barn on a small farm near the Southern Trade Road. That morning, they’d been unceremoniously escorted to the city gates, fined for disturbing the peace of the fair, and sent on their way with a warning not to return.

  The unfortunate thief was still with them. He’d been unable to travel on foot, and Nyctasia had agreed to let him ride with her, but even on horseback he had found the journey a grueling one. By the time they dismounted he was more stiff and sore than ever.

  Nyctasia was almost as weak as he. The healing-spell had already sapped much of her strength, and the long day’s ride left her exhausted. The barn was not noticeably cleaner than the jail had been, but she was so weary that even a pile of hay looked inviting.

  Corson too felt that she’d been very hard used. What right had they to arrest her for capturing a thief, and how could Nyctasia take his part against her? Was that justice? She had ridden ahead of the others in sullen silence for most of the day.

  But everyone was in better spirits after the hearty meal they bought at the farmhouse. They ate smoked ham, buttered oatcakes, and fresh curds. There was plenty of brown ale, and a crock of new buttermilk for Nyctasia, whose Discipline discouraged the drinking of spirits.

  After her night in prison and a day on horseback, Nyctasia longed for a bath, but she made do with a wash at the well. Spreading out her long cloak, she made herself a comfortable nest in the hay, then hung her harp on a peg in the wall.

  “As a child I was taught that a lady ought never to complain about her accommodations,” she remarked. “But I’m sure my nurse never imagined me in lodgings like this.”

  “I admired the ladylike way you accepted your lot in prison last night,” Corson sniggered.

  “It’s not surprising I forget myself in company with a lout like you. The wonder is that I have any manners left at all.”

  “I stand rebuked, Your Ladyship.” Corson made a mocking bow, and threw herself down in the hay.

  The thief looked from one to the other of them, trying to make them out, then gave it up and settled down near Nyctasia. He moved stiffly, grimacing as he lowered himself slowly onto the hay.

  “You ought to stay here for a while and rest,” Nyctasia said. “You’re not really fit to travel.”

  “I know,” he groaned. “Would you think it impertinent of me to ask why your friend tried to murder me?”

  Corson was indignant. “You and your people robbed us in Rhostshyl Wood and took our horses! I told you I’d make you pay, you slinking weasel-maybe you remember that?”

  “I remember those rutting horses! They broke loose and we nearly got trampled trying to catch them. They were such beauties, too,” he said regretfully.

  “They’d have fetched a good price.”

  “They were hers,” Corson said. “Thoroughbreds can be quite vicious.”

  “You were that crazy soldier, then,” he mused, “but you were traveling with some prating little student…”

  “He’s taken your measure, Nyc.”

  Nyctasia had made her escape from Rhostshyl disguised as a poor student.

  “Appearances may be misleading,” she said, sounding amused. “I’m Nyc brenn Rhostshyl, and this is Corson brenn Torisk. And you?”

  “I’m called Newt.” He eyed Nyctasia suspiciously. “What are you really? A witch?

  A pickpocket?”

  “A liar,” Corson suggested.

  “A healer,” said Nyctasia firmly. “And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get some sleep. You’re not yet whole.”

  “I feel like a bone that’s been gnawed by hounds.” Newt lay back and started to loosen his tunic, then sat up again suddenly, wincing in pain. He searched about frantically. “My pouch-where is it? I had it round my neck. Did you take it?”

  “Not I,” said Corson lazily. “But if I thought you had anything of value, I’d surely take it, as my right. You robbed me of a fortune.”

  “What, this?” asked Nyctasia. “Here, I’d forgotten it.” She tossed the small leather hag to Newt.

  But Corson was at his side in a moment and snatched it from him. “Let’s have a look at this.”

  “It’s just a scrap of paper!” he protested. “Give it back!”

  “I will,” said Corson, “when you give me back my earrings.” She opened the pouch and pulled out a much-folded page, but to her disappointment there was nothing else.

  Impatiently, she shook it out, but it concealed no treasure. “What’s all the row about this?” she muttered, examining it by the light of the flickering oil lamp.

  “Here, Nyc, you’re partial to this sort of gibberish: Neither out of doors nor in,

  Begin.

  Within four walls and yet beneath the sky, I lie.

  Riddle’s secret, and to mystery

  The key.

  All unhidden

  Though I be.

  No man or woman

  Doth see me.

  And here’s another-

  Here is a web to catch the wind

  And a loom to weave a lay.

  Riddles play on words, my friend-

  Play on these and play you may.”

  “What in the Hlann’s name…?” Nyctasia reached for the paper. “I don’t make much of the first one,” she said after a moment, “but the other’s simple enough.

  The answer’s in plain sight.” She pointed to her ebonwood harp.

  “A harp?” said Newt, sounding disappointed. “Just a harp? Are you sure?”

  “As I said, the answer’s in plain sight-for those who can read it. H-A-R-P,” she said, touching the first letter of each line.

  Newt looked puzzled, “But… what does that part about the wind mean?”

  “There’s a sort of lyre called a wind-harp,” Nyctasia explained. “You hang them in the trees and they’re sounded by the wind. I had one in my garden at home.”

  “I like the clue about playing on them,” said Corson. “Read us another.”

  Nyctasia peered at the page in the dim tight. “Let’s see… there’s all sorts of riddles…

  Where is the hunter found

  Who hunts by night and morn

  But never wearied yet?

  Who keeps not hawk or hound,

  Who has not horse or horn,

  But slays without a sound,

  With but a silken net?

  Well, that’s easy, and here’s a pair that spell out rhyming answers: Bird am I none.

  What thing am I,

  Ever soaring as I sing,

  Lifting up my voice on high,

  Lightly I fly, without a wing.

  And:

  Where is there a tower found,

  Empty, planted underground,

  Like a tunnel turned on end?

  Look down to see the sky, my friend.

  What else have we here? Rhymes… drawings of some kind, names

  … Ylna, Rowan, Leaf and Bough, Amron Therain, Jocelys. Vale-” She stopped abruptly and turned to Newt, fixing him with a cold and baneful stare. “No wonder you tried to keep this from us,” she said grimly.

  “Nyc, what is it?”

  “My name is on this list. The fellow’s an assa
ssin. Am I to be hunted like a fugitive all my life? Who was it sent you? Lady Mhairestri? Ettasuan ar’n Teiryn?”

  “You’re both mad!” cried Newt. “I’m a thief, not a murderer-I’ve no dealings with lords and ladies!”

  Nyctasia stood and drew her dagger. “We’ll soon see. Corson, hold him fast.”

  Experience had made Nyctasia a keen judge of character. She was certain that Newt could be frightened into speaking the truth.

  “But-please-I tell you, I don’t know who you are. I can’t even read-I don’t know what’s on that paper! It’s nothing to do with me!”

  “Then how did you come by it?” Nyctasia demanded.

  “I stole it, of course! Me and three others-we robbed a traveler near Ylna…”

  “Why would you steal a piece of paper that you can’t read?”

  “We didn’t know what was in the pouch when we took it. We might have given the thing back, but he fought like a madman to keep it, so it must be valuable. And the mark of the Cymvelan Circle is at the bottom-look for yourself. Folk still talk of the Cymvelan treasure in these parts. That paper might be a clue!”

  At the mention of treasure, Corson retrieved the paper from Nyctasia and scanned it eagerly, still keeping a firm grip on the distraught thief.

  “And it was just chance that brought you to Osela, I suppose?” Nyctasia pursued.

  “I hoped to sell that paper at the fair-I come to Osela every year. Most of us do.”

  “That’s so,” said Corson. “The fair draws thieves like flies to a honeypot.”

  “No doubt,” said Nyctasia, “but I trust they’re not all carrying my name about with them.”

  Newt was sweating, “But I didn’t know-”

  “It’s not your proper name. Nyc,” Corson broke in. “It says ‘Edonaris,’ not

  ‘Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris.’ I’ll wager it means those other Edonaris-the vintners.” She dropped Newt indifferently and showed the page to Nyctasia again.

  “Look here. That is the sign of the Cymvelan Circle,” she said, pointing to an intricate, knotted design. “Their temple was in the Valleylands to the south, near Vale-it can’t have been far from the Edonaris vineyards. And some of these riddles do talk about treasure-‘Wealth beyond a lifetime’s spending’!” The two of them bent over the paper, forgetting Newt, who sank to his knees in the hay and stared at them.

  “Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris!” he gasped. “The witch? In Rhostshyl they say you’re dead.”

  “It’s unwise to believe everything you hear.”

  “To think we let you slip through our hands,” said Newt dejectedly. “If we’d known who you were we could have made our fortunes-there was a reward of five hundred crescents for your capture. Five hundred crescents!”

  “Don’t plan on earning it now, my lad,” said Nyctasia. “My kinsman Lord Thierran offered it, and he’s dead.”

  “I saw to that,” Corson added, slashing her finger across her throat. She smiled at Newt.

  “I don’t want any part of it,” Newt said hastily. “I wouldn’t go back to Rhostshyl now for any money-it’s too dangerous. The city’s divided. It’s nothing but brawls and bloodshed between the Edonaris and the Teiryn. There’ll be open war before long.”

  “Sure sign of war, when the rats and thieves leave a city,” sneered Corson.

  “We had to go our ways. The gentry there go about with armed escorts, and folk are too war-wary to be careless. What were we to do, steal from paupers? We’d have soon starved,” he said indignantly. “But there were good gleanings to be had at the fair-and now I’m banned from Osela, thanks to you!”

  “A most sad tale,” said Corson. “Nyc, this wretch knows nothing about you. It’s no use to question him. Let’s go to sleep.” She turned back to Newt. “Don’t think to mend your fortunes by picking our pockets-I sleep lightly.”

  “I can barely move,” Newt protested. “How could I make an escape? I’ll not stir from this place till I’m healed, if I can beg my bread from these folk.”

  Nyctasia roused herself from thoughts of her city torn by civil war. Taking up the curious piece of paper, she folded it neatly and slipped it into her shirt,

  “I’ll buy this from you-then you’ll have more than enough to pay your keep. The Edonaris of Vale might be interested in this paper.”

  Newt sat up a bit straighten “It might be worth a fortune,” he said eagerly.

  “The treasure of the Cymvelan Circle-”

  “Is a lot of moonshine,” Corson scoffed. “There’s nothing but rhymes and scribbles on that page. You’ll take what you get and be glad of it.” She stretched out on the hay and yawned. “We ought to just take the thing, Nyc,” she grumbled, without much conviction. “You’re too softhearted by half.”

  Nyctasia blew out the lamp. “Mercy is the mark of true nobility,” she said dryly. “Go to sleep.”

  Corson had the soldier’s knack for falling asleep in an instant, but Nyctasia, despite her weariness, lay awake brooding over her own behavior. “A fine Vahnite!” she accused herself. “The moment you think yourself threatened, your scruples take wing like startled quail!”

  It was no use to tell herself that no harm had been done. What steps would she have taken if Newt’s answers hadn’t satisfied her? This was the question that kept her awake and restless. She did not want to know what answer might lie within her.

  Newt was not asleep either. He shifted from side to side in the hay, trying to find a less painful position, but however he lay, his chest and sides ached unbearably. He groaned aloud.

  When Nyctasia approached him, he struggled to sit up, alarmed, for he now regarded her as the more dangerous of the two. She stood over him for a moment, indistinct in the darkness, then knelt beside him.

  “Forgive me, Newt,” she whispered. “I see my enemies everywhere. I am certain I left them in Rhostshyl, and yet I cannot escape them.” It was perhaps the strangest adventure of her exile that she should bring herself to ask pardon of a common thief.

  But Newt understood nothing of her confession. “I’m no spy, my lady,” he said helplessly. “What do you want with me?”

  “You forget that I’m a healer. And sometimes I forget as well. But I can give you sleep if you wish.”

  “Please,” said Newt, then hesitated. “How… by a spell?”

  “A simple charm. It’s quite harmless.” She relit the lamp, but hooded it so that only a single ray escaped.

  Corson was now awake and watching. “Nyc, what…?”

  “Healing, what else? When you attack someone, you don’t do it by halves.”

  “He deserved it,” said Corson crossly, turning her back to the light and burrowing deeper into the hay.

  “Be still, if you please, I need silence for this spell.” Nyctasia drew from her pouch a faceted crystal on a silver chain. “Look well at this,” she said to Newt. “You’ve never seen its like before.”

  Newt watched the stone swing gently to and fro before him, catching the lamplight on its polished planes. “Is it a real diamond?” he asked covetously.

  “It’s far more valuable than a diamond. This jewel holds the power of peace.”

  Back and forth it swayed, and Nyctasia’s voice with it in a low, melodious tone.

  “This is a stone that can ease all ills, heal all hurts, soothe all suffering.

  Watch it well, and you will feel its peace possess you. It will give rest to your spirit, it will shelter you beneath the wings of sleep.” Her words grew ever slower and slower. “You feel its power even now, don’t you, Newt?”

  “I… feel it,” said Newt with some difficulty.

  “Already your eyes are heavy with sleep.”

  “Yes.”

  “You cannot hold them open any longer.”

  Newt’s eyes were closed, his face finally relaxed in repose. Without his habitually wary expression, he seemed another person entirely.

  “Now there is nothing but sweet sleep,” murmured Nyctasia.

  “No,
nothing,” he sighed.

  “And there will be nothing but sleep, till the sun is high on the morrow.”

  Newt made no reply, and Nyctasia blew out the lamp once more and returned to her place, wrapping herself in her cloak.

  “Nyc…?”

  “You needn’t whisper. He’ll not wake.”

  “If you have a stone that heals all ills, why didn’t you use it when I was sick, in Lhestreq?”

  Nyctasia laughed softly. “This stone couldn’t cure hiccups, Corson. It’s only a common crystal. Anything bright would have done as well. The spell’s in the shining and the speaking, and the healing’s all humbug. It gives sleep, no more.”

  “Is that why it didn’t weaken you to do it?”

  That all power has its price was the guiding Principle of Nyctasia’s philosophy.

  More than once Corson had seen her drained of strength by a healing spell.

  “No, this is a spell that draws its power from the one who is spellcast, not from the one who acts. That’s why it can only be laid upon one who is willing.

  It’s a very rare and significant Balance.”

  A snore interrupted her explanation. Corson questioned everything, but she listened to the answers only when she chose.

  Now that Newt slept, Nyctasia could sleep as well-though even in slumber she could not rest. In her dreams she was again in Rhostshyl, her ancestral home, but the proud city was in ruins, ravaged by flames, its walls broken, its towers fallen. Fires still smoldered among the piles of debris.

  Nyctasia wandered through the empty streets, so well known to her that she could have walked them blindfolded, until she stood before the remains of a house where she had hidden before fleeing the city. The iron gate still stood, protecting ashes and dust and broken stone. She slipped into the yard and found the fragments of her great mirror shining among the blackened timber. Her favorite harp, the Sparrow, was charred and useless. It crumbled in her hand when she lifted it from the rubble.

  “Why, ’Tasia, I thought you didn’t know how to weep.”

  At first Nyctasia thought it was her cousin Thierran who stood outside the gate, but she saw in a moment that it was his twin, Mescrisdan, When they’d last met he had urged his brother to kill her, but now Nyctasia went out willingly to meet him. He could do her no harm-he was dead, struck down by Corson on that very spot, where he and Thierran had lain in wait for her.