by J F Rivkin
“Superstition,” said one of the students loftily. “Many a fool has wasted time hunting for it, and no one’s so much as found a copper.”
“That’s all very well,” said a traveler, “but I come from the valley, and I can tell you those ruins are haunted. Some who entered those walls never came out again, and their friends found no trace of them. You tell me what’s become of them-that demon-brood may be dead, but they’re not gone yet.”
“They don’t sound so very fearsome to me. Cymvela means ‘peace’ in Old Eswraine,” said another student, showing off his learning.
Nyctasia, who prided herself on her scholarship, winced at his mispronunciation of the word. Cymvela was a word with several levels of meaning in Ancient Eswraine, and it was with difficulty that she restrained herself from explaining them all at length, from “the harmony of Creation” through “the conciliation of the Spirit.” But a tavern-songster would hardly know such things, so she held her tongue.
One of the villagers stood. “You ought not to name them,” he warned. “It’s bad luck even to speak of them. I’ll not hear it-you’ll bring their vengeance on us!” He and his neighbors hastily took their leave.
“I seem to have shaken down a wasps’ nest,” said Nyctasia apologetically.
“Never mind those ignorant peasants,” said the student. “Now they’re gone, we shan’t have to hear about tilling and toiling. Let’s have another song!”
“Oh, I daren’t,” Nyctasia demurred. “I don’t know what’s like to displease these folk-”
“What of the ‘Bird in the Bush’?” someone suggested with a leer. “Will anyone quarrel with that?”
There were no complaints.
6
corson awoke and lay stiffly in bed, listening carefully. What had roused her?
Nyctasia lay beside her, her breathing steady and peaceful. A tree branch tapped against the shutters, and there were all the random noises that plagued old houses-creaks and groans as timbers shifted like troubled sleepers.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Corson looked into every corner of the room, trying to spot something odd or out of place. But the shadows all resolved themselves into the clumsy furniture of a country inn, and the shaft of moonlight sneaking in between the shutters revealed no prowler lurking nearby.
Yet Corson would not go back to sleep. Her intuitions had saved her too often for her to ignore them now. She slid softly from the bed, without waking Nyctasia, and padded silently to the door.
Had she heard a sound outside, and then another, following too evenly to be a settling board or loose panel? Her right hand stole to the latch and paused there for a moment. Suddenly she yanked the door wide, lunged over the sill and grabbed something with her left hand, throwing it into the room.
Nyctasia started up and was faced with the sight of Corson bending back the leg of a rather short, plump fellow, and then sitting on him.
“Corson, what in the name of all that’s reasonable-!”
“It’s the landlord,” said Corson. “I don’t know why. Ask him, why don’t you?”
Nyctasia shook her head. Wrapping the blanket around her with a regal air, she got out of bed and ambled over to Corson and her prisoner. She sat down on the floor beside the man, looked at him with drowsy disapproval, and yawned.
“It’s not yet dawn,” she pointed out.
“Good of you to wake up, my lady,” said Corson.
“Dealing with the rabble is your job. And I’d really much prefer you to do it outside in future, if you don’t mind. I need my sleep.” She turned her attention to their host. “Explain yourself! How dare you come in here unbidden?”
“I know why you’re here,” he gasped, “and I’ve come to tell you I want no part in it!”
Corson and Nyctasia looked at each other. “Why are we here?” Corson asked.
Nyctasia shrugged.
Corson relinquished her hold on the indignant landlord and sat down next to Nyctasia. They both looked at him expectantly.
“It wasn’t by chance you sang that song here,” he accused. “You meant it as a sign to me.”
“Well…” said Nyctasia slowly, “we meant it as a sign to someone
…”
“Garast told me you’d come, but you’re wasting your time. I’m not one of you.
It’ll be the ruin of me if folk learn you’ve been here!”
“We’re not C-” Corson began, but Nyctasia cut her words short.
“Then why is your name on this list?” she demanded, fetching the page of riddles. “You’re Rowan, are you not?”
“This is Garast’s,” he cried. “He wouldn’t have given it up-how did you get it?
What have you done with him?” The man’s face was ashen in the moonlight.
Nyctasia sighed. Was she so soon to break faith with her Principles again? “We mean you no harm,” she said gently. “We are not Cymvelans-we bought this paper from a thief. I only want to know why it says Edonaris here.”
“I want to know why it says treasure,” Corson put in.
“You’re only treasure-hunters, then?” Rowan asked hopefully.
“I am an Edonaris,” said Nyctasia in a haughty tone that unmistakably proclaimed her rank and station. “I wish to know why our name is listed here. What has the Cymvelan Circle to do with us?”
Though he had seen her playing the minstrel, and now saw her sitting on the floor, wearing only a threadbare blanket, Rowan did not doubt Nyctasia’s claim to belong to a distinguished family. Her manner simply did not admit of doubt.
“Garast heard that the Edonaris had bought the land the temple stood on-it was no more than that,” he explained, much relieved. “He thought he’d need their-er, your-leave to search the ruins.”
“Ah, yes, well it’s possible,” said Nyctasia coolly. “But it is hardly a matter for common gossip.”
“Of course not, madame. By no means-”
“And who’s this Garast? One of the Circle?”
“No! We were only children when the Circle was overthrown-Garast, Jocelys and I.
We never knew that there were other survivors. We even shunned one another, the better to forget our evil lineage. But this past spring Garast visited me, to warn me that they were looking for the three of us. Somehow, a few of the elders escaped the attack on the temple, and now, after a score of years, they would bid us return to the Circle! Garast refused them, of course. When you turned up tonight, I was sure they’d sent you. I suppose they’ll find me sooner or later, but they’ll get the same answer from me.” He seemed glad to be able to tell the tale to someone.
Nyctasia frowned down at the page of Cymvelan rhymes. “If Garast spurned their offer, what did he want with this?”
“He took a notion that they meant to go back for the treasure, and he thought to outfox them, the fool, The three of us were to recall all we could of our childhood lessons, according to his plan, and that would somehow lead us to the legendary treasure-”
“Then these are clues to the treasure,” said Corson.
“These are rot,” he said scornfully. “Mere rhymes for children. Garast’s mad!
There was never any treasure there that I saw, and no more did the rest-we lived like poor folk. If there’d been anything of value there it would have been found when the place was sacked.”
Corson grabbed the list from Nyctasia. “What about this?” she insisted.
“Tales I have told, although I cannot speak.
Treasure I hold, enough for all who seek.
However many plunder me for gain
Yet will as much as ever still remain.”
Rowan laughed. “Any half-wit could answer that riddle! What could it be but a book?”
Corson crumpled the paper in her fist and threw it into a corner. “Just my rutting luck! A lot of useless bookworms like you, Nyc. It’s not fair!”
But Nyctasia retrieved the page, smoothed it out, and replaced it in her commonplace-book. “I believe t
hat all our questions have been answered,” she said calmly.
7
“what do you mean we’re lost?” Nyctasia asked indignantly. It was growing dark, and there was a steady rain. “How can we be lost? We’ve not come half a league from the Trade Road.”
“They said we’d pass fences and cottages soon-do you see any?”
“I can’t see anything in this wretched rain. We should have kept to the road.”
“We won’t find your long-lost relatives that way.”
“We’re not finding them this way either,” Nyctasia pointed out, and sneezed. “At least we might have found some shelter along the roadway. I’m drenched.”
It had been raining all day, and neither of them was in a gracious temper. Water trickled down Corson’s neck as she asked herself how Nyctasia contrived to make her feel personally responsible for the weather. Nyctasia sneezed again.
“If you were any rutting good as a sorceress you could make it stop raining,”
Corson said spitefully.
“That is not the purpose of the art.”
“You can’t do it, that’s all.”
“True. But if I had the power, I’d not use it so lightly as that. It doesn’t do to interfere with the Balance of the elements for frivolous purposes. The consequences can be-”
“No doubt,” said Corson, “Tell me about them another time. I think there’s some sort of building ahead-maybe it’s those cottages. Come on.”
But if it was a dwelling they came upon, it had long been abandoned. They climbed the broad stairs and crossed a roofed portico to peer into the open doorway, but it was too dark to see anything within, The place was altogether still, save for the sounds of the storm. It was not a welcoming spot, but it was dry, at least where the roof was still whole. They left the horses tethered to a pillar in the shelter of the porch, and settled themselves in the empty corridor just within the doorway. There was an inner door at their backs, and the corridor stretched away into the blackness to both sides of them.
Enough leaves and branches had blown into the porch for a small fire, and they tried to dry their clothes a little in its warmth. Nyctasia sneezed, in a way that clearly expressed her vexation with her present circumstances. Sleeping on the ground was nothing new to her, but sleeping in damp clothes on cold stone was, she felt, a grievous affront to her good breeding. She dutifully attempted to regard the situation as an opportunity to practice the Discipline of Toleration, but discomfort such as this lacked even the dignity of pain. And sneezing interrupted her concentration.
Corson had been unusually silent for a time, but at last she burst out angrily,
“Why did you bring us here. Nyc? What’s your game?”
“I? I’ve been following you!”
“This place feels like that spell-ridden Yth Forest you’re so fond of. You can’t deny there’s magic here-anyone could tell!”
“On the contrary, anyone couldn’t. I can, because I’ve studied magic and developed an awareness of it. But you, you sense its presence by instinct alone.
That’s a rare talent. I shouldn’t wonder if you could be a magician yourself, Corson, with the right training.”
“I’d rather be a swineherd!”
“Well, that’s probably wise. But I suspect that your antipathy to magic is actually a result of your unusual sensitivity to it.”
“What’s ‘antipathy’?”
“Loathing.”
“Oh, that’s just common sense. Magic’s rutting dangerous.”
Nyctasia laughed, incredulous, “You’re a warrior, woman! What you do’s not dangerous, I suppose?”
“That’s different! What I do is straightforward, there’s no pretense or cheat to it. A battle’s a monster’s bloody maw that’ll chew you to shreds if it can, but if you know what you’re doing, you’ll be one of the teeth of battle, not the fodder.”
“But that’s what the magic of yth is like, you know. Safe enough for those skilled in its ways, but-”
“No, you don’t see what I mean. War… war is honest. You can see that it’s hideous and vicious, so at least you have a chance-It can destroy you, but it can’t deceive you. It doesn’t promise one thing and give you something else…”
Corson thought of the alluring and deadly denizens of Yth Forest, and of the mirror-spell that had shown her an unflattering reflection of her own spirit.
“Magic!” she spat. “Magic’s all lies-that’s why you take to it.”
“Lies…” Nyctasia mused. “Why, that’s really quite profound, Corson.”
“It is?” Nyctasia was a puzzle Corson could never quite make out. She might take furious offense at a chance remark, while a deliberate insult would only amuse her. “You’re-” Corson began, but stopped suddenly. This time, she would not let herself be caught and lost in the web of Nyctasia’s words. She’d have an answer!
“Curse you, Nyc! I want to know what we’re doing in this place!”
“But I don’t know, I tell you. I only sensed it a little while ago, myself. I didn’t say anything because I know you fear magic, and since we’d lost our way-”
“I don’t fear it,” Corson lied indignantly. “But I’ve wits enough to let it alone, and that’s more than you can say. I don’t believe you didn’t lead us here.”
“I know,” sighed Nyctasia. “No one ever believes me when I tell the truth. But I swear it, on my honor as a Vahnite and an Edonaris, I don’t even know where we are.”
Corson shrugged, more or less convinced. Nyctasia had too much respect for her precious faith and her family name to take such an oath lightly. It would be no use arguing. It was never any use arguing with Nyctasia. She stood. “You won’t mind if we move on, then. I think this must be part of the Cymvelan ruins, but I don’t mean to fight with phantoms for that treasure, so I tell you.”
“We’ll go if you like. But I don’t believe we’re in danger here. The power in this place is potential, not actual.”
“Oh, yes, that makes all the difference, of course,” said Corson, with leaden sarcasm.
“Listen, I can explain. It’s like a weapon-that sword of yours is potentially dangerous because you could draw it and kill someone-”
“I admit I’m sorely tempted, at times like this.”
“-but so long as you don’t, it isn’t actually dangerous. This place isn’t like Yth Wood. The power there is free, but here it’s fettered. It cannot act unless it’s invoked.”
“Could you invoke it?” Corson asked suspiciously.
“Perhaps. But I’m not about to tamper with a power I know nothing about-one might as well try to bridle a dragon. This is a sleeping dragon, though, and it won’t wake unless we step on its tail. We’re safe enough if we let it be.”
It was still raining, and Corson wanted to be convinced to stay within the warm shelter of the passageway. Her clothes were just beginning to dry, and there were the horses to consider, too. Nyc knew about such things, after all…
Nyctasia’s suggestion that Corson was afraid to stay spurred her to prove her mettle, and if they stayed she could have a look for that treasure by daylight.
That decided her, but she was not easy about sleeping with those dark, ill-rumored ruins at her back. “You might as well get some rest, then,” she told Nyctasia, “I’ll keep first watch.”
Corson took a brand from the fire and set out to survey their campsite, to satisfy herself that all was secure. The building held too many hiding places to suit her, but all the rooms seemed to be deserted. They were laid out in a simple rectangle about a long inner yard where she found only rank greenery and an old stone well. Returning to the corridor, she stepped over Nyctasia and went out to the porch to see that all was well with the horses. The rain had slackened, and the night now seemed very still and desolate.
Just past the foot of the stairs was a round, ornamental pool, filled by the rain. Corson sat on the steps and tossed her torch into the water. From here she could see Nyctasia through the front doorwa
y and keep an eye on the horses as well.
She watched her reflection, a darker shadow floating on the dark shadow of the pool, distorted by ripples. A few stars had pierced the cloudy sky and cast wavering reflections that danced before her eyes. One of them, she saw, gleamed brighter than all the rest, a star called by some the Crimson Empress because at its height it burned a deep red in the autumn sky.
But farmers, Corson knew, called it by the humbler name of the Reaper’s Eye.
Seeing it in the ascendant, they knew it was time to look to their barns and houses, to make sure they were fast against the cold winds that would soon be coming. The star was a signal to the wise that it was a time for putting by, and counting stores, for looking forward to the comforts of home and hearth.
And what of me? Corson thought discontentedly. Blown this way and that like a leaf in the wind. Where will I be when winter comes?
As always, when she was in this mood, her thoughts turned to the coast, and Steifann. She knew how he would answer such questions. She could almost hear him, reasonable as always, urging her to give up her wandering and stay with him. “This senseless roaming of yours has to end someday, Corson,” he’d say.
Steifann had raised himself from a penniless sailor to the owner of a thriving tavern. He was proud of the prosperous and secure life he’d made for himself, and he wanted Corson to share that life.
Corson knew that she’d be wise to accept Steifann’s offer of a home and a comfortable living, but the restlessness that drove her from place to place would not let her stay anywhere for long-even with Steifann. Their arguments were always the same. At times his confidence and complacency made her hate him.
“What’s so wonderful about a life of peeling potatoes and serving drunks?” she’d yell.
“It’s good enough for me. But if you’d rather make your living murdering people, that’s an end of the matter.”
“You smug bastard! Just because I don’t choose to stay pent up with you all the time and lose my mind from boredom!” It was a lie. She never grew bored with Steifann, and she was ashamed at saying it, all the more because she saw she’d hurt him.