Web of wind s-2

by J F Rivkin

  “No one’s keeping you here,” he’d say coldly. “If you want to take to the road, and throw your life in the gutter, I can’t stop you. Go ahead!”

  Corson’s pride made it hard for her to apologize, but losing Steifann would be far harder to bear than losing an argument. He had forgiven her for much worse things than insults-but what would she do if one day he was no longer willing to forgive her? “Oh, Steifann, I didn’t mean…”

  He shook his head, tossing the hair back from his brow, and grinned at her in the way she found irresistible. “Asye! You’re nothing but an overgrown child who doesn’t know what she wants. Do what you have to, Corson, but just don’t think that I’ll spend my days, or my nights, pining away for you while you’re gone.”

  “Yes you will!” She threw her arms around his neck and pressed close to him, letting her hands travel slowly down his back. Nuzzling his bearded chin, she whispered, “You will, you’ll long for me all the time, and don’t you forget it.”

  All their arguments ended in the same way too.

  Corson groaned. Was he longing for her? Probably not, the brazen breed-bull! She always imagined, when she was away, that Steifann was in bed with half the town of Chiastelm. Somehow she never thought of him doing anything but being unfaithful to her. Now, with a pang, she remembered the vision Nyctasia had conjured for her outside the Yth Forest.

  Steifann had appeared to her in a mirror, worn and haggard-looking, working on his accounts long after he should have been asleep. Seeing how hard he had to work when she wasn’t there to lend a hand with the heavy chores, Corson had felt guilty not only for spying on him, but for refusing to settle down in Chiastelm as well.

  He needs me, she thought mournfully. What am I doing chasing all over the countryside when I could have the best home on the coast for the asking? What ails me? When I’m there for a season I long to be journeying again, and when I’m away I only want to go back! Once I see Nyc safe with these grape-growers I’ll go straight back to Chiastelm for the winter. Searching for this treasure is nothing but hunting the will-o-the-wisp. There are other treasures in this world.

  Steifann’s good-natured laugh, his steadiness and generosity, his unequaled lovemaking. She closed her eyes and pictured his body stretched beneath hers, as her hands and mouth wandered along his broad, powerful chest toward his tender, yielding belly. “Sweet as honey from the comb,” she sighed.

  Corson knew it would be easy for him to find someone who’d gladly share his life-he reminded her of the fact often enough, curse him! Did he even think of her when she wasn’t there? As she stared into the pool, taken up with her memories and jealousy, the words to Nyctasia’s mirror-charm came back to her, unbidden. The spell promised to reveal the doings of friends or enemies, however far away they might be. Now she wondered, uneasily, was Nyctasia right that she, Corson, had magical skills of her own? She found that she remembered the whole of the spell perfectly.

  The rain had ceased, and the surface of the pool lay still and smooth as a mirror, yet her reflection seemed to waver and dissolve in the water. Somehow, Corson was not surprised to see another image forming in its place-the taproom at the Jugged Hare, Steifann’s tavern, as plain to see as though she were standing outside on a cloudy night, looking longingly in through a torchlit window. Even the familiar noises of the place, laughter and chatter, the clink of tankards, came to her from afar, seeming to form within her like the echoes of her own thoughts.

  Steifann was sitting sprawled at one of the tables. Across from him was the smuggler Destiver, and it was clear that they both had had plenty to drink. “It was in Ochram,” Destiver insisted, pounding the table with her fist. “It’s just that every time we went there, you were too drunk to know where you were.”

  “I may have been drunk then,” Steifann argued, “but I’m not now. I remember everything.”

  “That doesn’t make a rutting bit of sense, and you’re drunker than the ship’s cat when she fell in the ale barrel. You’re heeled over like a cog in a gale.”

  “Destiver, you haven’t been sober since you could hoist a flagon, and it was in Cerrogh. You’d take that crooked alleyway behind the Red Dog Inn, then the little street on the other side of the ashpit. It was the third on the left, and you’d go…”

  “The Red Dog is in Ochram.”

  “… into the side door, the one in the alcove that you’d miss if you didn’t know it was there.” A broad grin spread across Steifann’s face. “It was a wonderful place. There was nothing you wanted that you couldn’t have.”

  “The House of One Hundred Delights,” said Destiver dreamily. “Every room had something different, remember? If you liked what you saw… Ah, that little one, with her song…

  You fishers come back with the tide.

  You sailors come home from the sea,

  My port, it lies open and wide,

  My fish is as fresh as can be!

  She was fine, that one. She’d shake all ever like a leaf in the wind. What a little pearl.”

  Steifann snickered, “Here’s to pearls,” he said, emptying his mug.

  “It is the jewel every woman is born with-rich or poor. Here’s to them,”

  Destiver agreed. “And to certain other jewels too. The more the better, eh, Steifann?”

  He carefully poured out another mug of ale for Destiver, then one for himself.

  “Well, I like to be an obliging fellow. How can I refuse anyone, when no one else can do the job as well as I can?”

  “You are handy, no mistake. No one threads the needle the way you do, old friend.”

  “Or churns the butter,” Steifann suggested, grinning.

  “Or rakes the hay.”

  “Or shakes the ashes.”

  They both collapsed in drunken laughter. Annin ambled over to their table, hips swaying under her full skirt. “You two make a merry crew,” she said, setting down a trayful of dirty mugs, and taking a long pull of Destiver’s ale.

  Destiver reached around Annin’s waist and pulled her down onto her knee. The chair creaked. “Here’s a true pearl among women. Annin, my queen, when I make my fortune, I’ll take you away from this rat-hole on a golden galleon.” She buried her face in Annin’s neck.

  “My place is no rat-hole, you slattern,” Steifann protested huffily. Both women ignored him.

  Annin snorted. “You worthless water-rat, you’ll make your fortune when the Empress peels potatoes in the kitchen. Why should I waste my time waiting for you when there’s plenty who’ll spend on me now?”

  “You’re a faithless wench. I love you better than them all.”

  “Hmmph! And what is it you’re both braying about while I do all the work of the house?”

  “Why, love again, my beauty,” said Destiver, running her hands over Annin’s bodice.

  “Lechery, more like, if I know you and this one here,” Annin retorted, jerking her head in Steifann’s direction.

  “And where’s the difference?” Steifann asked, waxing philosophical. “It’s love, even if it’s only for the night, A cold and lonely bed’s never made anyone the happier. It sours you, and turns you from the world.” He gestured broadly, knocking over some of the mugs on the tray.

  “You’re a besotted fool.” Annin took another drink and started to mop up some of the spilled ale with a cloth she wore at her waist.

  Steifann began to sing:

  “Ah, once I caught a bird,

  A sweet and lovely dove.

  I said to her these words:

  Come here and be my love.

  Ah, doveling don’t be shy,

  Don’t hide your head away.

  I’ll teach you how to fly

  Though on the ground you’ll stay.

  Charm me with your eyes so bright.

  Let me hear your song.

  Kiss me once and hold me tight,

  Here in the grass so long.

  Into my arms the darling flew,

  I kissed her downy breast,

 
And how that dove began to coo

  When I entered her snug nest.

  ’Twas a deep and mossy valley,

  And fit for any king.

  In that nest long did I dally,

  Till the bird and I did sing.”

  Annin and Destiver began to sing with him.

  “Ah, once I caught a bird,

  A sweet and lov-”

  “Corson, do you hear me? I’ll take a turn at watch-why didn’t you wake me?”

  Nyctasia called sleepily. “It’s nearly dawn.”

  “Whore!” Corson shouted, throwing a rock into the pool. “You scum, wait till I get back to Chiastelm, I’ll kill you, you and that stinking smuggler with you!”

  Nyctasia was wide awake now. “Corson, what’s the matter?”

  Corson turned on her in outrage. “You and your filthy magic! Do you cast spells in your sleep?” She was astonished to see that the sky was already growing pale at the horizon. How long had she been in the grip of the vision?

  “Perhaps, if it isn’t asking too much, you’d be good enough to tell me what you’re talking about,” Nyctasia suggested. “What spells?”

  “I saw him, in the pool.”

  “You saw whom in the pool, a merman?”

  “Steifann-at the Hare-and Annin, and that bitch Destiver. ‘Old friend’-I’ll wring her scrawny neck for her! I was thinking about him, and then he was there

  … He was drinking and singing and, and…”

  “And not moping about, missing you?” Nyctasia guessed. Corson scowled at her.

  “But. Corson, it was probably just a dream.”

  “I never fall asleep on watch-I couldn’t if I tried!” That was a weakness which had been beaten out of Corson in the army.

  “All I know is, I could have been murdered in my bed while you were dreaming of your lusty lover-if I had a bed,” she added ruefully.

  “It wasn’t a dream, I tell you!” Corson suddenly stiffened. “You may be murdered yet,” she said tensely.

  “Now, Corson, don’t be so hasty-”

  “Quiet, fool! There’s someone over there. Draw your sword.”

  “Are you sure you’re not still imagining things?” Nyctasia whispered, but she obeyed, nevertheless.

  “Watch those trees,” Corson breathed.

  “It’s too dark, I can’t see any-”

  Then three people stepped into the open, from the overgrown stand of trees, and strode toward them purposefully. As they emerged from the morning twilight, Corson could make out a man and two women, all armed, their long blades held at the ready.

  “Good morrow, strangers,” said one of the women. “Have you passed the night in this haunted place?”

  “And if we have, what of it?” said Corson, making no attempt to hide her mistrust. “We’ve done no harm. We’ll be on our way at once.”

  “Not so soon, I think,” said the man, and rushed at her. One of the women followed his lead, while the other turned on Nyctasia.

  Suddenly it seemed to Nyctasia that she was back at the inn-yard in Osela, with Corson shouting at her, “Don’t hesitate, act! Move! Faster! Don’t stop to think, there’s no time for that. Think with your arm-that sword’s alive! It’s faster than you are, you can barely keep hold of it-grip it fast-don’t let it get away from you-that’s right-”

  It was still too dark to see her opponent very clearly, but she could hear the woman’s gasping breath, and she realized that she too was panting heavily. I suppose one of us will be killed,” she thought dispassionately, watching her own arm in fascination. But then the woman dove in under her guard and knocked her legs from under her. Nyctasia’s back struck the ground with a bone-jarring blow that forced the air from her chest and lit sparks before her eyes. She lay stunned as the woman knelt over her, pinioning her arms.

  Yet a moment later, to Nyctasia’s surprise, her assailant leapt to her feet again, called something to her companions, and ran off swiftly into the trees.

  The other woman too turned and fled, and the man hurled his sword at Corson and followed.

  Corson hurried to Nyctasia and helped her to her feet. She was still dizzy and breathless, but otherwise unhurt. Reassured, Corson went in pursuit of their attackers, calling back, “Stay there, watch the horses. If you see anything, shout.”

  Shout? thought Nyctasia, I can’t even breathe! She waited, worried, for Corson to return. As soon as she could draw breath well enough, she decided to go after Corson on horseback, leading the other horse with her. But before she had mounted, she saw Corson returning, alone, and she seemed to have her cloak wrapped around her arm. Nyctasia ran to meet her. “Corson, are you wounded?”

  “Wounded? Of course not.” Corson took a last bite of juicy pear and tossed away the core. “I was just fetching us some breakfast. Those are all fruit trees in there! Here.” She handed Nyctasia a ripe peach from the mound of fruit she carried wrapped in her cloak, in the crook of her arm.

  “But what became of those people?”

  Corson swallowed a mouthful of apple, and frowned. “I don’t know-they just vanished. I couldn’t find a trace of them. I don’t like it. Probably spirits,” she said glumly.

  “They seemed all too substantial to me. What did they want, for vahn’s sake?”

  “Us, of course. Why do you think that woman didn’t cut your throat? They’re slavers, you can wager what you like on that, and we’d better get out of here before they come back with the rest of the band.” She spat out seeds as if spitting in the faces of their would-be captors.

  “By all means. We can’t be far from Vale now, and I for one have no intention of spending another night in the open.”

  Silently, they rolled up their blankets and saddled the horses. The rainclouds had passed with the night, and faint streaks of rose and misty grey were slowly drifting across the sky. There was lark-song in the old orchard; the sunrise already gave promise of a bright, hot day. Nyctasia, who was used to the cooler climes of the coast, wished above all for a bath.

  “Do you mean to come back here to look for the treasure?” she asked Corson, as they rode back to the by-road.

  “If it’s guarded by spells, I’ll do without it,” Corson said, biting into another pear. She looked back, but in the early morning light the ruins didn’t seem such an uncanny place after all. “Nyc, you never told me-was it real, all that about Steifann? Is that what he’s doing now?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s impossible, but-”

  “Can’t you ever give a simple answer to a simple question!”

  “Corson, that is not a simple question. Tell me, did you say the spell?”

  “Not aloud.”

  “That’s no matter… What were you thinking about before it happened?”

  “I told you, I was thinking about Steifann.”

  “What were you thinking about Steifann?” Nyctasia asked with exaggerated patience. Corson gave her a sidelong look, and they both laughed. “Well, what else were you thinking about him?”

  Corson sighed, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts that had preceded the bothersome visitation, “I was… remembering all the arguments we’ve had… about the way I’m gone for months at a time. He always says I shouldn’t expect to find him waiting for me when I get back. As if I care.”

  “So you were distressed, most like, and therefore susceptible,” Nyctasia said thoughtfully.

  “I was what?” Corson bridled, suspecting an insult.

  “Defenseless against the Influences present in the place. What with your natural ability, and your rather perturbed state, it’s not inconceivable that you did experience a manifestation of some sort.”

  “You prating parrot! Did it mean anything?”

  “Of course it did. Everything means something-Everything we do, everything that happens to us, is part of the web that binds us to our past and our future, and links us each to each, whether we would or no. Our actions, our visions, our dreams-” She was silent for a moment, then shook herself abr
uptly. “As for what you saw, it may not have been what it seemed. There’d have to be a very powerful Influence at work to call forth a true Reflection. This was more likely a lesser magic that showed you only shadows-”

  “Lies.”

  “-of your own fears.”

  Corson looked sullenly at the ground. “I’m not afraid-I could find another lover quick enough.”

  “In the time I’ve known you, you’ve found no end of them, but you’ve always said that no one’s as good as your bearded bedmate in Chiastelm.” Nyctasia looked at her with real irritation. “If you don’t care, and you’re not afraid, what does it matter whether you really saw him or not? You can ask him yourself when you’re back in Chiastelm. And all the man was doing was drinking and singing a few vulgar songs, according to you. Why do you want to kill him for that? I swear I’ve no patience with you! You know better!”

  “He didn’t even mention my name. He’s not thinking about me at all, and it seems like I think about him all the time.”

  “It wouldn’t seem that way to him, if he could spy out your doings,” Nyctasia pointed out.

  Corson had to smile. “He wouldn’t stop yelling for a week,” she admitted. “But it’s more than that…” She struggled to explain. “It’s not just Destiver, it’s-well, Steifann needs someone to help him at the Hare, but I can’t stay locked up there all the time, like a beast in harness.”

  “Well, why should you?”

  “Because if I won’t, he might find himself someone else who will, the mangy cur!

  He cares more for that rutting tavern than for me.”

  “He’d be a fool if he didn’t-it’s his livelihood. He sounds a very sensible man.

  But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for you, Corson. Because you love your freedom best doesn’t mean that you don’t love him, does it? Look at the matter reasonably-”

  Corson blushed. “Oh, what’s the use of talking to you? I don’t want a scholar’s argument! You don’t know what I’m talking about-you only understand what’s in your moldy books.”

  Nyctasia did not answer, and her silence was a reproach to Corson, It wasn’t Nyc’s fault that Steifann didn’t miss her. She’d meant to help, in her maddening way, But the sense that she was in the wrong only made Corson more stubborn, and they continued on their way in silence till Nyctasia spoke again.