Web of wind s-2

by J F Rivkin

  To ’Deisha, who hoped to see its towering ramparts one day, the walled city sounded mysterious and exciting, but she said only, “You’ve come at a good time to see the hills at their best. Soon the colors will be glorious.” She joined Nyctasia at the window and took her hand. “And you’ve brought us luck too-the weather’s turned at last. We were afraid the rain would ruin the harvest, but yesterday you and Corson appeared and brought the sun with you. Today will be clear and bright, the damp’s burning off already. There’s a fine crop of mist.”

  She pointed to a newly tilled field in the distance, where the tall plumes of fog rising from the fresh-turned furrows did look rather like rows of ghostly grain. A crop of mist… thought Nyctasia, frowning. It was a local turn of phrase that pleased her, but it reminded her again of the dream and the song she had tried in vain to recall, The mists of morning…? Was that a part of it?

  But it wasn’t quite right. And surely there was a bell-

  “’Deisha,” she said abruptly, “where’s the land that belonged to the Cymvelan Circle? Can we see it from here?”

  “We could if not for the mist. The temple was on top of Honeycomb Hill, over there. Most of the roof has fallen, and some of the walls, but when it’s clear you can see the remains. And the bell tower’s still standing. Nyc, what is it?”

  Nyctasia had suddenly left her side and hastened to seize her harp, which hung front a sconce on the wall near the bed. “Wait-it’s come to me,” she said excitedly, snatching up her pouch and spilling out its contents. ’Deisha looked on in amazement as Nyctasia scattered a fortune in jewels and gold across the lid of a chest and picked out the silver tuning-key. She tightened a few strings then slipped the key around her neck on its silver chain, leaving the other things where they lay. To a ripple of high, icy notes, she sang:

  “White mists veil the fields at dawn

  In the pale, pearl, early hour.

  Shall I seek for peace or power?

  Shall I stay or journey on?

  Sunlight warms the fields at noon.

  Will the bell, high in the tower,

  Peal for peace or peal for power?

  Has the midday come so soon?

  Dews fall on the fields at eve,

  Whispering without surcease,

  ‘Peace or power? Power or peace?

  Will you linger? Will you leave?’

  “Or was it, ‘travel on’?” Nyctasia said doubtfully. She sounded disappointed.

  “Nyc, what is that song? What in the vahn’s name does it mean?”

  “Not a great deal, I’m afraid,” sighed Nyctasia, “but I’d best make note of it anyway. One can never be certain of these things.” She swept her valuables back into her pouch and tossed it into the chest. From her satchel she fetched a flask of ink and a quill, and began to record the song in her commonplace-book.

  She seemed to have forgotten ’Deisha’s presence completely.

  ’Deisha leaned over her shoulder. “How beautifully you write!” she exclaimed, admiring the evenness of Nyctasia’s quill-strokes. “Like a trained scribe. I can write, after a fashion, but I always finish with more ink on myself than on the page.”

  “I’ve had considerable practice,” said Nyctasia absently. “I daresay you haven’t.”

  What had Nyctasia had to write that she wouldn’t trust to scribes, ’Deisha wondered. She felt again like a callow farm girl. “Nyc, will you teach me to play the harp?”

  Without looking up, Nyctasia replied, “If you like. It’s not difficult.”

  “Well, I’d best go look to my cows…” There was no response. “Will I see you at breakfast?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly,” said Nyctasia, still intent on her task. When she finished, she read over her work carefully, weighing each word, then shook her head doubtfully and put away her book and writing utensils. She returned to the window and looked out over the landscape again, but the sun was just breaking over the horizon, and the hilltops were still hidden in mist. Suddenly feeling weary to the bone, Nyctasia went back to bed and slept soundly till a maid came to summon her to breakfast.

  Raphe was gone by the time a maid came in, bringing Corson a basin of warm water to wash with. Corson ignored her and sank into sleep once more, to be awakened for the third time by Nyctasia splashing the now cooled water on her face.

  “Idiot! If I’d had a weapon at hand I’d have cut you in two before I half woke.”

  “I know. I made sure there was none handy. Get out of bed, you indolent lout.”

  “Why should I? I don’t have to answer to anyone here.” She stretched slowly and settled back with her hands behind her head. Her long, thick hair lay in sleep-tousled waves about her.

  Nyctasia threw her clothes at her. “It’s discourteous not to come down to breakfast on the first morning of a visit, unless you know your hosts well.”

  “I know one of them well,” said Corson, grinning. “Intimately, you might say.”

  But the thought of breakfast moved her to rise and dress.

  “And I thought you were pining for that faithless fellow in Chiastelm.”

  “He’s not thinking of me,” Corson said angrily, jerking on her sword-belt. “Why should I worry about him. Raphe wants me to stay for the Harvest Festival. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I’ll go back to Chiastelm when I please, and not before.”

  Corson’s bluffing was so obvious that Nyctasia turned away to the window to hide her amusement. Pulling open the shutters, she leaned out to admire the bright, serene morning again. In the yard below, two children were twirling a skipping-rope while a third jumped over it tirelessly. Gradually, Nyctasia made out the words of the rhyme they were chanting together.

  “On the hill top stands a tower,

  Strike the bell and sound the hour:

  One, two, three, four…”

  So much for my premonitions, Nyctasia thought, smiling to herself. I must have heard them in my sleep.

  The sunlight was already bright and powerful, and the mist had lifted from the highlands. On the crest of a nearby hill, the remains of stone walls were now visible, and a tall stone tower stood stark against the pale morning sky.

  Corson finished braiding her hair and pinned it up with the ivory clasp.

  “Besides,” she continued, “as long as we’re here, I’d not mind just having a look for that treasure.”

  15

  “i trust you didn’t pay too dearly for this,” said Diastor with a smile, handing the page of riddles back to Nyctasia. “I fear you were tricked. Treasure-hunters have combed the place for years, and nothing’s ever been found. Outlanders will still buy treasure maps, though. It’s an old game.”

  “No, it wasn’t costly,” Nyctasia said. “Newt hadn’t much choice but to sell it to us.”

  “You think he knew it was worthless, then?” Corson broke in. “By the Hlann, I’ll wring his scrawny neck if I see him again! But what of the innkeeper at Ylna? He recognized the thing.”

  Diastor shrugged. “He was probably party to the scheme. If there’s a fortune to be had, it’s in convincing others that there’s a fortune to be had, believe me.

  I’d wager there never was a treasure. The Cymvelans weren’t rich-they lived on the land, never even ate meat, from what I’ve heard.”

  “I’ve always heard they were bloodthirsty wizards who sacrificed to demons,”

  Corson remarked, helping herself to sausage.

  “It’s easy enough to say such things,” said Nyctasia, who’d been called much the same in her day.

  “They were a peaceful, scholarly lot,” one of the older men said firmly. “My uncle was sent to them for lessons when he was a boy. They were known as great teachers who’d never turn away a pupil, peasant or noble. The attack on the Circle was a disgrace.”

  “What made folk turn on them, then?”

  “Well… some do say that the talk against them was started by lords of the great Saetarrin estates, during the drought. The crops had failed and folk were despe
rate for food. They knew the Saetarrin had reserves of grain, and in time they’d have torn down the storehouses-and maybe put torch to the manor-houses as well. The nobles feared for their lives.”

  “If the grain had been given out, as it should have been, they’d not have gone in fear of their own people,” said Mesthelde. “You can’t hoard corn while folk are starving.”

  “They preferred to sacrifice the Circle-so it’s said. I daresay it was easy to persuade people that the Cymvelans caused the drought-they were foreigners and their ways were strange. It was even rumored that some of their gardens were still green while all others were withered. With the blame laid to them, the Saetarrin were left in peace.”

  “And it was the Lord Saetarrin who’d sold them the land, when they first came to Vale,” Jenisorn put in. “And after the massacre his heirs reclaimed it. They said there was no proper record of the sale, and who was there to contradict them? If there was ever a treasure the Saetarrin made off with it before they sold us the place!”

  “Idle talk,” said Diastor, with a warning look at Jenisorn. “Lady Saetarrin gave us the land at a good price because it’s thought to be unlucky now, and it’s hard to find folk enough to work it.”

  “The land was unlucky long before the Cymvelans came,” said the elderly Heronice. “It’s always been an ill place. But Avareth ar’n Saetarrin was glad to be quit of it because she knows how her grandsire recovered it. We all know that.” Diastor frowned, but did not contradict her.

  “Well, it’s been lucky enough for me,” said Raphe complacently. “The ghosts haven’t troubled my grafted vines. But I’ll pour them an offering of the first lot of new wine, to appease them.”

  “Stop that sort of talk,” said Mesthelde sharply. “It’s no joke. People have disappeared in those ruins, even in my day. Wise folk still shun them,” She made a sign to ward off evil, which was repeated by several of the others.

  The youngsters, who had all explored the ruins, against their elders’ orders, grinned and winked at each other.

  “All the same, I mean to have a look at the place,” said Corson, “with your permission, of course.”

  “By all means,” said Raphe, “I’ll take you there. But I warn you, there is danger. Since the fire, much of the timbering’s given way. There’s not much roof left to fall, but the flooring’s not solid underfoot, in places. You could fall through if you’re not careful where you step. With all respect to my Lady Aunt, that is probably what became of those who’ve disappeared there.”

  “Then why weren’t they found? And what of the screams folk have heard there, and nobody to be seen? It’s those who perished in the fire, mark my words. Oh, I know it’s no use talking to you young fools-you’ll please yourselves anyway.”

  “I’d like to see the temple myself-and the tower,” Nyctasia admitted. “I’m curious. I confess.”

  Diastor nodded assent, “I shouldn’t put too much stock in that paper of yours, though,” he cautioned. “You’ll be disappointed.”

  “I never did believe in it. Not in the story of treasure, that is. It was the name Edonaris that concerned me. I didn’t know you owned the land, you see. Even so, it might be interesting to see. We’ll be very careful.”

  Mesthelde only sniffed in disapproval, her expression clearly declaring that they would have only themselves to blame when disaster befell. “And what hole has swallowed up your sister this morning?” she asked Raphe. “It’s no more like her to be late for breakfast than to be on time for dinner. She’s always up before us all to tend to her flocks.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t sleep well last night,” said Jenisorn, looking mischievously at Nyctasia from beneath half-lowered lashes.

  “She said she’d be in to breakfast,” Nyctasia volunteered, and then reddened, realizing that she’d just confirmed the surmises of most of those present.

  Jenisorn looked away pointedly, and bit into a piece of bread and honey, smacking his lips. Nyctasia reminded herself to strangle him at the earliest opportunity.

  She was relieved when one of the children spoke up. “I saw her come in from the yard when I brought in the eggs.”

  “She must still be washing, then,” said Mesthelde. “Remarkable! It appears that you have a civilizing influence on her, my dear Nyctasia.”

  “At last we agree on something, Aunt!” said ’Deisha, hurrying into the room and seizing a honey-roll in each hand. “Vahn, I’m hungry! Arrow’s shoulder is much better, where the boar gored him.”

  The family greeted her appearance with stunned silence, too occupied with staring even to reply. The reason for her tardy arrival at breakfast was now apparent. She had cut off her hair, cropped it as short as Nyctasia’s. Her wide brow, high cheekbones and slender neck now showed to full advantage, and she and Nyctasia were more alike than ever.

  “I must say, it suits you,” Raphe said at last. “But of course you knew it would. You’d only to look at Nyc.”

  “And it will be far less trouble this way,” ’Deisha said, through a mouthful of ham. “I can’t think why I didn’t do it long ago.”

  Clearly a gesture on Nyctasia’s part was called for, and she was not one to neglect a duty. She took off one of her silver earrings-Erystalben’s gift-and gave it to ’Deisha, whose obvious delight reconciled her to its loss.

  The proposed visit to the Cymvelan temple also met with ’Deisha’s approval. “We might go today,” she suggested, “if you’re not needed here, Raphe. It must be soon, you know, before the crush.”

  He nodded. “In fact, I have to go up that way, as it happens. The golden grapes seem to be ripening a little earlier this year.”

  “The crush?” queried Nyctasia. “That sounds ominous.”

  “When the bulk of the grapes are brought in to be pressed,” ’Deisha explained.

  “The different strains ripen at different times, but when the first are ready the rest don’t wait long.”

  “It’s a backbreaking job to keep up with them,” said Nesanye glumly. “Once they reach the perfect flavor they have to be gathered then and there. They’re tested every hour, day and night, for ripeness. Even a few hours’ delay can affect the taste of the wine.”

  “And then you have to press ’em right away, too!” a small child chimed in from the foot of the table, proud of knowing something that a big person like Nyctasia didn’t. “Else they lose their flavor!”

  “That’s right, ’Lorin,” said Nesanye, and turning to Nyctasia, added, “The crush should begin at any time now, and once it does there’ll be no rest for anyone.”

  Several of the others groaned in agreement, but the younger folk asserted that the crush was the best time of the year, more fun than a fair or festival.

  “It’s exciting,” insisted ’Cacia, “everyone racing around, and all the confusion and noise-”

  “And lights burning all night.”

  “… dinner outside, at all hours…”

  “It sounds like preparation for a siege,” said Corson, without enthusiasm.

  “So it is,” laughed Diastor, “defense against the invasion of time and decay. We guard a golden moment of perfection, safely sealed in, deep in the cellars. Time may hammer at the casks, but cannot despoil the wine, only improve it. We not only wage war with time, we conquer, and make time serve us! Who can make that boast but a vintner?”

  This speech was met with cheers by young and old alike. On certain things all the Edonaris of Vale could always agree.

  16

  halfway up honeycomb hill, Nyctasia demanded a rest and collapsed on a stone ledge, panting and exhausted. She prided herself on her stamina, but she had never tried to ascend such a steep slope on foot before.

  ’Deisha offered her a drink from the water skin at her waist, and Raphe brought her some of the golden grapes to refresh her. The entire hillside was terraced with his grafted vines.

  Corson grinned down at her. “Shall I carry you the rest of the way, milady?”

  “We can’t all b
e muscle-bound monstrosities,” Nyctasia said serenely.

  “Oh, like ’Deisha here?”

  “I’ve climbed these hills all my life!” ’Deisha flared. “Nyc’s a scholar, she-”

  But both Corson and Nyctasia were laughing now. “Don’t mind Corson, love,”

  Nyctasia chuckled. “She just likes to put me in my place. And furthermore, she’s right, though I hate to encourage her effrontery by saying so.” Nyctasia’s tone became more serious. “I ought to be able to climb this hill as well as you can-it’s a violation of the Balance-”

  “Oh no,” said Corson, “I’ve started her off. I should have known better.”

  “-between the Dwelling and the Indwelling,” Nyctasia continued. “That I should be so weak shows that I haven’t done my duty to this Dwelling.” As she spoke, she made the Vahnite sign for the body, touching both hands quickly to her heart and crossing them on her breast. “Look at those people, some of them twice my age and more, and no whit wearied by this climb. It shames me!” She pointed to a group of vine-workers who’d walked straight from their encampment at the foot of the hill to the top rows of vines without pausing, only waving a greeting as they passed. The harvesters camped near the crops at this season, pruning and weeding and keeping off the birds, but mainly waiting to be at hand, ready for the crush.

  One of the overseers approached to confer with Raphe, and they drew aside to talk undisturbed. ’Deisha, meanwhile, attempted to apologize to Corson for her sharpness, but Corson only laughed. “Nyc may be weak, but she needs no champion in an argument,” she assured ’Deisha. “Her tongue’s as able as anyone’s.”

  Corson was in a fine humor that morning. She’d made an excellent breakfast in good company, the prospect of a treasure-hunt was still before her, and Raphe’s continued attentions were a source of satisfaction to her as well. He was a rich man, after all, and if not titled himself, he was at least brother to a future Jhaice. She’d show Steifann that she was welcome under other roofs than his!

  When she returned to Chiastelm she’d let him know that she found favor with the gentry-even Rhaicimes pursued her…