by J F Rivkin
She sighed. “All burned down now, of course.”
“Play on these and play you may!” said Nyctasia softly.
“We envied the children who lived there, but they envied us as well, because we lived in a grand house and had fine clothes and servants. Well, they say that some of the children were spared, so perhaps they came to have those things at last, and no one regrets that enchanted garden but me… Ah, there you are, Liss-”
Nyctasia recognized the girl she’d seen in Lady Nocharis’s chamber at their first interview. “You wanted me, milady?”
“I’m going in to lie down for a little, and you shall sit at the window and spy out everyone’s doings for me. Bring your festival dress, and I’ll show you the wreath-stitch. Just hand me my stick, child. Your arm to lean on, Nyctasia my dear?”
“Do you want to take a turn at this, Nyc? I’ll make room for you!” Corson shouted down mockingly from the platform of the press.
“No, ox’s work suits you so well, I’ll leave it to you,” Nyctasia called back, then turned to watch the workers emptying the juice-trough. She had been breathing in the smell of the crushed fruit for days, but here it was so powerful she could almost taste it.
She drank a little of the foaming juice out of her cupped hands. It did not look at all like wine yet. The seeds and skins would be strained out of it later.
Raphe had explained, after the color of the skins had set in the clear juice.
But its flavor was already so rich and strong that Nyctasia could only sip it a bit at a time. She licked her fingers greedily then set to work, taking up one of the lading-vessels and copying the motions of the others. Her arms soon grew tired, but the Discipline of Toleration was one of the first precepts mastered by a Vahnite, and almost without trying, Nyctasia had soon withdrawn her will from the efforts of her limbs. She fell into a rhythm of bending, lifting and turning, that had no beginning or end, but carried her along as the water of Lake Teseren had carried her, floating, half-dreaming.
The work itself never stopped, only the workers changed. When Nyctasia joined the laders, one of the others left to get a meal, and when Raphe came looking for Corson he sent two people up to the platform to replace her before calling her to come down.
“Do you mind helping to harvest my Esthairon grapes? The rest of them must be gathered now or they’ll pass their prime on the vines, but more pickers have refused to work near the ruins, plague take them! There were more thefts, and now some silly brat says he’s seen lights in the temple at night. I’ve told them it was only some vagabond thief’s cooking fire, but it does no good. I need everyone I can muster who’s not afraid of a pile of old stones-let the fools turn the presses.”
Corson stretched her arms and back, cramped from bending to the bar. “I told you you should have that heap torn down. But I don’t mind it-harvesting will be sport after this. Hey, Nyc, come along with you! Raphe needs us to pick those yellow grapes of his.”
Nyctasia was startled, having noticed neither Raphe nor Corson. “What is it?” she asked, in a dazed tone.
“Asye! I just told you-Raphe needs harvesters for the haunted hill. The ruin’s scared his people away. Are you coming?”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She saw that no lading-vessels were lying empty by the trough. “There are enough workers here without me.”
“Well, it would be a help,” Raphe said hesitantly. He hadn’t thought of Nyctasia as a possible harvester. “But you’re not to do more than one or two rows, Nyc.
There’s no shade on the slopes, and you’re not used to such strong sunlight.”
The vines still to be harvested were those nearest the temple, nearly at the crest of the hill, and Nyctasia was already worn out by the time she reached the site, far behind the others. But she was pleased to have made the climb without stopping to rest. The track had not seemed quite as steep and strenuous as before. When she had caught her breath, she took a hip-basket from the pile and a newly whetted knife from the old man who sat by the path all day sharpening the small, curved blades on a whetstone.
She watched the way the others lifted the heavy clusters of grapes, sliced them neatly from the vines and dropped them into their baskets, all in one smooth motion, with no wasted effort. There was, she saw, a pattern to this too, not so different from the way she had been taught to pull an arrow from her quiver, nock it, pull back and release, without pause or hesitation. Nyctasia was quite a skilled archer, and she made up her mind now to become a skilled harvester.
She chose an empty row and began to strip the vines, starting in the middle as she saw the others do, so as to be always working toward the carts waiting at both ends to take the grapes.
“Nyc, go easy!” ’Deisha called to her from a few rows away, with hardly a pause in her quick lifting and slashing motions.
There were several of the family among the harvesters, but most were hirelings-a mixed lot of all those bold or desperate enough to take work on unlucky land.
Some were ragged and careworn and silent, others hearty and cheerful, singing as they worked. There were people who carried babies at their chests, or had small children trailing beside them, and some seemed to Nyctasia not much more than children themselves. Most were barefoot, and many worked stripped to the waist, men and women alike, but all wore the wide straw hats to shade their faces.
How, Nyctasia marveled, could they let this relentless sun beat down on their bare backs, or stand to have the rope basket-straps cut into their skin? Already the rope chafed Nyctasia’s neck, even through her shirt. As the basket grew heavier, toward the end of the row, the shoulder that supported it ached fiercely, and sweat ran into her eyes and down her neck. The glare of the sun and the increasing weight of the basket made it harder and harder to concentrate on the rhythm of her work. The rope seemed to be digging a furrow in her collarbone, rubbing raw the skin newly healed from sunburn. It felt like an eternity before the waiting wagoner took the basket from her and emptied it.
Nyctasia drank deeply from the barrel of water by the cart, and splashed some on her face.
“Hey, leave some for me, greedy beast!”
Nyctasia looked up, startled. There was certainly plenty of water for everyone.
One of her young cousins handed over a heaping basket and bounded up to her, laughing, his shirt flapping behind him, knotted about his waist. Bare-chested and brown and graceful, he looked to Nyctasia like a young faun of the hillsides. But his grin faded when he approached and saw her face to face.
“Oh! Pardon me, Lady Nyctasia-I-I thought you were ’Deisha. I didn’t mean-I was only joking-”
Nyctasia flicked drops of water at him. “I’m Nyc to my kin. Remind me, which one are you?”
He bowed. “Nicorin, son of Nesanye, and yours to command.”
“Is that so? Then let me have the loan of your shirt, if you will.”
He untied the sleeves at once and handed it to her. “Surely,” he said, puzzled.
“But you can’t very well be cold-?”
“Alas, no. I can’t remember what it is to be cold.” She folded up the garment and stuffed it into the shoulder of her own shirt to pad the basket-strap. “Ah, many thanks, lad, that’s what I need. I wasn’t very well prepared. I didn’t expect to be picking grapes today.”
“I should hope not!” he exclaimed, indignant on her behalf. “It’s a fine hospitality that makes a guest labor in the sun like a peasant!”
“It seems to me,” said Nyctasia mildly, “that I’m laboring in the sun like an Edonaris.” She shouldered her basket again and smiled. “And it’s done me good, besides. My appetite’s improved no end since I came here!”
Nicorin made a face, not at Nyctasia, but past her, in Raphe’s direction. “I’d best get back to work too. Raphe’s giving me a look that would turn wine to vinegar. And we’ve him to thank for this day’s labor! We’d be through for the season if not for him and his outlandish new grapes.”
They went together to the middle of a
new row and worked side by side, gradually moving away in opposite directions. The basket was so much easier to carry that Nyctasia even found the sunshine more bearable. “So the crush is nearly over?” she asked, when they met in the middle of the next row. “Raphe’s grapes are the last?” She was exhausted again, but still determined to keep pace with the others.
“Well, the harvesting’s most done, not the pressing. And there’s plenty to do after that, but it’s not as urgent. We’ll get a rest, and then we’ll hold Harvest Festival-that’s best of all. But after that we’ll be back to the same dull chores again, every day.” He sighed.
“Nicorin…,” said Nyctasia thoughtfully, “you’re one of the warmongers, aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to go to war,” he insisted, “but I don’t think it’s right for us to stand by idly while our kin fight for the honor of our House, in Rhostshyl.”
He slashed fiercely at the vines with his harvesting-knife, as if they had refused to yield their fruit.
Nyctasia could not help smiling at the bored youth’s notion of idleness. But she said only, “I hope you will go to Rhostshyl one day. I believe that the likes of you could well be the saving of the House of Edonaris.” She paused to wipe her forehead with her sleeve, her shoulders sagging. “You are needed in Rhostshyl, but not to fight for the honor of the family-if it comes to war, Nicorin, it will not be to our honor, but to our shame. Oh, the Edonaris will win, you may be sure, with or without your help. We’re stronger than the Teiryn, and everyone in the city knows it. But we’ve no more right to sole rule of Rhostshyl than they! Some of us would seize it simply because it lies within our grasp, no matter the cost to our honor, to the city-the lives lost, the law defiled.”
Nyctasia’s voice shook, but she went on with her picking steadily, as if she were only passing on family gossip to her young kinsman.
But Nicorin had forgotten his work. “But… but, then, why-”
“For power, neither more nor less,” said Nyctasia wearily. “My brother Emeryc would tell you it’s for the good of the city, and I think he believes it. The matriarch Mhairestri claims it is the foreordained destiny of our House, and I know she believes it. Call it what you will, it’s all the same-the lust for power that devours the spirit-that drives us to crimes against the vahn-I know
…” She heard her own words tumbling out hysterically, uncontrolled, saying far more than she’d intended. “Why?” she whispered, turning to face the bewildered Nicorin. “Only because the Teiryn can’t prevent us from taking power-that’s why the Edonaris want war! Because we’d win-!” Her basket fell to the ground, spilling ripe grapes at her feet, and she clutched at a vine-pole for support.
“Nyc…? ’Deisha, ’Deisha! Nyc’s sick, hurry!” Nicorin yelled, his voice cracking. He took Nyctasia’s arm, and she grabbed him by the shoulders suddenly, shaking him and shouting.
“We’ll win, never doubt it. We don’t need you, but we might be willing to use you. We’ll become the undisputed rulers of Rhostshyl, and you might be allowed to share in that victory, but you’ll also share in the disgrace-remember that!”
“Nyc, what is it? Are you all right?” ’Deisha asked anxiously, putting her arm around Nyctasia’s waist.
Nyctasia staggered against her. “Yes, I… no… I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me-”
“I do. You’re sunstruck, dear, that’s what ails you. Come with me.”
“Here, give her to me.” Corson easily lifted Nyctasia in her arms and carried her to the porch of the temple, where a bit of remaining roof gave some shade.
Nicorin brought a dipper of water, and ’Deisha bathed Nyctasia’s face and wrists, even soaking her hair. While she sipped the rest, Nyctasia heard Raphe say wretchedly, “I told her not to do more than a row or two-”
“She oughtn’t to have been here at all!” snapped ’Deisha. “And I shouldn’t have let her stay.”
“It’s my fault,” Corson began, “I brought her along-”
Nyctasia spoke up as firmly as she could. “It’s my own fault, and no one else’s.
I wanted to come, but I’m only in the way here, only causing trouble… here you all are wasting time caring for me while the harvest… the grapes…”
“I don’t care about the rutting grapes!” said Corson, whose anxiety, as usual, had quickly turned to anger, though she was not at all sure whom she was angry at. “I’m taking you back to the house now.”
“No, I’m all right now, and you’re needed here. I can go back with one of the carts.”
Corson started to protest, but ’Deisha agreed with Nyctasia. “She’s better off resting in the shade than carried in the sun, Corson, I don’t even want her on a wagon till the sun’s lower-they’re too open. The best thing is to stay out of the light altogether for now. I’ll slay with her, don’t worry.”
“Back to work, the lot of you!” said Nyctasia. “I won’t be responsible for the loss of the crop. Away with you!”
They moved off unwillingly, Nicorin lingering with a guilty feeling that it was really his fault somehow. Shaken and ashen-faced, he looked much more ill than Nyctasia.
She smiled weakly at him. “Did I frighten you?”
He nodded mutely. He knew she was not referring only to her attack of sunstroke.
“Good. Then perhaps I’ve done my work here after all.”
“That… that was all true then? You meant what you said about the Edonaris?”
“I didn’t mean to say it all, but it was true, I’m sorry to say. And, Nicorin, I feel far worse about it than you do, believe me.”
“Well, at least I understand now why you were banished from Rhostshyl,” he said ruefully, and they both laughed.
“You go along, too, ’Deisha,” said Nyctasia, gently pushing her away. “I’m fine now. I only feel bad that I can’t help to save Raphe’s grapes, but I’ll feel worse if I keep you from it as well. I’ll wait here if you like, but there’s no need for you to stay.”
’Deisha agreed reluctantly. “Very well, but mind, Nyc, you’re not to move. Keep to the shade here.”
I’ll keep an eye on her, ’Deisha thought. And when she next came to empty her laden basket, she took another dipper of water up to the temple for Nyctasia-but she was gone.
Nyctasia did feel better, but before long she was unbearably thirsty, as much, it seemed, from the sweet juice she’d drunk as from the heat. She felt quite well enough to fetch herself more water, until she stood and took a few steps down the hill. Then a violent wave of dizziness struck her, and she stumbled back to lean against the temple wall, faint and dismayed. She certainly could not walk as far as the water barrel unaided, but she was determined not to give more trouble. If only she weren’t so thirsty!
From within the temple the musical, purling ripple of flowing water reached her, and she thought with relief of the fountain. Hadn’t Mother ’Charis said that its water was always fresh and cold? It wasn’t far to the courtyard, and she needn’t let go of the wall on the way.
At first she could see the water, but when she dropped down beside the fountain she found only an illusion woven of light and the swaying shadows of the brass bells, wavering on the polished marble basin. The bells chimed softly, like water striking stone, though there was hardly a hint of a breeze to relieve the heat.
Neither was there a hand’s breadth of shade in the courtyard. Nyctasia forgot her thirst in her desperate desire to escape from the glaring sunlight that burned her eyes and maddened her senses. She could only think of the cave, halfway down the hill, where it was cool and dark. She could wait for the others there, if she could only reach it. But the sun seemed to bear down upon her bodily as she struggled to rise. When she gained her feet the dizziness was worse than before, and she fell heavily to her knees again. Formless, blurred shapes appeared and disappeared in the air before her, now dark, now dazzling.
Nyctasia rubbed at her eyes, and one of the cloudy shapes grew clearer and seemed to take on human form, but
she could not make out who it was at the heart of that blinding light.
She reached feebly for the dark figure. “The cave-” she gasped.
“These hills are riddled with caves, riddled with caves, riddled with caves…”
The voice echoed hollowly around the courtyard, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.
“Raphe…?”
“No riddle has only one answer.”
“Why do you always keep your face hidden?” whispered Nyctasia.
“You who are Mistress of Ambiguities must know that.”
“’Ben? ’Ben, I can’t see, I can’t stand-”
“No matter, ’Tasia, we’ve not far to go. I’ll carry you.”
“Yes, take me with you,” Nyctasia cried, and fainted.
“Nyctasia! Nyc, where are you?” But there was no answer, and ’Deisha ran to question the carters. Finding that no one had taken Nyctasia downhill, she called to Corson, “I can’t find Nyc, she’s vanished! Do you know where she’s gone?”
Raphe hastened to her and pulled her aside, “Keep your voice down, for vahn’s sake! I’ll lose the rest of the pickers if they think people have started disappearing now.”
Corson strode up to them, her half-loaded basket banging at her hip. “What do you mean she’s vanished?” she demanded. “She was right there, she can’t have gone far.”
“Corson, not so loud, I beg you,” said Raphe anxiously.
’Deisha turned on him furiously. “Will you think of something besides your precious grapes for once! Nyc’s missing, don’t you care?”
“Of course I do, fool! But there’s no need to alarm everyone.” The overseer Ansen stood to one side, listening. A few of the others had gathered behind her, talking among themselves and shaking their heads or making signs to ward off evil. Raphe turned to her and ordered, “Get these folk back to work, there’s nothing to tear. The Lady Nyctasia was sunstruck, that’s all, she hasn’t vanished or anything of the sort.”
“Perhaps if she were found and they could see her…” Ansen suggested uneasily.