“where are you going?” Corson complained, as Raphe climbed out of her bed at dawn, waking her up. “Now the bed’s cold.”
He was already pulling on his clothes, but he paused to bend over Corson and lift a long lock of her hair to his lips. “Good morrow, fair guest.”
“Morrow yourself. It’s still night.”
“Nothing of the sort. It’s nearly light, see for yourself.” He crossed to the window and pulled back the draperies and shutters to reveal the transparent darkness of early dawn.
Corson groaned and pulled the bedclothes up around her ears. “Nearly light! Do you take me for a dairymaid? Close that window or I’ll throw you out of it. I’m half frozen as it is.”
“Poor lamb. Never mind, there’ll be hot weather today, by the look of it, and a good thing too. The grapes need it.” He took a last, satisfied look at the clearing sky, then came back to sit on the bed and put his boots on.
Corson toyed with the hair at the back of his neck, then let her fingers trail slowly down his bare spine. “If you were a good host, you’d stay here and help me get warm,” she chided him. “Surely your first duty is to the comfort of your guests.”
“The duties of hospitality are sacred,” Raphe agreed, leaning back to kiss her arm. “In fact, I can think of no duty I would so willingly fulfill, if work did not call me away. I want to have half the pruning done before the sun’s high. By midday it will be too hot, I hope and trust. All that heavy rain’s had me worried, I can tell you. Too much water can make the fruit split and spoil, but if today’s fair all will be well.” As he finished dressing, he told Corson a great deal more about the perils of rot and mold to the ripening grapes, but she fell asleep again before she learned much.
Nyctasia had been lying awake for some time, trying to remember what it was that she’d dreamt that night. The words of a song echoed in her memory, just out of reach… had there been something about a tower…?
’Deisha rose, stretching, and slipped into her night-dress again, then sat on the edge of the bed, braiding her hair quickly and carelessly. When she bound the end of the thick plait and tossed it over her shoulder, Nyctasia snatched it and tugged gently, pulling ’Deisha back down and into her arms.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, sweet cousin,” said ’Deisha, snuggling against her.
Nyctasia kissed her invitingly. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake, my dear.”
“Alas that I must go and see to the cows now.”
“That is a pity. But we can wait, and cows can’t. I’ll go with you.”
“Oh, no, stay here and rest, Nyc. I’d no right to keep you awake half the night, and you tired from your journey.”
But Nyctasia pushed back the covers and reached for her robe. “I couldn’t sleep more. There’s so much I want to see. The kennels, for one, and the stables. And all the land-field and forest. I hope there’s good hunting.” She threw wide the window and drew a deep breath of the cool, grape-scented morning air.
Before her stretched a splendid view of the surrounding hills, their crests still wreathed in mist. The distant foothills of the Spine Mountains had begun to show the golden and scarlet hues of autumn, while the nearby slopes were carpeted with vines. Small children were running up and down between the grape-rows, clattering wooden noisemakers and shouting, to keep the birds away.
“Do you know what I’ve seen from my windows all my life?” Nyctasia asked quietly. “Walls. The walls of the palace, and beyond them the walls of the courtyard, and beyond those the city walls. But the mountains are your fortifications here. The valley is protected, but you are not the prisoners of your own barricades and bulwarks.”
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.”