nyctasia seized her dagger and raced out into the corridor, where she found Corson, half-dressed and sword in hand, coming to meet her. There was a great deal of shouting and confusion below. “You’re all right?” said Corson. “What-”
’Deisha burst upon them, still pulling on her shin, and laughing in excitement.
“Put away your arms!” she cried. “I thought you’d be alarmed, but there’s nothing to fear. The Royal Crimson are ripe! The crush has begun! I must hurry-”
She hugged Nyctasia wildly and darted away, not hearing her gasp of pain at this assault on her sunburned back, Corson and Nyctasia stared at each other and started to laugh.
“I suppose they need every able hand,” sighed Corson, “but you’d think it could wait till morning…!”
“They’ll not expect you to join in the work, Corson, you’re a guest. No one would think the worse of you if you went back to bed.”
“Who could sleep with that rutting bell ringing, and all the carryings-on? I might as well be in the thick of it.”
“Well, it’s good of you, but please come rub some more salve on me before you go, will you? I shan’t be joining you, not tonight. My back’s a blazing brand!”
Nyctasia woke toward noon to find that she seemed to be completely alone in the house. It was not difficult, however, to follow the sound of voices to the courtyard, where long tables had been set up in the open and covered with food and drink. No one was seated at them, though. The harvesters-the Edonaris and their hirelings alike-came and went in a steady stream, standing about long enough to wolf down a quick meal, then hurrying back to their labors. Nyctasia saw that most of the food had been prepared beforehand, to spare even the kitchen workers for the all-important task of bringing in the grapes for pressing. There were huge platters of smoked meats, bowls of pickled vegetables, pots of preserves and mounds of dried fruits, along with rounds of cheese as big as cart-wheels. But the bread was fresh and plentiful, and immense casks of ale stood at either end of the main table, to wash down the smoked meat and salted fish.
As soon as the platters were emptied, they were snatched away to the kitchens to be loaded again and returned, often by children who looked to Nyctasia much too small to carry them. Mesthelde was everywhere at once, filling pitchers, carving meat, giving orders and supervising all other activities at once. She nodded curtly to Nyctasia and said, “Have something to eat, and keep out of the way or you’ll be trampled. And stay out of the sun.”
“I thought I’d go help with the harvesting,” said Nyctasia rather diffidently.
She was still stiff and sore, but now that she’d rested she felt well enough to take part in the work somehow. But could she really do anything to help?
“Nonsense, you’d not last half an hour at the gathering. If you want to be of some use, cut up this joint.” She waved a sharp carving knife in Nyctasia’s direction and stalked off to attend to something else.
Nyctasia was by now feeling the lack of her last night’s dinner. She chopped a thick slice from a warm loaf and poured honey on it, fresh from the comb. It tasted better than anything she’d ever eaten.
Between bites, she began energetically to slice the meats and loaves so that the harvesters could snatch up their food all the more quickly and carry it off with them. There were no mealtimes, it seemed, or any of the regular rhythms of daily life. Though the harvesting was in fact a carefully ordered and harmonious effort, it had all the appearance of chaos, nonetheless, and it was easy to see why the children looked forward to it every year.
As she worked, someone handed her one of the wide-brimmed straw hats they all wore, to keep the sun from her face. Nyctasia found that there was plenty for her to do. She fetched food, she helped took after the smaller children, she carried water to the workers, she scrubbed platters and bowls at the well with the other scullions. No one would have asked a Rhaicime to perform such menial tasks, but finding her willing to set her hand to anything, the others accepted her as one of themselves and treated her accordingly.
Nyctasia had never done the sort of labor that not only required no thought, but indeed kept her too busy to think, and she threw herself into it gladly, for there was much that she didn’t wish to think about. Caught up in the frantic whirl of activity, she laughed and chatted with the rest, encouraging the pickers and speculating about the success of the crop. She soon lost all track of time, of days, often working far into the night, for the harvesting and pressing would not stop for a moment till the last of the juice had been sealed in casks. Everyone slept in snatches, and Nyctasia heard some of the harvesters boast that they could pick grapes in their sleep without missing a single one.
“Aunt Nyc!” One of the children stood tugging at her sleeve as she poured out mugs of ale in a row. It was one of ’Deisha’s nephews, who had decided that Nyctasia too must be an aunt, since she looked so much like ’Deisha.
“Hungry, little one?” Nyctasia offered him a peach, which he accepted readily, but instead of running off he stayed at her side, still demanding her attention.
She must come with him, he insisted, dragging at her arm. Mama Nona wanted her.
No one else seemed to be looking after the child, so Nyctasia allowed him to lead her away, out of the courtyard and up a flight of stone steps to one of the upper terraces, where he said Mama Nona was waiting.
“You’re getting so brown, my dear, soon we won’t know you from ’Deisha.”
“Lady Nocharis! Fool that I am, I didn’t realize it was you he meant. How good to see you.” She offered her hands to the old woman, who was seated in the shade of a tall flowering tree at the edge of the terrace. At her feet were a few of the children, busily braiding together strands of straw to be woven into more of the light sun-hats. Lady Nocharis had a half-finished hat on her lap, and she went on twining and turning it as she spoke.
“You must call me Mother ’Charis like the others. How are you getting on? Let me look at you-you seem rather peaked, I think.”
“Oh, I’m very well. I’ve never felt so well. Is there anything I can fetch you?”
“I’m excellently looked after, I assure you. Just sit down and rest for a little, and hear me company. I’ve watched you slaving away at ten things at once, like Mesthelde. You’ll wear yourself to a shadow if we let you.”
“The others all worker harder, I think.” But Nyctasia obediently sat down on the stone balustrade and began to try plaiting a few pieces of straw. From here she could see many of the slopes, the main courtyard, and even the yard, around the corner of the house, where the immense barrel-presses had been set up. Grapes were being loaded into them constantly out of the carts filled by the pickers, and the dark, almost black, juice flowed out steadily through the spaces between the lower slats of the great barrel, into the circular trough that surrounded it. From there it was scooped up with lipped vessels and emptied into waiting casks on a low wagon nearby. I could do that, Nyctasia thought, but she said only, “So you watch over all of us from here.”
“During the crush, at least-one must feel a part of the harvesting somehow, you know. I’ve been watching you both. That is your friend, is it not, the giantess trying to turn a press all on her own?”
Atop each of the presses was a platform, reached by a tall ladder, where people walked in slow, endless circles on either side of the central shaft, pushing the cross-bar that turned it and lowered the press-wheel. Corson was not really trying to do this by herself, but she was alone on one side of the shaft, while there were two or three people on both sides of all the others.
Nyctasia laughed. “Yes indeed, that’s Corson. She does like to show off. Do you know, I’ve always believed that people crushed grapes with their feet?”
“So they do, when there’s only a small crop, to make wine for the household. It wouldn’t be worthwhile to keep a large press for that. But it’s far too slow for our ends, and too much fruit is wasted that way.” She had finished the hat, which she now gave to one of the children. “You’ve done very nicely, ’Kadri. Run and put this with the rest now. And you ’Risha, tell Liss that I’ll go in to rest soon. Then both of you go right to the kitchen for your milk, yes?”
“Yes, Nona,” they chorused. When they had each kissed her and scampered off, she turned and beckoned to Nyctasia.
“And what am I to do, Mother?” Nyctasia asked, smiling. “I’ve had my milk this morning.”
“You sit here by me, my dear, and tell me some more about this friend of yours.
We don’t often see a sword-for-hire here. You trust this woman?”
“With my life,” said Nyctasia without hesitation. So that was what the matriarch hadn’t wished to say before the children. “I trust her absolutely, and I do not give my trust lightly.”
“Ah.” The old woman searched Nyctasia’s face carefully. “So she is not dangerous? Mesthelde swears she’ll cut all our throats one night and make off with everything of value in the house, but Raphe, now, declares that she’s a lamb.” She smiled as she spoke, but Nyctasia knew that the question was asked in earnest.
“She is most certainly dangerous,” she answered promptly, “and I daresay she’s no stranger to brigandry, but this household has nothing to fear from her.” She gestured toward the yard where the presses were turning steadily. “That same pride that makes her flaunt her strength thus would never let her betray the trust of those who’ve befriended her. Perhaps she does not know herself how honest she is, but I stand warrant for her, upon my own honor. Would you have me speak of this to Lady Mesthelde? Will she be satisfied with my word?”
“I am satisfied. Leave Mesthelde to me. Indeed, now that she’s seen how hard this cutthroat is working, I daresay she’ll be better disposed to her.”
“Unless I mistake, Corson will soon be on her way, at all events. She wants to get back to her people at Chiastelm before winter.”
“Then she’s given up her quest for the treasure?”
The matriarch obviously knew everything that was said or done in the household.
“Poor Corson! She wasn’t such a fool as to have much hope for that treasure, but still it does seem hard on her.” Nyctasia recited some of the riddles for Lady Nocharis, and related their disappointing solutions.
“The fountain, how well I remember it. What a marvel-I often played in it as a child, and I believed it was magic that made it sing. The water was always fresh and cold, like well water. The source, I think, must have been a spring deep within the hill…”
“Did you go there for lessons? I’d like to hear about that one day.”
“No, I was too young for lessons then. My older brother was sent there to learn his letters, and I went along to play. Children were always welcome there-the Cymvelans believed that children were sacred in some way, and rather spoiled them. The courtyard that you saw was just for the children to play in-there was a swing in the tree that whistled when it went fast, and a little tree-hut…”
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.
“Then what are we standing about for?” said Corson.
“Aunt ’Deisha!”
“Not now, ’Lorin!”
“The lady,” insisted ’Lorin, tugging at her hand, “the lady like you.” Everyone stopped and looked at him.
“Did you see where she went?” ’Deisha demanded breathlessly.
The child nodded, filled with importance. “In where the golden spider is,” he explained.
“Spider…?” said Corson.
“Talk sense, ’Lorin!” said ’Deisha impatiently. “Where?”
Daunted, ’Lorin retreated to his mother’s side and pointed toward the ruins. “In the middle,” he whispered shyly.
’Deisha frowned. “The fountain? It is rather like a big spider, with those long stalks. But if Nyc were in there, she’d have heard me call.”
“I’ll go have a look anyway,” said Corson. “She might have fallen into one of those cellar holes, curse her.”
’Deisha hurried alongside, barely able to keep pace with the long-limbed Corson.
“Why would she go in there?” she worried.
“Asye knows,” said Corson. “Asye knows why Nyc does anything she does!”