the village of Ylna was little more than a cluster of cottages and a wayside inn that depended on the Southern Trade Road for its custom. Corson and Nyctasia reached it in good time and might have pressed on, but the signboard of the Leaf and Bough caught Corson’s eye.
“Nyc, wait. Let me see that foolish paper again. Yes, look, Ylna is on this list, and it says Rowan, Leaf and Bough.” The Cymvelan treasure was still on Corson’s mind.
Nyctasia shrugged. “We may as well stop here as go on. I’m ready for a rest, that’s certain.” What matter when she reached the Valleylands-one place was the same as another to her.
They gave their horses to the ostler and entered the public room of the inn, which was crowded with travelers on their way to the Osela fair. They paid their share, and sat at the long table, where folk were helping themselves to the common fare. The host scurried about, filling the mugs with foamy, dark ale, while the help brought more food from the kitchen.
Set before the company were platters of meat and roasted fowls, great loaves of bread, wheels of cheese, and basins of suet pudding. Bowls of boiled potatoes and onions were passed from hand to hand, and crocks of butter and honey stood at either end of the table. Corson and Nyctasia fell to eagerly. Corson forgot about treasure for the time being, and even Nyctasia found nothing in the meal to complain of. She had several helpings of sweet bread-pudding with apples and raisins, floating in cream.
When the board was cleared, people gave their full attention to drinking and exchanging news. Travelers from the south reported rumors of bandits and slavers prowling the countryside and attacking solitary wayfarers. But most of the talk centered on the harvest and farmers’ concerns. Had there been enough rainfall in the Valleylands? What did a bushel of millet fetch in town? Did the spring frost kill many lambs?
Should barley be planted during the new moon or the first quarter? Believers in both traditions had their say, and the discussion was a lively one. Nyctasia, who had inherited a good deal of farmland, had been raised to take an interest in such matters. But she held her peace, unwilling to reveal her station to strangers.
Corson only interested herself in barley when it was brewed and fermented, and she nursed her mug of stout, paying no attention to the talk. A group of students, as bored as she, looked about for some amusement and caught sight of Nyctasia’s harp.
“You, there, harper, give us a song!”
“The ‘Song of the Bat’!”
“No, not that-something bawdy!”
Corson expected Nyctasia to resent their addressing her in this manner, but instead she made them a bow and began to tune the strings of her harp. “I fear the songs of this region are not known to me,” she said mildly. “I’ll sing you one of my own.”
“She’s up to some trick,” Corson thought.
Nyctasia winked at the students and sang:
“O, I never was made
To take heed of advice,
I’ve gambled and played
By the fall of the dice,
And rambled and strayed
All over creation,
Beset by temptation
And courted by vice.
Each friend and relation
Who knew me of old
Often foretold
That I’d go to the bad.
By wall and by wold
I’ve rambled and wandered,
And gambled and squandered
The whole that I had,
To my last piece of gold.
Of all wisdom’s students
’Twas I was the best,
But I never learned prudence
When put to the test.
For all of my lessons
I was no whit the wiser-
When I’ve lost my last crescents
Then I’ll be a miser,
And if my last pence
Should follow the rest,
With virtue and sense
I shall feather my nest!”
Her performance was received with enthusiasm. The students cheered and threw coins, and even some of the other guests applauded. Corson made haste to gather up the money.
“Give us another, lass!”
Nyctasia smiled, “I believe I do know a song from this part of the world, after all,” she said. “Perhaps someone here can explain it to me:
“What has come before
Will return again,
Neither less nor more,
Neither now nor then.
Nothing that befalls
Comes about by chance.
The nursling babe that crawls
Will soon join in the dance.
Stars are wheeling in the night,
Moments spinning into time,
Winter turning into spring.
Birds are circling in their flight,
Words are winding into rhyme,
Children dancing in a ring.
What has gone before
Will return again,
Neither less nor more,
Neither now nor then.”
This time there was no clapping when Nyctasia finished. An uneasy silence had fallen on the crowd, and people turned away, avoiding one another’s eyes. Corson recognized the song as one of the verses from the page of riddles.
“What do you mean singing that accursed thing in here?” shouted the landlord.
“We’re decent folk here. Take your trouble-making somewhere else!”
“I’m sure I didn’t mean to give offense,” Nyctasia said in a bewildered tone. “I heard a drunken man sing it at the fair.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “You’d be wise to guard your tongue, minstrel,” he muttered, and hurried off to the kitchen.
Nyctasia turned to the students. “Why all this fuss over a trifling verse?”
“Don’t you know that’s a song of the Cymvelan Circle?”
“Well, and what if it is? Who are they?”
“Don’t blame her, she’s an outlander,” said Corson. “I’ve heard of them-sorcerers or demon-worshippers or some such, weren’t they?”
“That’s what people say. The Valleylanders rose against them during the great drought. In my father’s time, it was. They slaughtered the lot of them and destroyed the temple.”
“Not all of them were killed,” said a local fanner. “Some of the children were spared, and he”-he jerked his thumb toward the kitchen-“was one of them, though he doesn’t like folk to mention it. He thought you sang that song to bait him.”
“I’ve heard it said that they had some great treasure hidden,” Corson said cautiously.
“Superstition,” said one of the students loftily. “Many a fool has wasted time hunting for it, and no one’s so much as found a copper.”
“That’s all very well,” said a traveler, “but I come from the valley, and I can tell you those ruins are haunted. Some who entered those walls never came out again, and their friends found no trace of them. You tell me what’s become of them-that demon-brood may be dead, but they’re not gone yet.”
“They don’t sound so very fearsome to me. Cymvela means ‘peace’ in Old Eswraine,” said another student, showing off his learning.
Nyctasia, who prided herself on her scholarship, winced at his mispronunciation of the word. Cymvela was a word with several levels of meaning in Ancient Eswraine, and it was with difficulty that she restrained herself from explaining them all at length, from “the harmony of Creation” through “the conciliation of the Spirit.” But a tavern-songster would hardly know such things, so she held her tongue.
One of the villagers stood. “You ought not to name them,” he warned. “It’s bad luck even to speak of them. I’ll not hear it-you’ll bring their vengeance on us!” He and his neighbors hastily took their leave.
“I seem to have shaken down a wasps’ nest,” said Nyctasia apologetically.
“Never mind those ignorant peasants,” said the student. “Now they’re gone, we shan’t have to hear about tilling and toiling. Let’s have another song!”
“Oh, I daren’t,” Nyctasia demurred. “I don’t know what’s like to displease these folk-”
“What of the ‘Bird in the Bush’?” someone suggested with a leer. “Will anyone quarrel with that?”
There were no complaints.