corson awoke and lay stiffly in bed, listening carefully. What had roused her?
Nyctasia lay beside her, her breathing steady and peaceful. A tree branch tapped against the shutters, and there were all the random noises that plagued old houses-creaks and groans as timbers shifted like troubled sleepers.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Corson looked into every corner of the room, trying to spot something odd or out of place. But the shadows all resolved themselves into the clumsy furniture of a country inn, and the shaft of moonlight sneaking in between the shutters revealed no prowler lurking nearby.
Yet Corson would not go back to sleep. Her intuitions had saved her too often for her to ignore them now. She slid softly from the bed, without waking Nyctasia, and padded silently to the door.
Had she heard a sound outside, and then another, following too evenly to be a settling board or loose panel? Her right hand stole to the latch and paused there for a moment. Suddenly she yanked the door wide, lunged over the sill and grabbed something with her left hand, throwing it into the room.
Nyctasia started up and was faced with the sight of Corson bending back the leg of a rather short, plump fellow, and then sitting on him.
“Corson, what in the name of all that’s reasonable-!”
“It’s the landlord,” said Corson. “I don’t know why. Ask him, why don’t you?”
Nyctasia shook her head. Wrapping the blanket around her with a regal air, she got out of bed and ambled over to Corson and her prisoner. She sat down on the floor beside the man, looked at him with drowsy disapproval, and yawned.
“It’s not yet dawn,” she pointed out.
“Good of you to wake up, my lady,” said Corson.
“Dealing with the rabble is your job. And I’d really much prefer you to do it outside in future, if you don’t mind. I need my sleep.” She turned her attention to their host. “Explain yourself! How dare you come in here unbidden?”
“I know why you’re here,” he gasped, “and I’ve come to tell you I want no part in it!”
Corson and Nyctasia looked at each other. “Why are we here?” Corson asked.
Nyctasia shrugged.
Corson relinquished her hold on the indignant landlord and sat down next to Nyctasia. They both looked at him expectantly.
“It wasn’t by chance you sang that song here,” he accused. “You meant it as a sign to me.”
“Well…” said Nyctasia slowly, “we meant it as a sign to someone
…”
“Garast told me you’d come, but you’re wasting your time. I’m not one of you.
It’ll be the ruin of me if folk learn you’ve been here!”
“We’re not C-” Corson began, but Nyctasia cut her words short.
“Then why is your name on this list?” she demanded, fetching the page of riddles. “You’re Rowan, are you not?”
“This is Garast’s,” he cried. “He wouldn’t have given it up-how did you get it?
What have you done with him?” The man’s face was ashen in the moonlight.
Nyctasia sighed. Was she so soon to break faith with her Principles again? “We mean you no harm,” she said gently. “We are not Cymvelans-we bought this paper from a thief. I only want to know why it says Edonaris here.”
“I want to know why it says treasure,” Corson put in.
“You’re only treasure-hunters, then?” Rowan asked hopefully.
“I am an Edonaris,” said Nyctasia in a haughty tone that unmistakably proclaimed her rank and station. “I wish to know why our name is listed here. What has the Cymvelan Circle to do with us?”
Though he had seen her playing the minstrel, and now saw her sitting on the floor, wearing only a threadbare blanket, Rowan did not doubt Nyctasia’s claim to belong to a distinguished family. Her manner simply did not admit of doubt.
“Garast heard that the Edonaris had bought the land the temple stood on-it was no more than that,” he explained, much relieved. “He thought he’d need their-er, your-leave to search the ruins.”
“Ah, yes, well it’s possible,” said Nyctasia coolly. “But it is hardly a matter for common gossip.”
“Of course not, madame. By no means-”
“And who’s this Garast? One of the Circle?”
“No! We were only children when the Circle was overthrown-Garast, Jocelys and I.
We never knew that there were other survivors. We even shunned one another, the better to forget our evil lineage. But this past spring Garast visited me, to warn me that they were looking for the three of us. Somehow, a few of the elders escaped the attack on the temple, and now, after a score of years, they would bid us return to the Circle! Garast refused them, of course. When you turned up tonight, I was sure they’d sent you. I suppose they’ll find me sooner or later, but they’ll get the same answer from me.” He seemed glad to be able to tell the tale to someone.
Nyctasia frowned down at the page of Cymvelan rhymes. “If Garast spurned their offer, what did he want with this?”
“He took a notion that they meant to go back for the treasure, and he thought to outfox them, the fool, The three of us were to recall all we could of our childhood lessons, according to his plan, and that would somehow lead us to the legendary treasure-”
“Then these are clues to the treasure,” said Corson.
“These are rot,” he said scornfully. “Mere rhymes for children. Garast’s mad!
There was never any treasure there that I saw, and no more did the rest-we lived like poor folk. If there’d been anything of value there it would have been found when the place was sacked.”
Corson grabbed the list from Nyctasia. “What about this?” she insisted.
“Tales I have told, although I cannot speak.
Treasure I hold, enough for all who seek.
However many plunder me for gain
Yet will as much as ever still remain.”
Rowan laughed. “Any half-wit could answer that riddle! What could it be but a book?”
Corson crumpled the paper in her fist and threw it into a corner. “Just my rutting luck! A lot of useless bookworms like you, Nyc. It’s not fair!”
But Nyctasia retrieved the page, smoothed it out, and replaced it in her commonplace-book. “I believe that all our questions have been answered,” she said calmly.