“what do you mean we’re lost?” Nyctasia asked indignantly. It was growing dark, and there was a steady rain. “How can we be lost? We’ve not come half a league from the Trade Road.”
“They said we’d pass fences and cottages soon-do you see any?”
“I can’t see anything in this wretched rain. We should have kept to the road.”
“We won’t find your long-lost relatives that way.”
“We’re not finding them this way either,” Nyctasia pointed out, and sneezed. “At least we might have found some shelter along the roadway. I’m drenched.”
It had been raining all day, and neither of them was in a gracious temper. Water trickled down Corson’s neck as she asked herself how Nyctasia contrived to make her feel personally responsible for the weather. Nyctasia sneezed again.
“If you were any rutting good as a sorceress you could make it stop raining,”
Corson said spitefully.
“That is not the purpose of the art.”
“You can’t do it, that’s all.”
“True. But if I had the power, I’d not use it so lightly as that. It doesn’t do to interfere with the Balance of the elements for frivolous purposes. The consequences can be-”
“No doubt,” said Corson, “Tell me about them another time. I think there’s some sort of building ahead-maybe it’s those cottages. Come on.”
But if it was a dwelling they came upon, it had long been abandoned. They climbed the broad stairs and crossed a roofed portico to peer into the open doorway, but it was too dark to see anything within, The place was altogether still, save for the sounds of the storm. It was not a welcoming spot, but it was dry, at least where the roof was still whole. They left the horses tethered to a pillar in the shelter of the porch, and settled themselves in the empty corridor just within the doorway. There was an inner door at their backs, and the corridor stretched away into the blackness to both sides of them.
Enough leaves and branches had blown into the porch for a small fire, and they tried to dry their clothes a little in its warmth. Nyctasia sneezed, in a way that clearly expressed her vexation with her present circumstances. Sleeping on the ground was nothing new to her, but sleeping in damp clothes on cold stone was, she felt, a grievous affront to her good breeding. She dutifully attempted to regard the situation as an opportunity to practice the Discipline of Toleration, but discomfort such as this lacked even the dignity of pain. And sneezing interrupted her concentration.
Corson had been unusually silent for a time, but at last she burst out angrily,
“Why did you bring us here. Nyc? What’s your game?”
“I? I’ve been following you!”
“This place feels like that spell-ridden Yth Forest you’re so fond of. You can’t deny there’s magic here-anyone could tell!”
“On the contrary, anyone couldn’t. I can, because I’ve studied magic and developed an awareness of it. But you, you sense its presence by instinct alone.
That’s a rare talent. I shouldn’t wonder if you could be a magician yourself, Corson, with the right training.”
“I’d rather be a swineherd!”
“Well, that’s probably wise. But I suspect that your antipathy to magic is actually a result of your unusual sensitivity to it.”
“What’s ‘antipathy’?”
“Loathing.”
“Oh, that’s just common sense. Magic’s rutting dangerous.”
Nyctasia laughed, incredulous, “You’re a warrior, woman! What you do’s not dangerous, I suppose?”
“That’s different! What I do is straightforward, there’s no pretense or cheat to it. A battle’s a monster’s bloody maw that’ll chew you to shreds if it can, but if you know what you’re doing, you’ll be one of the teeth of battle, not the fodder.”
“But that’s what the magic of yth is like, you know. Safe enough for those skilled in its ways, but-”
“No, you don’t see what I mean. War… war is honest. You can see that it’s hideous and vicious, so at least you have a chance-It can destroy you, but it can’t deceive you. It doesn’t promise one thing and give you something else…”
Corson thought of the alluring and deadly denizens of Yth Forest, and of the mirror-spell that had shown her an unflattering reflection of her own spirit.
“Magic!” she spat. “Magic’s all lies-that’s why you take to it.”
“Lies…” Nyctasia mused. “Why, that’s really quite profound, Corson.”
“It is?” Nyctasia was a puzzle Corson could never quite make out. She might take furious offense at a chance remark, while a deliberate insult would only amuse her. “You’re-” Corson began, but stopped suddenly. This time, she would not let herself be caught and lost in the web of Nyctasia’s words. She’d have an answer!
“Curse you, Nyc! I want to know what we’re doing in this place!”
“But I don’t know, I tell you. I only sensed it a little while ago, myself. I didn’t say anything because I know you fear magic, and since we’d lost our way-”
“I don’t fear it,” Corson lied indignantly. “But I’ve wits enough to let it alone, and that’s more than you can say. I don’t believe you didn’t lead us here.”
“I know,” sighed Nyctasia. “No one ever believes me when I tell the truth. But I swear it, on my honor as a Vahnite and an Edonaris, I don’t even know where we are.”
Corson shrugged, more or less convinced. Nyctasia had too much respect for her precious faith and her family name to take such an oath lightly. It would be no use arguing. It was never any use arguing with Nyctasia. She stood. “You won’t mind if we move on, then. I think this must be part of the Cymvelan ruins, but I don’t mean to fight with phantoms for that treasure, so I tell you.”
“We’ll go if you like. But I don’t believe we’re in danger here. The power in this place is potential, not actual.”
“Oh, yes, that makes all the difference, of course,” said Corson, with leaden sarcasm.
“Listen, I can explain. It’s like a weapon-that sword of yours is potentially dangerous because you could draw it and kill someone-”
“I admit I’m sorely tempted, at times like this.”
“-but so long as you don’t, it isn’t actually dangerous. This place isn’t like Yth Wood. The power there is free, but here it’s fettered. It cannot act unless it’s invoked.”
“Could you invoke it?” Corson asked suspiciously.
“Perhaps. But I’m not about to tamper with a power I know nothing about-one might as well try to bridle a dragon. This is a sleeping dragon, though, and it won’t wake unless we step on its tail. We’re safe enough if we let it be.”
It was still raining, and Corson wanted to be convinced to stay within the warm shelter of the passageway. Her clothes were just beginning to dry, and there were the horses to consider, too. Nyc knew about such things, after all…
Nyctasia’s suggestion that Corson was afraid to stay spurred her to prove her mettle, and if they stayed she could have a look for that treasure by daylight.
That decided her, but she was not easy about sleeping with those dark, ill-rumored ruins at her back. “You might as well get some rest, then,” she told Nyctasia, “I’ll keep first watch.”
Corson took a brand from the fire and set out to survey their campsite, to satisfy herself that all was secure. The building held too many hiding places to suit her, but all the rooms seemed to be deserted. They were laid out in a simple rectangle about a long inner yard where she found only rank greenery and an old stone well. Returning to the corridor, she stepped over Nyctasia and went out to the porch to see that all was well with the horses. The rain had slackened, and the night now seemed very still and desolate.
Just past the foot of the stairs was a round, ornamental pool, filled by the rain. Corson sat on the steps and tossed her torch into the water. From here she could see Nyctasia through the front doorway and keep an eye on the horses as well.
She watched her reflection, a darker shadow floating on the dark shadow of the pool, distorted by ripples. A few stars had pierced the cloudy sky and cast wavering reflections that danced before her eyes. One of them, she saw, gleamed brighter than all the rest, a star called by some the Crimson Empress because at its height it burned a deep red in the autumn sky.
But farmers, Corson knew, called it by the humbler name of the Reaper’s Eye.
Seeing it in the ascendant, they knew it was time to look to their barns and houses, to make sure they were fast against the cold winds that would soon be coming. The star was a signal to the wise that it was a time for putting by, and counting stores, for looking forward to the comforts of home and hearth.
And what of me? Corson thought discontentedly. Blown this way and that like a leaf in the wind. Where will I be when winter comes?
As always, when she was in this mood, her thoughts turned to the coast, and Steifann. She knew how he would answer such questions. She could almost hear him, reasonable as always, urging her to give up her wandering and stay with him. “This senseless roaming of yours has to end someday, Corson,” he’d say.
Steifann had raised himself from a penniless sailor to the owner of a thriving tavern. He was proud of the prosperous and secure life he’d made for himself, and he wanted Corson to share that life.
Corson knew that she’d be wise to accept Steifann’s offer of a home and a comfortable living, but the restlessness that drove her from place to place would not let her stay anywhere for long-even with Steifann. Their arguments were always the same. At times his confidence and complacency made her hate him.
“What’s so wonderful about a life of peeling potatoes and serving drunks?” she’d yell.
“It’s good enough for me. But if you’d rather make your living murdering people, that’s an end of the matter.”
“You smug bastard! Just because I don’t choose to stay pent up with you all the time and lose my mind from boredom!” It was a lie. She never grew bored with Steifann, and she was ashamed at saying it, all the more because she saw she’d hurt him.
“No one’s keeping you here,” he’d say coldly. “If you want to take to the road, and throw your life in the gutter, I can’t stop you. Go ahead!”
Corson’s pride made it hard for her to apologize, but losing Steifann would be far harder to bear than losing an argument. He had forgiven her for much worse things than insults-but what would she do if one day he was no longer willing to forgive her? “Oh, Steifann, I didn’t mean…”
He shook his head, tossing the hair back from his brow, and grinned at her in the way she found irresistible. “Asye! You’re nothing but an overgrown child who doesn’t know what she wants. Do what you have to, Corson, but just don’t think that I’ll spend my days, or my nights, pining away for you while you’re gone.”
“Yes you will!” She threw her arms around his neck and pressed close to him, letting her hands travel slowly down his back. Nuzzling his bearded chin, she whispered, “You will, you’ll long for me all the time, and don’t you forget it.”
All their arguments ended in the same way too.
Corson groaned. Was he longing for her? Probably not, the brazen breed-bull! She always imagined, when she was away, that Steifann was in bed with half the town of Chiastelm. Somehow she never thought of him doing anything but being unfaithful to her. Now, with a pang, she remembered the vision Nyctasia had conjured for her outside the Yth Forest.
Steifann had appeared to her in a mirror, worn and haggard-looking, working on his accounts long after he should have been asleep. Seeing how hard he had to work when she wasn’t there to lend a hand with the heavy chores, Corson had felt guilty not only for spying on him, but for refusing to settle down in Chiastelm as well.
He needs me, she thought mournfully. What am I doing chasing all over the countryside when I could have the best home on the coast for the asking? What ails me? When I’m there for a season I long to be journeying again, and when I’m away I only want to go back! Once I see Nyc safe with these grape-growers I’ll go straight back to Chiastelm for the winter. Searching for this treasure is nothing but hunting the will-o-the-wisp. There are other treasures in this world.
Steifann’s good-natured laugh, his steadiness and generosity, his unequaled lovemaking. She closed her eyes and pictured his body stretched beneath hers, as her hands and mouth wandered along his broad, powerful chest toward his tender, yielding belly. “Sweet as honey from the comb,” she sighed.
Corson knew it would be easy for him to find someone who’d gladly share his life-he reminded her of the fact often enough, curse him! Did he even think of her when she wasn’t there? As she stared into the pool, taken up with her memories and jealousy, the words to Nyctasia’s mirror-charm came back to her, unbidden. The spell promised to reveal the doings of friends or enemies, however far away they might be. Now she wondered, uneasily, was Nyctasia right that she, Corson, had magical skills of her own? She found that she remembered the whole of the spell perfectly.
The rain had ceased, and the surface of the pool lay still and smooth as a mirror, yet her reflection seemed to waver and dissolve in the water. Somehow, Corson was not surprised to see another image forming in its place-the taproom at the Jugged Hare, Steifann’s tavern, as plain to see as though she were standing outside on a cloudy night, looking longingly in through a torchlit window. Even the familiar noises of the place, laughter and chatter, the clink of tankards, came to her from afar, seeming to form within her like the echoes of her own thoughts.
Steifann was sitting sprawled at one of the tables. Across from him was the smuggler Destiver, and it was clear that they both had had plenty to drink. “It was in Ochram,” Destiver insisted, pounding the table with her fist. “It’s just that every time we went there, you were too drunk to know where you were.”
“I may have been drunk then,” Steifann argued, “but I’m not now. I remember everything.”
“That doesn’t make a rutting bit of sense, and you’re drunker than the ship’s cat when she fell in the ale barrel. You’re heeled over like a cog in a gale.”
“Destiver, you haven’t been sober since you could hoist a flagon, and it was in Cerrogh. You’d take that crooked alleyway behind the Red Dog Inn, then the little street on the other side of the ashpit. It was the third on the left, and you’d go…”
“The Red Dog is in Ochram.”
“… into the side door, the one in the alcove that you’d miss if you didn’t know it was there.” A broad grin spread across Steifann’s face. “It was a wonderful place. There was nothing you wanted that you couldn’t have.”
“The House of One Hundred Delights,” said Destiver dreamily. “Every room had something different, remember? If you liked what you saw… Ah, that little one, with her song…
You fishers come back with the tide.
You sailors come home from the sea,
My port, it lies open and wide,
My fish is as fresh as can be!
She was fine, that one. She’d shake all ever like a leaf in the wind. What a little pearl.”
Steifann snickered, “Here’s to pearls,” he said, emptying his mug.
“It is the jewel every woman is born with-rich or poor. Here’s to them,”
Destiver agreed. “And to certain other jewels too. The more the better, eh, Steifann?”
He carefully poured out another mug of ale for Destiver, then one for himself.
“Well, I like to be an obliging fellow. How can I refuse anyone, when no one else can do the job as well as I can?”
“You are handy, no mistake. No one threads the needle the way you do, old friend.”
“Or churns the butter,” Steifann suggested, grinning.
“Or rakes the hay.”
“Or shakes the ashes.”
They both collapsed in drunken laughter. Annin ambled over to their table, hips swaying under her full skirt. “You two make a merry crew,” she said, setting down a trayful of dirty mugs, and taking a long pull of Destiver’s ale.
Destiver reached around Annin’s waist and pulled her down onto her knee. The chair creaked. “Here’s a true pearl among women. Annin, my queen, when I make my fortune, I’ll take you away from this rat-hole on a golden galleon.” She buried her face in Annin’s neck.
“My place is no rat-hole, you slattern,” Steifann protested huffily. Both women ignored him.
Annin snorted. “You worthless water-rat, you’ll make your fortune when the Empress peels potatoes in the kitchen. Why should I waste my time waiting for you when there’s plenty who’ll spend on me now?”
“You’re a faithless wench. I love you better than them all.”
“Hmmph! And what is it you’re both braying about while I do all the work of the house?”
“Why, love again, my beauty,” said Destiver, running her hands over Annin’s bodice.
“Lechery, more like, if I know you and this one here,” Annin retorted, jerking her head in Steifann’s direction.
“And where’s the difference?” Steifann asked, waxing philosophical. “It’s love, even if it’s only for the night, A cold and lonely bed’s never made anyone the happier. It sours you, and turns you from the world.” He gestured broadly, knocking over some of the mugs on the tray.
“You’re a besotted fool.” Annin took another drink and started to mop up some of the spilled ale with a cloth she wore at her waist.
Steifann began to sing:
“Ah, once I caught a bird,
A sweet and lovely dove.
I said to her these words:
Come here and be my love.
Ah, doveling don’t be shy,
Don’t hide your head away.
I’ll teach you how to fly
Though on the ground you’ll stay.
Charm me with your eyes so bright.
Let me hear your song.
Kiss me once and hold me tight,
Here in the grass so long.
Into my arms the darling flew,
I kissed her downy breast,
And how that dove began to coo
When I entered her snug nest.
’Twas a deep and mossy valley,
And fit for any king.
In that nest long did I dally,
Till the bird and I did sing.”
Annin and Destiver began to sing with him.
“Ah, once I caught a bird,
A sweet and lov-”
“Corson, do you hear me? I’ll take a turn at watch-why didn’t you wake me?”
Nyctasia called sleepily. “It’s nearly dawn.”
“Whore!” Corson shouted, throwing a rock into the pool. “You scum, wait till I get back to Chiastelm, I’ll kill you, you and that stinking smuggler with you!”
Nyctasia was wide awake now. “Corson, what’s the matter?”
Corson turned on her in outrage. “You and your filthy magic! Do you cast spells in your sleep?” She was astonished to see that the sky was already growing pale at the horizon. How long had she been in the grip of the vision?
“Perhaps, if it isn’t asking too much, you’d be good enough to tell me what you’re talking about,” Nyctasia suggested. “What spells?”
“I saw him, in the pool.”
“You saw whom in the pool, a merman?”
“Steifann-at the Hare-and Annin, and that bitch Destiver. ‘Old friend’-I’ll wring her scrawny neck for her! I was thinking about him, and then he was there
… He was drinking and singing and, and…”
“And not moping about, missing you?” Nyctasia guessed. Corson scowled at her.
“But. Corson, it was probably just a dream.”
“I never fall asleep on watch-I couldn’t if I tried!” That was a weakness which had been beaten out of Corson in the army.
“All I know is, I could have been murdered in my bed while you were dreaming of your lusty lover-if I had a bed,” she added ruefully.
“It wasn’t a dream, I tell you!” Corson suddenly stiffened. “You may be murdered yet,” she said tensely.
“Now, Corson, don’t be so hasty-”
“Quiet, fool! There’s someone over there. Draw your sword.”
“Are you sure you’re not still imagining things?” Nyctasia whispered, but she obeyed, nevertheless.
“Watch those trees,” Corson breathed.
“It’s too dark, I can’t see any-”
Then three people stepped into the open, from the overgrown stand of trees, and strode toward them purposefully. As they emerged from the morning twilight, Corson could make out a man and two women, all armed, their long blades held at the ready.
“Good morrow, strangers,” said one of the women. “Have you passed the night in this haunted place?”
“And if we have, what of it?” said Corson, making no attempt to hide her mistrust. “We’ve done no harm. We’ll be on our way at once.”
“Not so soon, I think,” said the man, and rushed at her. One of the women followed his lead, while the other turned on Nyctasia.
Suddenly it seemed to Nyctasia that she was back at the inn-yard in Osela, with Corson shouting at her, “Don’t hesitate, act! Move! Faster! Don’t stop to think, there’s no time for that. Think with your arm-that sword’s alive! It’s faster than you are, you can barely keep hold of it-grip it fast-don’t let it get away from you-that’s right-”
It was still too dark to see her opponent very clearly, but she could hear the woman’s gasping breath, and she realized that she too was panting heavily. I suppose one of us will be killed,” she thought dispassionately, watching her own arm in fascination. But then the woman dove in under her guard and knocked her legs from under her. Nyctasia’s back struck the ground with a bone-jarring blow that forced the air from her chest and lit sparks before her eyes. She lay stunned as the woman knelt over her, pinioning her arms.
Yet a moment later, to Nyctasia’s surprise, her assailant leapt to her feet again, called something to her companions, and ran off swiftly into the trees.
The other woman too turned and fled, and the man hurled his sword at Corson and followed.
Corson hurried to Nyctasia and helped her to her feet. She was still dizzy and breathless, but otherwise unhurt. Reassured, Corson went in pursuit of their attackers, calling back, “Stay there, watch the horses. If you see anything, shout.”
Shout? thought Nyctasia, I can’t even breathe! She waited, worried, for Corson to return. As soon as she could draw breath well enough, she decided to go after Corson on horseback, leading the other horse with her. But before she had mounted, she saw Corson returning, alone, and she seemed to have her cloak wrapped around her arm. Nyctasia ran to meet her. “Corson, are you wounded?”
“Wounded? Of course not.” Corson took a last bite of juicy pear and tossed away the core. “I was just fetching us some breakfast. Those are all fruit trees in there! Here.” She handed Nyctasia a ripe peach from the mound of fruit she carried wrapped in her cloak, in the crook of her arm.
“But what became of those people?”
Corson swallowed a mouthful of apple, and frowned. “I don’t know-they just vanished. I couldn’t find a trace of them. I don’t like it. Probably spirits,” she said glumly.
“They seemed all too substantial to me. What did they want, for vahn’s sake?”
“Us, of course. Why do you think that woman didn’t cut your throat? They’re slavers, you can wager what you like on that, and we’d better get out of here before they come back with the rest of the band.” She spat out seeds as if spitting in the faces of their would-be captors.
“By all means. We can’t be far from Vale now, and I for one have no intention of spending another night in the open.”
Silently, they rolled up their blankets and saddled the horses. The rainclouds had passed with the night, and faint streaks of rose and misty grey were slowly drifting across the sky. There was lark-song in the old orchard; the sunrise already gave promise of a bright, hot day. Nyctasia, who was used to the cooler climes of the coast, wished above all for a bath.
“Do you mean to come back here to look for the treasure?” she asked Corson, as they rode back to the by-road.
“If it’s guarded by spells, I’ll do without it,” Corson said, biting into another pear. She looked back, but in the early morning light the ruins didn’t seem such an uncanny place after all. “Nyc, you never told me-was it real, all that about Steifann? Is that what he’s doing now?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s impossible, but-”
“Can’t you ever give a simple answer to a simple question!”
“Corson, that is not a simple question. Tell me, did you say the spell?”
“Not aloud.”
“That’s no matter… What were you thinking about before it happened?”
“I told you, I was thinking about Steifann.”
“What were you thinking about Steifann?” Nyctasia asked with exaggerated patience. Corson gave her a sidelong look, and they both laughed. “Well, what else were you thinking about him?”
Corson sighed, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts that had preceded the bothersome visitation, “I was… remembering all the arguments we’ve had… about the way I’m gone for months at a time. He always says I shouldn’t expect to find him waiting for me when I get back. As if I care.”
“So you were distressed, most like, and therefore susceptible,” Nyctasia said thoughtfully.
“I was what?” Corson bridled, suspecting an insult.
“Defenseless against the Influences present in the place. What with your natural ability, and your rather perturbed state, it’s not inconceivable that you did experience a manifestation of some sort.”
“You prating parrot! Did it mean anything?”
“Of course it did. Everything means something-Everything we do, everything that happens to us, is part of the web that binds us to our past and our future, and links us each to each, whether we would or no. Our actions, our visions, our dreams-” She was silent for a moment, then shook herself abruptly. “As for what you saw, it may not have been what it seemed. There’d have to be a very powerful Influence at work to call forth a true Reflection. This was more likely a lesser magic that showed you only shadows-”
“Lies.”
“-of your own fears.”
Corson looked sullenly at the ground. “I’m not afraid-I could find another lover quick enough.”
“In the time I’ve known you, you’ve found no end of them, but you’ve always said that no one’s as good as your bearded bedmate in Chiastelm.” Nyctasia looked at her with real irritation. “If you don’t care, and you’re not afraid, what does it matter whether you really saw him or not? You can ask him yourself when you’re back in Chiastelm. And all the man was doing was drinking and singing a few vulgar songs, according to you. Why do you want to kill him for that? I swear I’ve no patience with you! You know better!”
“He didn’t even mention my name. He’s not thinking about me at all, and it seems like I think about him all the time.”
“It wouldn’t seem that way to him, if he could spy out your doings,” Nyctasia pointed out.
Corson had to smile. “He wouldn’t stop yelling for a week,” she admitted. “But it’s more than that…” She struggled to explain. “It’s not just Destiver, it’s-well, Steifann needs someone to help him at the Hare, but I can’t stay locked up there all the time, like a beast in harness.”
“Well, why should you?”
“Because if I won’t, he might find himself someone else who will, the mangy cur!
He cares more for that rutting tavern than for me.”
“He’d be a fool if he didn’t-it’s his livelihood. He sounds a very sensible man.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for you, Corson. Because you love your freedom best doesn’t mean that you don’t love him, does it? Look at the matter reasonably-”
Corson blushed. “Oh, what’s the use of talking to you? I don’t want a scholar’s argument! You don’t know what I’m talking about-you only understand what’s in your moldy books.”
Nyctasia did not answer, and her silence was a reproach to Corson, It wasn’t Nyc’s fault that Steifann didn’t miss her. She’d meant to help, in her maddening way, But the sense that she was in the wrong only made Corson more stubborn, and they continued on their way in silence till Nyctasia spoke again.
“It’s a mistake to think that a lover can be a way of life. I do know what you feel, Corson, but I’ve no answer for you. How could I blame ’Ben for loving magic more than he loved me, when I had proved that I loved Rhostshyl more than I loved him? I understand that he could love me still, though he loved the Yth better-I know I loved him well though I loved my city more. But I am not comforted by that reasoning, and why should you be? There is no absolute union of spirits, no companion in eternity, no mirror of one’s being. Each of us is one and separate and utterly alone. Is that simple enough for you?”
“No-it’s a lot of blather about nothing. There’s enough to fret about in this life without worrying over eternity too. What’s the good of it?”
With one of her abrupt changes of humor, Nyctasia smiled and said, “You’re a deep one, that’s certain. You may well be right. Many great philosophers agree with you.”
“Philosophy!” Corson snorted. “Antipathy! Plague take it, I want to know what Steifann’s at with that hag Destiver. He’ll see-two can play at that game. Maybe I will hunt out that treasure. Then I’ll go back to Chiastelm with more money than he’s ever seen, and-”
“Why wait? You’re carrying quite a fortune with you as it is-how much do you need to impress him? The treasure’s probably all moonshine anyway, you know.”
Though she had made light of Corson’s vision, Nyctasia was worried at the thought that Corson might return to the ruins. If the spell had been all that it seemed, then she had dangerously misjudged the power of the place. What sort of magic had the Cymvelans meddled with, to leave such Influences at work when they themselves were long gone? She had not put much stock in the tales of demon-worship and blood-sacrifice, but now… If Corson, who was no magician, could unwittingly draw upon it, then that power was too unbridled to be safe.
She herself might control it, but Corson was hardly prepared for such an undertaking.
Nyctasia saw much in Corson that she knew to be true of herself. In Corson she recognized her own pride and passion, her deep fears and her love of power. But in Nyctasia they had been governed, by years of Discipline and denial, to serve her rather than rule her-or so Nyctasia hoped. She was a Vahnite. But Corson would be defenseless against a magic that promised to fulfill the darkest desires of the spirit… and did as it promised. Corson, with her curious gift for magic, would be its perfect prey.
“Besides,” Nyctasia added, “I thought you were so eager to know about the carryings-on at Chiastelm.”
Corson spat. “Drinking and screwing everyone in sight-I don’t need sorcery to tell me that.” She gave Nyctasia a shrewd look. “You won’t get rid of me so easily as that. I’m not afraid of that place. And there’s no such thing as enough money. If you weren’t such a spoilt, rich little aristocrat you’d know that.”
“Civilized,” said Nyctasia, “is the word you want, not ‘spoilt,’ but I suppose I shouldn’t expect your barbarian brain to grasp such fine distinctions.”
Corson grinned wickedly. “That reminds me, I can’t go back to Chiastelm just yet anyway. I was forgetting I owe you a few more lessons in swordfighting. You didn’t do too badly against that clumsy fool, but you shouldn’t have come out into the open. You had the advantage inside the porch there, among the pillars.
When your opponent is bigger than you are-and that means anyone, for you-you should keep the fight in a tight place if you can, where the enemy will be hampered while you can move freely. You can’t help being such a little speck of a thing, but at least you can put your size to use now and then. I might be able to make something of you if I work hard at it.”
“I don’t believe that you’ll stay in Vale that long, even for the pleasure of cutting me to shreds. Don’t you have to go west from here to reach the river at Amron Therain?”
“The port’s not a half day’s ride from Vale,” Corson assured her. “I’ve wasted so much time looking after you that another day or two won’t matter. I’ll have time enough to give you those lessons, don’t you worry.”
Nyctasia groaned. “I’d get more mercy from the brigands and slavers.” She was glad enough to change the subject when they saw a team of ditchers hedging a field beside the road, not far ahead of them. “Now we’ll find out where in the vahn’s name we are.”
But at first the laborers only stared when Corson asked for directions to the Edonaris vineyards. Then one woman finally answered politely enough, “You’ve only to ride ahead as the road climbs, mistress, and take the east turn when you smell the grapes,” The others stood as if struck dumb, but broke into excited talk as soon as Corson and Nyctasia had ridden on.
“I think they’re still gaping after us,” Nyctasia said uneasily, looking back.
Corson was used in being stared at. “They don’t often see soldiers in these parts.”
“Let alone soldiers tall as towers, eh?”
“Better than being a half-grown gnat with a title longer than my arm.”
“They say one stinging gnat can drive an ox to frenzy.”
“It’s not the stinging I mind so much as the buzzing.”
“Well, you needn’t listen to it longer, you know.”
“That’s as may be-we’ll see. You might decide to go on to Amron Therain with me.
How do you know this Edonaris family will want anything to do with you? They might not even believe you are an Edonaris. Maybe they’ll think you’re an imposter claiming kinship with them because they’re rich. That’s an old game,”
Corson pointed out, clearly relishing the idea of the proud Lady Nyctasia being turned out of doors as a charlatan.
“And you mean to be there to see me humiliated. I take it?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for all the diamond-fields of Tierelon. Nyc, what will you do if they don’t accept you as an Edonaris?”
“The possibility has occurred to me. I have my seal-ring, of course.”
“You might have stolen it.”
“Well, I know more of the family history than any outsider possibly could.”
“I suppose I’ll find out-and soon, at that. This must be the east turning she meant.” There could be no mistake. The scent of grapes was stronger with every breath they took.
Nyctasia smiled ruefully. “You’re right, you know-they probably won’t believe me. If I weren’t an Edonaris, I know I could convince them, but since it’s the truth…”
“Then use your persuasive powers to convince them to let us search the rest of the ruins, since we’ve come all this way.”
“Oh, come, you don’t really believe there’s a hidden treasure there?”
“No…” Corson said reluctantly, “not much. But we’re here, after all. And those moth-eaten riddles might mean something.”
Nyctasia shrugged. “Possibly the Edonaris ought to see them, since their name’s on that list, though it seems to be harmless enough. Let’s ask the way to the house.”
They were riding through grape-covered slopes now, where workers were busy pruning the vines and testing the ripeness of the fruit. Corson and Nyctasia dismounted and hailed a man who was walking toward them along the roadside, stopping at the edge of each row to examine the grape-leaves for harmful insects. When he saw Corson, he stuck his pruning-knife in his belt and strode up to her jauntily, with a welcoming smile.
“Probably an overseer,” Corson thought, and started to ask about the Edonaris manor, but when she saw his face she only stood and stared, her question forgotten. He looked enough like Nyctasia to be her twin brother.
“Nyc,” she said finally, “I don’t think you’ll have trouble convincing them that you’re an Edonaris, after all.”