Web of wind s-2

by J F Rivkin

  When she failed to appear for dinner, both Corson and ’Deisha went in search of her. “It’s discourteous to your hosts not to come to meals,” Corson reminded her. “Get up, you indolent lout.”

  “Summon the guards,” Nyctasia groaned. “Take this woman away, throw her in a dungeon, disembowel her, get her out of my sight. Let me die in peace.”

  “My poor Nyc, shall I bring you some dinner then?” cooed ’Deisha.

  “Thank you, no. I’m not hungry. I can hardly move, I’m stiff as stone.”

  “Exercise is the best thing for that-up you get,” said Corson cheerfully, grabbing her by the arm.

  But Nyctasia shrieked so feelingly that Corson let go at once. “Sweet vahn, my back-!”

  “What is it?” cried ’Deisha. “Let me see.” She carefully pulled Nyctasia’s shirt down over her shoulders and revealed the angry red-scorched skin. “Oh, no-how sunburnt you are! I should have thought of that, and you with that fair complexion. I’m so sorry, Nyc. Don’t stir a finger, I’ll fetch some unguent of arrowleaf right away.”

  Corson held a hand over Nyctasia’s back and gave a whistle. “Hot as an oven! Is it very sore?”

  “I feel as if I’ve been lashed with leather.”

  “No you don’t,” said Corson, who’d been flogged more than once in the army. “But it does look something nasty. Can’t you heal a thing like that with your spells?”

  “If I must. But arrowleaf will do it better. A burn will mend of its own accord.

  It’s unwise to create an Influence where none is needed-Natural healing leaves one stronger, but spell-healing can weaken instead, if it’s not used with caution. You ought to understand that, Corson, since you’re such a champion of nature.”

  Corson shrugged. “No doubt you know best. I’d better be off. They expect me at table, and it doesn’t do to keep one’s hosts waiting. There’s fresh lake trout with dinner, by the way.”

  “I hope you choke on a bone,” Nyctasia muttered into her pillow.

  ’Deisha returned with a clay pot sealed with wax and filled with a white salve.

  When she cut through the seal, a sharp, tangy fragrance pierced the air for a moment.

  “That’s mint, not arrowleaf,” said Nyctasia.

  “No, look,” ’Deisha showed her the impression of narrow, pointed leaves that had been pressed into the side of the pot before the clay was baked. “It’s only been scented with mint leaves to sweeten the smell. It was Aunt Mesthelde’s notion.”

  “And a good one,” said Nyctasia, with admiration. “I’ve never thought of it.” It was the last thing she’d have expected from the tart, practical Mesthelde. No doubt there was a lesson in that, she thought.

  “Oh, she’s the clever one, to be sure. She makes most of our medicaments herself. This will soon put you to rights.” ’Deisha began lightly to smooth the creamy ointment over Nyctasia’s raw, stinging shoulders. It had a cold, tingling feel at first that soon gave way to a welcome numbness. ’Deisha worked with a gentle, circular motion of her fingertips that Nyctasia found restful and soothing.

  “You have the touch of a healer, cousin.”

  “Oh, after tending to hurt animals, nursing a person’s easy.”

  “Not always,” said Nyctasia, remembering the days she’d spent with the ailing Corson in Lhestreq.

  “I’ll gladly nurse you anytime.” ’Deisha leaned forward to kiss the nape of Nyctasia’s blistered neck, very carefully. “Tomorrow your skin will peel off like a lizard’s. Thank the stars you swam underwater much of the time.”

  “I thought Rhostshyl was a dangerous place,” Nyctasia said sleepily, “but I’d no idea how hazardous the world outside the city was. The sea makes you ill, the sun flays you alive-it’s a wonder anyone lives to an old age.”

  “We’re a long-lived family.”

  “Unless we’re murdered,” Nyctasia agreed. It was true, the Edonaris often lived well past fourscore years, especially in the female line.

  “To listen to you, one would think you did nothing at all but murder one another in Rhostshyl.”

  Something in her tone made Nyctasia ask sharply, “’Deisha, you don’t think of going there?”

  “Well, I don’t mean to take part in a war, of course… But I would like to see the city someday. I think we all would.”

  “So would I,” murmured Nyctasia, “someday…” She was silent for so long that

  ’Deisha thought she’d fallen asleep, and quietly slipped from the room, stepping softly and stealthily.

  Nyctasia let her go. She was too tired for more talk, and ’Deisha must surely be starving for her dinner. She’ll be late again, Nyctasia thought, smiling.

  Rousing herself sufficiently to sit up, she dipped her fingers into the salve, which ’Deisha had left at her bedside, and dabbed a little of it on her nose and cheekbones. She winced as she rubbed some into her collarbone, which felt scraped even by the touch of the pillow. But to her relief she found that she could now lie on her back, as long as she stayed quite still. Cautiously stretching out her arms, she let her weariness wash over her, and she felt that she was again floating languidly on the lake, warmed by the sun, cooled by the fresh water, and fearing no treachery from either. She could almost feel the gentle rippling of the waves beneath her, and the golden glare of sunshine again played in mad patterns upon her eyelids. She drifted into sleep, lulled by the ceaseless murmuring of the waters.

  In her dreams a great iron bell was tolling a warning that grew louder and more urgent by the moment. Nyctasia ran weakly the rest of the way to the tower, exhausted by her climb but desperate to know what catastrophe had demanded the sounding of the tocsin after its years of silence. But then it was she herself who was pulling with all her strength at the bell-rope, and she knew without question that it was her duty to warn those below of the coming flood. Each swing of the heavy bell nearly lifted her off her feet, and each time she brought down the rope a searing pain racked her shoulders, but she dared not leave off. If the deluge took the valley unawares the deaths of all its folk would be on her hands. The bell swung ever more wildly overhead, tearing at the rotted beams that held it aloft.

  “Fool, it will fall and crush you! Come away!” a man shouted from somewhere behind her.

  The very foundations of the tower seemed to be shaking, but Nyctasia grimly kept on with her task. “The fountain is working again, don’t you see?” she cried.

  “None of our artisans knows how to stem it at the source-the whole valley will be flooded!”

  “Let be, the earth is parched,” he called, and Mhairestri agreed, “Only thus will the drought be quenched…”

  Nyctasia sobbed in pain and confusion. “But blood is as salt as brine, it will kill the crops, all the young vines-” She woke with a cry, her shoulders still throbbing with pain, the sound of the bell still thundering in the air. She knew but a moment’s relief that she had only been dreaming, for she realized at once that a warning bell was ringing loudly in the dead of night, somewhere nearby.

  Her first waking thought was, War!

  18

  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 cu
t 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…”