Web of wind s-2

by J F Rivkin

  “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!”

  19

  corson and ’deisha had been unable to rouse Nyctasia when they found her lying at the foot of the fountain, and this time they carried her home without delay.

  She did not wake on the way, nor even when ’Deisha bathed her face with cold well-water, and Mesthelde scorched feathers and pungent herbs under her nose.

  Corson counseled them to let her be. “She’ll come to herself when she’s ready, and not before. That one knows what she’s about, when it’s a matter of healing-she’s probably holding a pleasant little chat with the Indwelling Spirit right now, or something of that sort. Don’t worry.”

  But ’Deisha fretted so much over Nyctasia that Mesthelde finally chased her from the sickroom. “Get out from underfoot, both of you,” she ordered. “Go back to the harvesting where you can be of some use.”

  Raphe had stayed behind to rally his remaining workers, but when Corson and

  ’Deisha trudged back up the hill, he came to meet them and asked after Nyctasia, not meeting ’Deisha’s eyes.

  “She’s not wakened yet,” said ’Deisha heavily.

  “But that’s all to the good,” Corson assured them. “Those healing-spells of hers seem to work best that way. I once saw her with a wound that I thought would be the death of her, and she healed it overnight. It would take more than sunstroke to do away with that one. I don’t claim to understand the whole queer business, but she’ll be well in no time, you’ll see. Just don’t ask her to explain it, whatever you do!”

  Raphe nodded. “They say that secrecy is the source of a magician’s power-that spells lose their might if they’re spoken of. I daresay Nyc had to swear oaths not to reveal the workings of her spells.”

  “No such luck! She’s more than willing to explain all about it to anyone who’ll listen. And once that one starts in explaining, she won’t stop for wind or wild weather.”

  Raphe smiled. “It must be an Edonaris failing. I’m like that myself, no?”

  “We all are,” said ’Deisha. “Headstrong, the lot of us.”

  Corson saw that they were speaking to each other more than to her, although neither had said a word directly to the other. She wisely decided to leave them alone to discuss their differences. “You’re right,” she said, taking up a new harvesting basket, “all the Edonaris I ever met were as stubborn as stone.” As she walked off, she heard them both starting to speak at once.

  While she worked, Corson pondered the morning’s events. Why had Nyc gone into the temple? Had she merely been wandering, or was she still searching for something there? Corson looked over at the ruin and was surprised to see some of the children napping in the shade, with ’Deisha’s two dogs keeping watch over them. If no one could be spared from the harvesting to look after them, why not send them home in one of the carts? Or was this the Edonarises’ way of showing the other laborers how harmless the temple was after all?

  Well, Corson still had a question or two about the temple herself. As soon as the harvesting was done she’d have another look at the place, she decided. There was yet one riddle not answered to her satisfaction.

  Later in the afternoon, Raphe called her to join ’Deisha and Nicorin at one of the carts. When the wagoners had taken their baskets, Nicorin waved and trotted off down the path, whistling. Raphe picked out some of the freshly gathered grapes, offering them to ’Deisha and Corson to sample. They tasted perfect to Corson, but ’Deisha shook her head regretfully. “Too sweet. Sorry, love.” There remained no trace of tension between the twins.

  Raphe shrugged. “It’s no great matter. The bulk of them have been pressed. I want another load of these for blending, and the rest can go for raisins-but there’s no hurry now, so I won’t need you two here any longer. I thought you might want to go see how Nyc’s getting on.”

  ’Deisha smiled at him. “I’ll go down with the wagon. What about you, Corson?

  Have you had your fill of harvesting?”

  “Nyc doesn’t need me fretting over her. But there’s time enough before dark for me to look through the temple again.”

  “Why? What is there to look for?”

  “The golden spider,” said Corson, and started off toward the ruins.

  Raphe followed, curious. “Surely the fountain-”

  “Maybe. But there was a bell for the bell-riddle, and bees for that riddle.

  Peaches. Harps. A well. Why haven’t we found a spider somewhere? A picture or carving of some kind, I’d guess.”

  “There might have been one that was destroyed,” Raphe pointed out.

  “There might. But how would ’Lorin know about it then?”

  “Hmmm. The riddle could refer to real spiders that nest in the courtyard garden, I suppose.”

  “Golden ones?” said Corson. She scooped up ’Lorin, who was painstakingly planting an orchard of twigs in the shade of the temple wall. Settling him on her shoulders, she suggested, “Let’s go see the golden spider, sprat, shall we?”

  ’Lorin shrieked assent in Corson’s ear, delighted to be up so high, taller than anyone in his family. They reached the courtyard without falling through the floor, despite ’Lorin’s wriggling and tugging on Corson’s braid. She was not sorry to set him down again. “Can you show me the spider?” she asked, with more patience than she felt.

  To Corson’s disappointment, ’Lorin pointed up at the fountain. “There!”

  “This, do you mean?” said Raphe, touching one of the tall, overarching stalks.

  “Is that its leg?” said Corson.

  ’Lorin looked disgusted at their stupidity. “Not tree,” he said scornfully.

  “Spider, inna web! Right there!”

  He pointed again, so confidently that Corson crouched down beside him, the better to follow his small, unwavering finger. After a moment she grinned and beckoned to Raphe. The brass spider in its web of delicate brazen threads was indeed in plain sight-from a child’s-eye point of view-on the underside of a broad bronze leaf. From this vantage point, other details of the sculpture became visible-a butterfly clinging with folded wings beneath a blossom of brass, a tiny lizard climbing up the back of a thick stem-all waiting to be discovered by the children for whom the courtyard was created, though no man or woman was likely to see them.

  But Corson was indifferent to these secret charms of the fountain. What claimed her interest was one of the hanging, flower-shaped bells. From below, she could see into its heart, and with a shout of triumph she seized the clapper and wrenched it out, holding it up to show Raphe. There was no possibility of doubt.

  What she had found was a large brass key.

  Despite Corson’s assurances, the family had been nonplussed at Nyctasia’s quick recovery from sunstroke. Mesthelde had insisted that she rest in bed for another day, and Nyctasia had been quite willing to obey
when she heard that the worst of the crush was over. But no amount of persuasion or dire warning could keep her from joining Corson on another climb up Honeycomb Hill on the following day.

  There were regular meals once more, and during breakfast that morning everyone reasoned or remonstrated with her. “The clappers of all the other bells are shaped like stamens,” Raphe argued. “We searched the whole fountain. There’s nothing more to find.”

  “Oh, but-”

  “You’re mad, Nyc, to think of going out in the sun so soon, healer or no!”

  ’Deisha scolded, seconded by Mesthelde.

  Nyctasia had to raise her voice to be heard. “But we’re not going up to the temple, and I shan’t be in the sun,” she protested. “Our destination is that small cave on the hillside, where no sun has shone for a thousand years. I ought to be safe from sunstroke there.”

  “Nyc thinks the lock to this key may be there somewhere,” Corson explained. “If the ‘key to mystery’ was really meant for a key, maybe the other riddle will yield some ‘wealth beyond a lifetime’s spending,’ who knows?” It didn’t seem very likely, even to Corson, but the key must unlock something, after all.

  “Why the cave, though? How does that riddle go?”

  “‘Neither in the open air, neither in a dwelling,’” Nyctasia recited. “We all assumed that it meant the courtyard, but it could as well be a cave, and that’s the nearest one-probably the only one the children were allowed to explore freely.”

  “Yes, but I know that cave-it’s empty,” Raphe objected. “It doesn’t reach in much farther than you saw, and there’s nothing there save rock and earth.”

  Corson and Nyctasia exchanged a knowing look. “The earth doth secrets keep,”

  Nyctasia reminded him.

  “‘For the wellspring’s weal lies deep,’” Corson added. “I’ll wager you’ve never tried digging there, have you?”

  20

  the others were still taken up with the harvest, but there were laborers enough for the remaining tasks, and the guests of the house could no longer be allowed to take part in the work. Corson and Nyctasia had the whole of Honeycomb Hill to themselves. They explored the interior of the cave with lanterns and candles, but found only the sign of the Cymvelan Circle, crudely scratched in stone.

  There was nothing for it but to dig.

  The cave was too small to allow Corson to swing a pick, and she could barely stand upright to put her full weight behind a spade. There was not room for two to dig, but Nyctasia knelt and troweled the dirt and loose stones out of the way, sifting through them for clues, “Don’t stay too long in one spot,” she advised. “If there’s anything here, it shouldn’t be too well hidden. They expected children to find it.”

  “Probably only children can find it,” Corson grunted. “I should have brought

  ’Lorin along instead of you.”

  It was slow work, but they had not been at it long when Corson’s spade struck with a hollow thud against something unexpected. “Wait!” Nyctasia scraped a space around the edge of the spade. “This is wood.”

  They both set to, clearing the shallow layer of soil from the planks beneath.

  “I think it’s a chest.”

  “It’s not a coffin, is it?”

  It was neither. Before long they had uncovered most of the wooden flooring of the cave, and in the center was a small trapdoor. When they tugged it open, a cold wind came rushing up from the blackness below to strike their faces with a disconcerting chill. A lantern lowered into the hole revealed stairs cut into the stone, leading down into darkness.

  “It’s a doorway for children, that’s certain,” said Nyctasia. “I might squeeze through, but you couldn’t possibly.”

  For answer, Corson thrust the edge of her spade between two of the old boards and stamped it down with all her strength until the plank next to the open trapway began to break loose. Gripping the free side, she pulled up on the loosened board and tore it out with a crack of outraged joinery. Nyctasia stepped cautiously down the stairway far enough to push up on the next board while Corson wrenched it free from above. Corson tossed it aside and grinned down at her. “Now it’s wide enough for someone of a decent size, eh?”

  “Yes, and even for a monstrous creature like you.” Nyctasia took up her lantern again and started slowly down the stairs.

  Corson seized the other lamp and hastened to follow her. “Out of my way, mite, or I’ll step on you.”

  21

  the passage was just wide enough for Corson and Nyctasia to walk abreast. They moved slowly, uncertain of their footing in the dim glow of the lanterns. Even their words were hushed by the dense gloom that stretched ahead of them endlessly, unbroken by any light or noise. They soon fell silent, listening, but heard only the sound of their boots scuffing the stone. They had not been walking long before the passage branched into two corridors, one continuing straight ahead but narrowing, the other angling off to the left. Corson turned into the roomier passage, but she soon regretted her choice.

  It was clear that this part of the tunnel had served a definite purpose. On either side of them, long rectangular niches had been cut into the walls, some left empty, some closed over with clay tiles, their edges sealed with mortar.

  Although Corson had never seen their like before, she immediately knew that they were graves.

  “‘And we came to the city of the dead,’” Nyctasia recited, “‘wandering long among those dark corridors, and past the innumerable and silent host that dwell there. How humbled we were and awe-struck. What were all our travels but a path to this last, final journey before which all our adventures paled to country jaunts on a summer’s day?’”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “That’s from the memoirs of the Lady Ghystralda. She was always going to one place or another, and then filling scores of books with her experiences and the old travelers’ tales she heard. The woman had the most commonplace ideas, and she talked about them as if they were gems of learning and understanding, but when I was a child I thought them most profound. I read her works over and over, wishing I could run away from Rhostshyl and see the world… This place is very similar to one she described, though, except that it was teeming with ghosts, according to her. It’s interesting to see some of the same customs in such different parts of the world.” She held her lantern close to one of the graves to study the tile, which was decorated with the sign of the Cymvela. Some of the tombs bore portraits of the departed, showing them sleeping serenely in a boat on calm waters, or reunited with their loved ones in a sunny garden. Others were ornamented with colored porcelain, brass medallions or terracotta lamps.

  There were even small crystal perfume flasks pushed into the mortar, and a sweet scent still lingered in the air, as faint and fragile as the memory of a long-faded flower.

  “You don’t suppose there really are ghosts here, do you?” Corson asked.

  Nyctasia grinned at her. “‘Who can say what restless spirits walk these shadow-haunted halls?’”

  “Stop spouting bad verse at me!” Corson was glad of her rising anger, which made her forget how the place frightened her. “Here’s one I’ll wager you don’t know,” she said, and sang in a cracked, off-key voice:

  “Sing hey, sing ho, if we will or no,

  To the worms below must our journeys go.

  If you can’t pay, then you must owe.

  And death makes equal the high and the low.

  “I learned that in the army. Write it down, why don’t you?”

  “I shall. Corson, if you want to go back-”

  “No! Why should we? Let’s see what there is to see.” She wanted desperately to go back, but she would rather risk the ghosts than admit it to Nyctasia. The place seemed more eerie and unnatural to her with every step-and less likely to lead to any treasure. The ditty she had sung for Nyctasia ran through her head in a mocking refrain. Unbidden, images of death rose before her, not the peaceful death these tombs promised, but t
he cruel, bloody death of the battlefield. Her own ghosts haunted her, if no others.

  “Corson, come look at these!” Nyctasia called.

  “What now?” Corson demanded. “If it’s not coin or loot I don’t want to see it.”

  Nyctasia had come to the end of the passage, a smooth wall on which a remarkably realistic arched doorway had been painted. An inviting landscape of meadows and mountains lay beyond, and far in the distance a procession of men and women could be seen approaching. But Nyctasia was pointing to the ceiling of the crypt-chamber, which, Corson now saw, was also painted.

  “More of their cursed daubs,” she snarled.

  “These are different. They’re much older, and I don’t think they were done by the Cymvelans.”

  The drawings were of grotesque beasts, much like those in the temple, but even more vivid and alive. They were drawn in a helter-skelter fashion all over the ceiling, and each figure seemed absorbed in some private but violent dance. The light of the lanterns plucked the painted surfaces from the darkness and the distorted, wildly gyrating creatures appeared to move, as if they had come to life.

  Nyctasia softly said, “The Cymvelans lived in the light, but it was the darkness that secretly nourished them. It was that they were trying to show in their temple paintings, I think. The tree was the sign of their belief, which was rooted in darkness but spread its crown wide under the sky, and throve in the sunlight. And all the while these crypts, with their prancing monsters, lay beneath the temple, and perhaps their rhythms were really the heart of the dance.”

  “I know which side I’d wager on,” Corson said harshly, “in a contest between these”-she gestured toward the capering figures-“and those dancing poppets the Cymvelans painted. These speak for what’s truly in the blood. The rest is just some sort of children’s game, like your muzzy notions about the Indwelling Spirit. Suppose the Indwelling Spirit is really like one of these here?”

  Nyctasia caught her breath. It hardly seemed to be Corson who spoke, but some malignant stranger who sought to turn her own deepest fears against her. Forcing herself to speak lightly, she said, “Well, now I’m frightened too, Corson. I hope you’re satisfied.”