by J F Rivkin
Nyctasia shuddered. “Let’s try the other door.”
Newt had already done so, since the first door had yielded nothing he could spend or sell. But the second revealed only a set of broad, easily climbed stairs, leading upward. A few faint streaks of light pierced the gloom at the top.
The flight of stairs soon ended in a strange, curved corridor no wider than the stairs, not carved from solid rock, but built of stone and mortar. “We’re above ground,” said Nyctasia, “but where?”
“Probably in a keep of Castle Saetarrin,” said Raphe gloomily.
A few feet before and behind them was a stone wall, but on either side of the top step was a doorway covered with wood, and sunlight was seeping between the planks on one side. Corson lost no time in setting her back against the opposite side and kicking out the slats.
***
“It’s been boarded up for years,” said Raphe. “Of course the whole place was searched, but they only needed to uncover the main door to do that. I daresay no one thought to look inside the wall.”
The four of them were sitting on the low wall outside the bell-tower, regarding the doubly boarded doorway. It did not seem to conceal a thing, either from inside or outside the tower. The stairway could only be seen from the very threshold.
“Neither out of doors nor in,” sighed Nyctasia. “Perhaps the Cymvelans hid the way themselves. If they feared an attack they’d have wanted to protect the library.”
“The Cymvelans or the Saetarrin…” said Raphe.
“Or the slavers,” Corson suggested. “And if people did discover it, the slavers soon discovered them.” She shook her head. “When I think of all the trouble we went through-that awful crawl through the tunnel…” Her voice trailed off in disgust.
“And all for nothing!” Newt agreed in an aggrieved tone.
“This will make it much easier to reach the library,” Nyctasia said with satisfaction. “We’ve only to break open that inner doorway, and I can start removing the books at once.”
“Hurrah,” muttered Corson, seconded by Newt, who wished Nyctasia joy of them.
Their differences forgotten in their mutual dissatisfaction at the outcome of the adventure, the two went off to get drunk together.
Raphe stood and offered his hand to Nyctasia. “I’ll find you people to carry the books,” he promised. “The sooner it’s done the better, I think. It’s no wonder the structure’s unsteady if the ground’s not solid below, and half the wall’s hollow. The shoring underneath looked none too healthy either. You’ll have to take great care. I wouldn’t like to lose my new kinswoman almost as soon as I’ve found her. When you’re finished we’ll have to seal the whole place off-especially from the little ones. The chances that someone will come to grief are too great.”
Nyctasia agreed with him wholeheartedly, though she did not voice all of her reasons.
27
“why are you so set on finding this Jocelys, anyway?” Corson asked. “What’s the use? The riddles are answered, you’ve got your precious books-what do you want with Jocelys, whoever she may be?”
Corson, Nyctasia and Newt were on the road to Amron Therain, all three traveling for different reasons. Nyctasia hoped to find Jocelys, the last of the Cymvelan foundlings on Garast’s list. “She ought to be told about the library,” she explained. “It is her birthright-Garast was right about that. And she should be told about his death, too. She and Rowan are as close to kin as he had.”
Corson shrugged. “If she’s at all like Rowan, she’ll not thank you for the information. Probably she doesn’t want to know anything about it.”
“Likely enough,” Nyctasia agreed. “But there’s another reason I want to find her. Garast said that the Circle meant to use the treasure for vengeance somehow. If they went to Jocelys too, she may know something about their plans.”
“Garast made it all up, I daresay. That one was almost as much of a liar as you are. We didn’t find anything in the library that would serve as a weapon for vengeance.”
“That’s just what worries me. Yesterday I had the last of the books removed…
There’s a volume missing, and it was taken recently, to judge by the dust.”
“It wasn’t me!” Newt said hastily, looking guilty nevertheless.
Corson gave him a sidelong glance. “No one’s accused you. Yet. Do you know what book it was, Nyc? Was it valuable?”
“It’s rare, yes, and for good reason. For generations it’s been forbidden to make copies of it, all through the Empire, and it’s proscribed in most municipalities as well. Naturally there are those who’d pay anything for it.”
At this, Newt took an interest. “What’s in the thing?”
“It’s a treatise called On the Nature of Demonic Spirits. No one knows who wrote it, or exactly when it was written, but it’s old. The work’s divided into two parts-the first is harmless enough, and not very hard to come by. I’ve read it many times. But the Second Book, you see, contains spells-spells only a mad fool would tamper with-for summoning and commanding certain elemental powers…
“Perhaps the Cymvelans never had the entire work,” she continued, after a long silence, “but there are other books just as rare in that collection. And the missing volume, whatever it was, was on the shelf next to the First Book on the Nature of Demonic Spirits. I think they had the Second Book, and knew very well the potency of its spells. That riddle about the peach tree is ambiguous-it doesn’t spell out the answer. It could refer to the library, to the sweet fruit of study that nourishes the spirit, but holds a deadly secret. One spell from the Second Book could free the demonic Presence of the Cymvelan land, and give the power and riches that the riddles promise, but the danger is unthinkable.
Corson, tomorrow is Yu Yaleicu.”
Newt gave a low whistle. He felt that he’d chosen a good time to get out of Vale. He was bound for Amron Therain simply because it was the nearest town of any size where there would be a Harvest celebration, no doubt teeming with drunken folk with pockets to be picked. As he’d explained at dinner the night before, he’d had his fill of treasure and adventure, and meant to return to the safer occupations of thievery and swindling. After a few glasses of Edonaris wine, he had entertained some muddled but interesting ideas of selling worthless pieces of parchment covered with clues to the Cymvelan fortune. With his detailed knowledge of the site, he should be able to make them very convincing indeed… But foremost in his mind was the desire to put some distance between himself and Corson and Nyctasia, whose company he considered unlucky.
As they reached the outskirts of Amron Therain, he reined in his horse and waited for them to pass. “I’ll not enter the city with you, if you don’t mind,” he said, with a curt bow. “I’ll wait here till you’re out of sight.”
“Good,” said Corson. “If you’re caught for a cutpurse, I don’t care to have been seen with you.”
Nyctasia gave him a present of money. “Farewell, Newt, and be careful. If you take up brigandry again, I’d advise you to go masked in future. You might rob another soldier with a memory as long as Corson’s.”
Newt grinned. “Many thanks, Your Ladyship. The generosity of the Edonaris is renowned. Your kinfolk won’t object, I’m sure, if I keep this handsome horse, in place of the one you cheated me of, back in Rhostshyl Wood.” Then he turned to Corson, shaking his head reprovingly. “And you, you’re too careless by half.
When you drink with a thief, guard your valuables well.” To Corson’s astonishment, he tossed her a large diamond she’d received from Nyctasia some time ago, in fee for her services as bodyguard. “I hate to give it back, but I fear our paths might cross again one day.”
“Asye forbid!” said Corson. “Nyc, let’s go before I forget my promise and break his neck.” Newt drew aside and waved them on their way with a jaunty salute.
Corson dug her heels into her horse’s sides. “A strange little scoundrel, and no mistake,” she laughed. “Good riddance to him, for all that he saved
our lives.”
Her object in Amron Therain was to arrange passage on the first riverboat sailing south to Stocharnos. From there it would be only a few days’ ride overland to Chiastelm and Steifann. He had been on his own quite long enough, she felt; if there was no boat leaving soon, she’d return to Vale with Nyctasia for the three days of Harvest Festival, but if she could set sail on the morrow, so much the better.
She’d already taken her leave of the Edonaris. As was usual with her, her farewells had been brief-except with Raphe. Their leavetaking had occupied the greater part of the night. She’d tried to return the fine gold silk, since the material could easily be used again, but he had insisted that she keep it, declaring that it could not possibly look so charming on anyone else. Uncertain, she’d consulted Nyctasia, who’d assured her that it would be impolite to refuse.
“Always accept a gift from one who can afford to give it,” Nyctasia had counseled, and Corson accepted her advice readily. She was not likely to have occasion to wear the gown again, but she looked forward to showing it to Steifann, and she could have a shirt made from it afterward. A silk shirt would be an extravagance, but more practical than a fancy gown. There’d be enough left over to make a kerchief for Annin and some ribbons for that little peacock Trask to wear on his sleeves. It would be her finest homecoming yet-the stories she’d have to tell them, this time! And as for Steifann, she’d make him wish he’d never met that mangy cur Destiver. And after that, she’d make him forget that there were other women in the world…
As she planned her reunion with Steifann, in vivid detail, they rode into Amron Therain, and Nyctasia halted her horse. “I can’t go to the waterfront with you-I must find Jocelys. There’s no time to be lost. I’ll ask at the marketplace first. Shall I meet you somewhere later, in case you decide to go back to Vale with me tonight?”
Corson started guiltily. Nyctasia looked tormented with worry, and her voice was strained and anxious. “No, I’ll help you look for her first. I can do that much.
But I can’t help you fight spells, Nyc. My sword’s no use against ghosts and demons. I won’t hide from you that I think I’m well out of all this. But if the danger’s as great as you say, why not post guards and keep the Cymvelans out of the temple, like I told you before?”
“I’ll see to that, of course. But I’m not sure that will prevent them from invoking the spell. I’m afraid that the time when it’s clone may be more important than the place where it’s done. The Valeice is at its height now, at the turning point from summer to autumn. The celebration marks the weakening of the boundaries, not just between the seasons, but between all things. Nothing is certain at such a time, and the Balance is weighted toward death-not toward life, as it is in the spring. Something must be done, but I don’t know what to do.”
Corson sighed. “I surely don’t know if you don’t, Nyc. But I think we’d better stop talking and get on with searching for this Jocelys.”
“Would it be Jocelys the tax-collector you want, milady, or Jocelys who keeps the dramshop?”
“The dramshop-keeper,” said Corson hopefully.
“I don’t know,” said Nyctasia, “Was either of them a foundling from Vale?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know their histories. The one’s a man, rather loud, rather fat, and the other a woman, rather quiet, rather thin.”
“Ah, we’re in luck,” said Corson. “Where will we find her?”
“You’ve not far to go. If you turn down this lane and take the second alleyway to the thoroughfare, then cross the square, on the right side, you’ll be nearly there, but it’s a small place and easy to miss-”
“Show us the way,” ordered Nyctasia, holding out some silver.
The dramshop was indeed a small one, and empty at this hour of the morning except for a woman who was mulling ale over an open hearth. The rich, savory scent filled the room.
“Two cups of that brew,” said Corson, “and plenty of ground emberseed in mine, if you’ve got it.”
The woman nodded to them. “Surely, mistress, but bide a breath, if you will.
I’ve not quite finished with it.” She tasted the simmering liquor with a long wooden spoon, then tossed in a handful of nutmeg from a row of jars on the mantel and stirred it in.
They sat down on a bench near the hearth. “If it’s as good as it smells, it will be worth the waiting,” said Nyctasia. “Would you be Jocelys brenn Vale, I wonder?”
The woman’s eyes widened. “I am, and no reason to hide it. All in this town know me.”
“We bring you news from Vale… about Garast,” Nyctasia said gently. “He’s dead. I’m afraid. We were all three exploring the caverns beneath the Cymvelan ruins, and he fell from a ledge. I’m sorry to bring such tidings across your threshold.”
Jocelys bent over the kettle of ale, her face hidden. “What is that to me? I’ve nothing to do with that fool Garast and his schemes. I told him he’d find no treasure there, and I tell you the same. Let me be!”
“But we did find the treasure. It was knowledge the Cymvelans hoarded. We found their library, underneath the temple. Garast wanted you to know that, you and Rowan. You’ve a claim to it, after all.”
“So, now I know, and you can take yourselves off. I trouble no one, and I want no trouble from others. I’ve my family to think of. Get out of this house, both of you!”
“In good time,” said Corson evenly. “We’ll have that drink first, if it’s ready.”
“Jocelys, please hear me out,” Nyctasia pleaded. “We’ve not come to make trouble for you We need your help-it’s a desperate matter. Garast warned us that the Cymvelans mean to visit some dire vengeance on the folk of the valley, and the time is near. Surely they sought you out as well. If you know aught of their plans, I beg you to tell us before it’s too late to stop them.”
Scowling, Jocelys turned back to her brewing. “So you believed that mad tale of Garast’s?” she said scornfully, “There are no Cymvelans. How could they have escaped the fire, tell me that? Oh, Garast may have seen them, but who else ever did? Not I. Not Rowan, that I ever heard of.” She paused to taste the ale again, and stirred in more spices. “If you’re worrying over some nonsense that one told you, you can rest easy, by my word. And you’re welcome to the library, and the root-cellar too, for all of me.” She ladled out two mugs full of the fragrant drink and set it before them, clearly impatient to be rid of them. Though she spoke firmly enough, Nyctasia saw that her hand trembled as she poured their ale.
It was as good as it smelled. Corson decided. “Nyc, what she says makes sense.
Maybe Garast did imagine that little visit from the Cymvelans. He was crazy enough for that.”
Nyctasia sipped her drink thoughtfully. “I’d be glad to believe that. But there’s still the book to be accounted for, and the uncanny power we sensed at the ruins…” She turned to Jocelys. “You see, there are tunnels underneath the temple that they might have used to flee the fire. The vahn knows I hope you’re right about Garast’s story, but if you’re not, many lives may be in danger-the innocent and the guilty alike. It might be of help if you told us what he said to you about their plans. He might have revealed more to you than to us. Please try, that’s all I ask.”
“If I do, will you go away and leave me in peace? I don’t like to speak of it.”
Nyctasia gave her promise.
“Very well,” sighed Jocelys, “but I warn you, you’ll be here for a good while, if you want the whole story.” She refilled then-mugs, then went to the door, pulled it shut and bolted it. “I’ll have to turn away customers,” she complained. “I won’t have others hear me speak of this.”
“Your neighbors won’t hear of it from us,” said Corson.
“And you’ll not lose by it,” Nyctasia assured her. “I can pay for your-” She stopped, puzzled. Her own words sounded strangely slow to her, and seemed to echo in her ears. I’ve taken too much ale, she thought, and at such a time! I should have known better. It had not
tasted very strong, but she was not used to drink at all. Angry at herself, she shook her head hard, trying to clear her thoughts, but only felt dizzier for it. Jocelys was speaking now, but Nyctasia couldn’t understand her. She turned to look at Corson, and even this simple act was almost too difficult for her. “Corson,” she managed to gasp as she slid from the bench, “the ale-don’t-drugged-”
Corson leaped to her feet with a shout and started toward Jocelys, but the floor suddenly shifted beneath her feet, and she staggered against the wall. Jocelys seemed to float away from her, white, terrified, whispering, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it, I had to. Garast told you about them, and he’s dead. They threatened me… My husband,” she sobbed, “my child.”
28
corson stirred and groaned. She felt as if her head were in an ever-tightening vise, and her mouth tasted of swamp water. She sat up slowly. She could hear Nyctasia beside her, breathing harshly in her sleep, as if in pain. Corson shook her roughly.
“Wake up, curse you. Do you know where we are?”
“Leave me alone,” Nyctasia moaned. “I want to sleep.”
Corson seized her by the shoulders, “Come to what little sense you’ve got, fool.
Hlann help us, but we’re going to need every bit of sense we can muster, and between the two of us I don’t think we make a half-wit. How could I be taken in by a colt’s trick like that?” She pressed her fists against her aching head.
“That bloody bitch,” she added, with feeling.
“Well, where are we?” Nyctasia asked sullenly. “I don’t like it, wherever it is.
