The Towers Of the Sunset (21 page)

CRESLIN’S EYES FINALLY open onto a dimness, verging on dark, in a high-ceilinged room lit by a single oil lamp mounted on a wood-paneled wall. His legs ache, and a muffled hammer pounds on his skull.

He lies back on the soft, cotton-covered pillows. His eyes glance from the heavy velvet hangings across the narrow casement window to a small table beneath the leaded panes. The dark gray outside indicates that it is past twilight. Two wooden armchairs, each upholstered in dark brocade, flank the table, on which rests a small brass oil lamp, unlit. The interior walls are paneled in a dark wood, but the outside wall is fitted stone.

The heavy iron-bound door whispers open on well-oiled hinges. Although the castle does not seem to be drafty or cold, the woman who enters the room wears a hooded cloak. Closing the door, she eases past the lamp on the wall, and her soundless steps carry her toward the high bed. Her cloak and the dim light shadow her features.

Still, Creslin’s night sight is little diminished by his weakness. She is the same lady who retrieved him from Andre’s lands, though now garbed in colors of black and white and gray.

“Good evening.” He tries not to croak the words.

“I’m glad to see that you have finally returned to the land of the living.” She slides the nearer chair from the table until it is beside the bed and sits down.

“That makes two of us, but which land of the living?”

“Oh, this is the
castle
of
Vergren
, ancestral hold of the Duke of Montgren, and you are his honored guest. As am I,” she adds dryly.

“I’m afraid that I have not had the pleasure… except on our ride, and my thoughts were not the clearest then.”

“We have met,” she says, “but we were not properly introduced. You may have heard my name. But you have not introduced yourself, either.”

Creslin shifts his weight, and sparks flash within his eyes. “I must question… whether doing so is wise.”

She waits, her shadowed eyes on his face.

“Then, I do not see what difference it could make. My name is Creslin.”

“No patronymic? No great and illustrious titles?”

He snorts, and fireflies of light blossom in his eyes at the exertion.

“You are weaker than you think,” she confirms. “You’re fortunate to be here. Few manage that sort of trip, and fewer still with such an illness.”

Illness? Had his foot become reinfected in his flight from the wizards? What has he said? He had not mentioned his travels during the ride to the castle.

“I just wanted to see how you were coming along.” She stands, extending a hand toward his face. Her fingers are warm, gentle against the damp heat of his fever for the moment they rest on his forehead.

Even so, even with the flicker of lights in his eyes, he notes the white scar that rings her wrist. Yet before he can utter another word, she is gone.

His eyes close, almost as quickly as the heavy door swings shut.

“WAIT?” ASKS THE Duke of Montgren. “How long must I wait? This is madness. Each day that he remains at Vergren, there is a greater chance that they will find him.” He paces in a tight circle.

“There is no chance of that at all. The biggest risk to you is if he should be caught. And you can certainly ensure that. Just force him to leave before he regains his strength.” Megaera leans back in the padded leather chair.

“Why did I-”

“Because, cousin dear, you just happen to need those horses that are arriving on the next coaster, and the western bows and cold steel shafts. You also need my dearest sister’s protest to the High Wizard. You even benefit by the anger of the Marshall of Westwind.”

“None of that will do me much good should the wizards find him here.”

“You really don’t think, do you?” Her lazy smile shows even, white teeth, and a flash in her eyes erases momentarily the tiredness. “They can’t afford to invade you to find out whether he is here, not right now. You’re safer while we’re here than you will be later. He alone is probably worth several cavalry squads, assuming he can bear the weight of death.”

“I just wish he were well and that you both were off doing whatever you’re supposed to be doing.” The Duke pauses. “What are you supposed to be doing?”

Her smile widens. “I don’t know, dear cousin. Except that I’m unwelcome west of the Easthorns, and he doesn’t seem to be welcome anywhere.”

“Light!” The Duke closes his mouth, then opens it. “You aren’t planning on…”

“Staying?” The smile fades. “I had thought about it.”

He looks at the coals on the grate. One flares into a white flash of light, then fades.

Her smile returns. “That really wouldn’t be possible. Sister dear owns too many people in your retinue. And she wants us to create, shall we say… difficulties… for the wizards.”

“You agree with her mad schemes?”

“Does it matter?” Megaera fingers a wrist but says nothing.

“I suppose not, not where Ryessa is concerned.” He moves toward the corner desk that has dominated the study since before his grandfather’s time. “But I wish Creslin were well.”

“We’re going to take a ride in the morning.”

“Does he know how?”

“Only well enough that he rode ten kays while delirious and unconscious. Only well enough that he placed in the junior guard trials at Westwind.”

“Ha! So Ryessa found someone strong enough to stand up to you, and with the talent as well.”

“Do be so kind as to close your mouth, cousin dear. You don’t have either the talent or the strength.”

The Duke glares but slowly turns toward the dusty desk. Behind him, another coal on the grate pings.

CRESLIN EASES HIS bare feet onto the heavy sheepskin covering the polished floor stones. Over by the window are the small table and two chairs, one of which he has used while eating the meals that have been regularly served to him for the past three days. He has not seen the mysterious lady again. His only visitors have been a solemn, white-haired healer and the shy young woman who brings his meals. Were it not for the near-luxurious shower and jakes in the adjoining room, he might have been imprisoned in some Western stronghold.

Laid neatly on the chair is a complete set of green leathers, cut and quilted in the style of the guards of Westwind. Their arrival in the hands of the serving girl had awakened him. The green leather is a shade brighter than that used on the Roof of the World. There is also a Westwind dagger, but no sword.

He stands, no longer dizzy as he has been for the previous days, but still aware of the weakness in his legs. For the first time, he realizes that the undergarments he wears are not his; they are of a softer fabric than the beaten linen of the guards.

The young, dark-haired and stocky girl enters through the heavy door, bearing a tray. She does not wear the green and gold of the Duke’s household, but blue and cream. Creslin finds his mouth watering at the sight of the breads and the steam rising from the mug of tea.

“Good day,” he ventures. “Who are you? You’ve been so kind…”

“Good day, ser. I am Aldonya.” She sets the breakfast on the table, then looks at him, ignoring his state of undress. “The… her grace… would like to know if you are well enough for a ride this morning.”

Creslin suppresses a smile. Why is the mysterious woman’s name such a secret? Why does she remains hooded, and why is she always accompanied by guards? She cannot be the Duchess, for she wears no jewelry to signify that she is wed or affianced. The serving maid does not wear green and gold. The blue and cream are familiar, but he does not recall from where.

“I think so,” he finally answers.

Aldonya nods and departs.

He remains a prisoner then, if a well-treated one about to partake of another solid breakfast. He debates between eating and dressing, but only momentarily. The memories of the wizards’ gruel and the scraps and berries of his second trip eastward remain too fresh for him to pass up the tea, pearapples, and heated breads. In time, Creslin reflects, he may return to more casual eating habits. Perhaps.

The shakiness in his legs departs with the warmth of the tea and the first morsels of a honey roll. Hungry or not, he spaces his bites and forces himself to chew each mouthful slowly and evenly. Between bites, he looks through the leaded windowpanes at the clear blue-green sky above the heavy gray stonework facing his window. His quarters are surrounded by walls higher and thicker than the two-cubit-deep stonemasonry manifested in the window ledge before which the table rests.

While the serving girl did not mention an exact time, Creslin had heard the word “morning.” He stands and makes his way to the washroom. Although the water coming from the tap is not ice-cold, neither is it particularly warm, and he hurries with his shaving and washing.

He dons the leathers, obviously sewn from measurements taken while he was ill, then gapes at the gray-leather boots beneath the chair: Westwind riding boots. He looks again, and smiles. The style is the same, but the waterproofing has not been applied and the toes are a touch too square.

Boots on, Creslin smoothes the coverlet on the bed before sitting down in one of the chairs. He waits for whatever might come next. He does not wait long, for the door opens almost immediately.

Aldonya stands there. Behind her are two guards, each wearing the same gold-and-green livery as those who had accompanied the mysterious lady on the ride from Andre’s lands.

“Her ladyship is waiting for you. You are strong enough for a ride?”

“A short one, I suspect.”

Creslin rises and follows her, ignoring the guards. The corridor is of solid stone, and windowless. Upon reaching the staircase, Aldonya does not hesitate, but continues downward. The guards remain at the top of the stairs.

Creslin nods to himself. This is the family wing of the castle, keep, whatever it is. Clearly, he is more than a prisoner, and just as clearly the Duke is not exactly happy about it. He hurries to catch up with Aldonya and succeeds just as they reach another heavy door.

“This is to the inside court. The Duke’s stables are on the far side.”

Before Aldonya can turn away, he touches her arm. “Who is she?”

“You don’t know?”

“I feel that I ought to know, but I have yet to see her when I’ve been even halfway healthy. She seems to have been avoiding me.”

“She does things for her own reasons, but she is good at heart.”

“Good at heart?”

Aldonya stiffens.

“I don’t really know her.” Creslin wonders why he is trying to mollify the girl.

“Perhaps you should, ser…” The girl inclines her head, turns, and starts back up the stairs.

Creslin’s mouth quirks. The girl is loyal, oddly loyal, to the mysterious woman, and she wears an unfamiliar livery, if it is livery at all. He reaches for the iron door handle. The door closes as quietly as it opens, and he steps onto the well-swept, flat stones of the inner courtyard. In the shadows where he pauses, the day is cool, cool enough to indicate that the summer and the warmth of the eastern harvest season have indeed fled. White, puffy clouds dot the sky. He is reminded yet again that he has lost more than half a year, although his memories of that time are present, in a way, as those of the struggling silver-top.

On the other side of the courtyard, less than thirty cubits away, stand two horses. The reins of the chestnut are held by a guard wearing the green and gold; he sits astride a black mare.

Silent steps carry Creslin toward the horses.

“Lord Creslin?”

He nods.

“Her… grace… awaits you outside the castle.”

The black mare punctuates the statement by lifting her tail and dropping an offering onto the stones. Both the guard and Creslin ignore the impact as Creslin mounts the chestnut. Across the pommel of the cavalry saddle lies a Westward short sword and the shoulder harness Creslin favors. He loses no time in donning them. The guard’s right hand touches his own belt-carried saber.

The two men ride through the archway leading into the main courtyard of the castle. As they near the gate, a guard on the wall gestures to a figure within the gate house.

The massive, iron-bound portal rumbles open. The sound of hooves echoes off the granite as the two riders pass under the stone arches and past the recently reinforced outer walls. Behind them, a guard again gestures and the gate rumbles closed. Iron-banded bars as thick as a man’s waist drop back into place, and bolts slide into stone sockets.

Four mounted guards, plus the woman, wait beyond the end of the causeway. As Creslin approaches, the woman nudges her horse into motion along the ridge road that slowly drops away from the heights the castle commands.

All of the brush on the slopes has been cut back; tree stumps, some recently cut and as much as a cubit wide, spread across the slopes surrounding the gray granite walls of Vergren.

A light, cool breeze whips through Creslin’s long hair. To his right, downhill nearly three kays, are the walls of a town. He wonders why the castle does not include the town itself, or at least border on it. Ahead of him, the lady continues to increase her mount’s pace.

Instead of spurring the chestnut, he lets the horse drop to a walk. The air is crisp for the first time he can easily remember. He takes another deep breath, pleased to be again in the wind and the sunlight. His horse carries him down the long ridge road at an easy pace. By the time he reaches the first trees-a small grove bordering a stone-fenced field where black-faced sheep graze on browning grass-the lady is waiting for him. She has halted her mount apart from the guards, and the man who has followed Creslin joins the others.

Creslin reins up next to her. “Good day.”

“You ride well.” Her smile is polite, and her long red hair is bound back and partly covered with a blue silksheen scarf.

“I am somewhat out of practice.”

“It doesn’t show.” She dismounts and leads her horse to a patch of grass underneath one of the tall oaks and loops the reins around a post protruding from the stone fence. She seats herself on a wide, flat stone.

Creslin follows her example with his mount but remains standing next to the fence. Even without nearing her, he can feel a thin line of… something… between them. He senses the flickering of unseen black-and-white flames that lick around her.

“Who are you?” he finally blurts out.

“Don’t you know?”

“Why don’t you just tell me? Why all these games? I know that you’re a witch of sorts. Everyone edges away from you.”

“I don’t notice anyone exactly cosying up to you, Creslin.” Her expression is wry as she shifts her weight on the stones of the wall.

“But the Duke? The guards?” He studies her eyes.

Her face is pale and serious. “The guards are there for me, as well as for you. The Duke is my cousin, and he sincerely wishes I were not here.”

“Who are you?” he repeats.

“You know, whether you will admit it or not.” His eyes lock on the green eyes above the small, square jaw and the pale, freckled face.

“There is, for example, the rumor that the sole male heir to Westwind not only rejected his bride, the noted and most attractive sub-tyrant of Sarronnyn, but labored as a common prisoner on the great east-west highway.” Her face grave, her green eyes glittering, the woman looks at him.

Creslin swallows, his heart beating faster.

“And further, this ingrate had the temerity to leap into a snowstorm to escape the fabled guards of Westwind. Then, I’m told, he let himself be taken by the White Wizards, lost his mind, yet walked through a storm and disappeared into the impassible Easthorns without even giving the High Wizard a chance to examine his body.”

He laughs, recognizing at last the husky voice that does not quite match the fair complexion and freckles. Whether from relief or from joy, he knows not, but he laughs, and the notes of his laughter are golden, even against the chill wind. “You have me, lady. You have me.” His laughter fades, for the glitter in her eyes is not laughter. “But what have you? A man who is less than a ruined heir? A man who must flee all Candar? A man who does nothing more than passably, except to escape from disaster after disaster? And not always then.”

“Enough.” She leans closer to him, her fire-red hair alive above the polished blue cotton of the light riding jacket. “I owe you something.”

The words do not match the posture.

Crack! Creslin does not move-neither his eyes nor his face-as her white anger lashes across him, following her hand against his cheek.

He forces himself not to reach for the winds, though his teeth begin to grate. “I take it you believe that being the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn entitles you to abuse others.”

“Very impressive.” Her tone is only half-mocking.

“Megaera,” he says slowly. “That must mean fury. Or senseless destruction.”

“Don’t you understand yet?”

“Understand what?” His voice is cold. “That I’ve been pushed, prodded, and manipulated across most of Candar? That I’m some sort of wizard that everyone wishes would disappear? That you’re tied somehow to me, and that you think it’s my fault? That you sought me out?”

“At least you’re starting to think.”

“Thought doesn’t do much good, lady, when you have no choices.”

This time she frowns.

“Megaera.” He looks up at the guards, who have edged their mounts even farther from the two. “I’m not welcome on the Roof of the World. I’m not welcome anyplace where the White Wizards live, and I doubt that I’m welcome in Sarronnyn or Suthya… especially not now.”

Her eyes rest on him without seeing him.

Wheee… eeah… The chestnut breaks the silence. A shadow passes over the hill as one of the puffy clouds covers the sun. He laughs harshly. “There you have it. You have me, and everyone else wishes I would disappear.”

“No one has you. No one ever will.”

“But you have me, lady, like it or not.”

“You misunderstand, Creslin.” Her voice is soft, softer than he had imagined it could be. “You have me-no matter what I do-just as I have you.”

“And you hate it, and you hate me?”

“Yes.”

He gazes at the cloud that has cast the shadow over them. Her mount flicks its tail at a horsefly.

“What a pair!” He looks toward the scattering of black-faced sheep on the far hillside, then toward the mounted guards, who shift their weight in their saddles, glancing from the two under the trees to each other and back again. “Let’s return.”

“Are you tired?”

“Yes,” he admits. “Not that it should make any difference to you.”

I “What were you thinking?”

“Nothing useful.” He mounts more carefully than normal, aware again of the lack of strength in his legs. “Just wondering what we can do.”

The guards trail them back to Vergren.