The Towers Of the Sunset (34 page)

“THE LAST ITEM is the taxation notice from Montgren.” Shierra glances around the table.

Hyel nods warily, his gesture a mere acknowledgment. As usual, only one of the two older Black Wizards is present. Lydya’s nod is perfunctory. Creslin glances at Megaera. To him, she seems paler than normal, and her jaw is set. Outside the sun beats through the clear sky.

Shierra’s eyes reach Creslin. “Is this some sort of joke?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” Megaera answers. “It’s just about what cousin dear would let himself get pushed into by Helisse or
Florin.”

“What does it say?” asks Hyel.

“That the quarterly assessment is fifty gold pence.”

“Has the Duke sent an assessment before?” Creslin turns toward Hyel.

“No,” admits the brown-haired man. “He’s usually had to send coins to cover the supply costs, along with the pay chest.”

“Could it be a trick?” asks Shierra. “Something from
Fairhaven?”

“It’s his signature, and it arrived in the pouch with the confirmation of the regency.” Hyel shrugs, his eyes looking down at the battered table.

Creslin frowns. “The ship was a Suthyan coaster, wasn’t it?”

“Yes… the Swift Serpent.”

“I see what you mean,” Megaera interrupts. “If cousin dear sent it through Suthyan channels, it should have arrived with the Westwind detachment.”

“That’s not certain.” Hyel’s fingers drum on the wood before him.

“It really doesn’t matter,” Creslin says slowly.

The others look at him.

“First, we don’t have fifty golds. Second, there was no agreement for tax collection. Third, whom would we tax? And fourth, what can the Duke do to enforce it?”

“Are you talking about rebellion?” asks Hyel.

“Who said anything about rebellion?” Creslin sighs. “To begin with, we’re not quite certain whether it was even the Duke who sent the notice, or if he even knew what it was he signed. More important from a practical sense, you cannot collect taxes when the people you would tax have nothing of value. What do we have? A mostly built inn that has collected perhaps twenty golds in total. A score of fishermen who probably don’t net thirty golds in dried fish during the year. And three-score soldiers and guards we can barely pay, even with the last pay chest from the Duke. Unless we can develop greater trade, become self-sufficient, or find some other way of raising money, in less than a year we’ll be begging at someone’s doorstep.”

“There are some possibilities…” suggests Lydya. “Most of the pepper in Candar comes from Hamor. Rosemary and brinn come from Astran. Winterspice comes from Nordla.”

“Pepper?” asks Shierra.

“Are you saying that you can grow those here?” Megaera interjects just as Hyel opens his mouth.

“Yes. We’ve already started the brinn and the winter-spice. The pepper takes longer…”

Creslin listens as Lydya explains the spice values, the time necessary for growth, and the likely trade patterns.

“Smugglers,” Hyel adds when Lydya halts.

“Or Suthyans under Sarronnese trade flags,” Megaera says.

Creslin reflects on Derrild, the trader, and the question of timing. Reduce is far closer than the great eastern and southern continents, therefore able to allow for smaller shipments of shorter duration, and from less affluent traders. “What grows in Candar that the eastern powers would prefer to have?”

No one answers.

“What about black wool?”

“You can’t manage that as quickly,” Lydya observes.

“No,” he agrees. “But how long can we use spices? How many people use them? Everyone needs cloth.”

Megaera smiles. “You want to use order to develop products no one else can sell?”

“Why not?”

“Can we do it?”

Creslin turns to Lydya. “Some of the mountain sheep have black patches.”

“It will take several years,” she points out.

“Start when you can, then. Does anyone disagree?”

Megaera frowns. Hyel shrugs, and Shierra nods slowly.

“Is there anything else we need to talk about?” Creslin asks.

Silence settles around the table.

“Then until we have something new to discuss, let’s get back to the things we’re working on.” The silver-haired man stands up, and the others follow his example.

Creslin eases around the table to Lydya. “I didn’t mean to push you on the wool.”

The healer’s eyes settle on him. “You didn’t mean harm, but you did mean to push a little, I think.”

Creslin flushes and finds himself feeling sheepish. “You’re right. I worry about how much time we have.”

“So does Klerris.” She smiles for an instant. “While most people are not that eager to leave Candar, there are some who can help a great deal.”

The Blacks?“ asks Megaera, who has joined them.

“The council is forcing us from Candar. We’re too cautious, too concerned about the misuse of chaos, and too worried about the order-chaos balance.”

“Balance?” Megaera’s question is tentative.

“Klerris thinks that Creslin is a creation of the balance, that too much chaos necessitates a greater focus on order. Theoretically, the opposite would be possible, of course. If, for example, Reduce became a home to order, too much emphasis on order could create an imbalance and empower a few great Chaos Wizards.” She shakes her head. “That’s just speculation. We really don’t know.”

Megaera wears a faraway expression, her eyes unfocused as if she looks into a distant future. She shivers minutely; then her eyes focus on Creslin.

Creslin wants to avoid the chill in those green eyes, and he looks instead at Lydya. “I guess I do push too much.‘

Megaera nods.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t,” Lydya says, “but there comes a time to let events take their own pace. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to go make sure that Klerris isn’t getting too impatient.” She grins, turns, and moves down the sun-splashed steps.

Looking back into the dimness of the main floor of the keep, Creslin sees that Shierra and Hyel remain in conversation. He steps into the sunlight, then wishes he had not as the heat strikes him almost like a hammer.

“Sometimes…” Megaera’s voice is low.

“Sometimes what?” His eyes sweep the harbor and the pier, empty except for the half-sunken fishing boat that has not budged since they arrived.

“You are so perceptive and so dense.”

“I admit it. There’s a lot I don’t understand.”

“There you go again! Poor little Creslin! ‘I don’t understand anything. Just help me out.’ But a little while ago you manipulated an entire meeting. You’re determined to turn this… desert into a place more powerful than
Fairhaven in the years to come.” Her words bite like a blizzard, despite the glare and heat that surround them.

“You want Recluce to remain a desert? I thought-”

“That’s not it at all. I agree with your goals. There has to be someplace for people like us, for people like Lydya and Klerris. But you never ask anyone about anything. You just do things and then expect everyone to follow along. I’m not your camp follower! I may have to act like a guardian angel, but that’s not because I long for either your body or your soul.”

“But you stayed beside me…” Creslin’s now-tanned forehead knits in puzzlement.

“It was easier for both of us.”

She is not telling the whole truth, as shown from her shift in position and her obviously suppressed feeling of discomfort.

“Why do you lie about it?”

“Damn you! You think you know everything! A kind word, some consideration, and you think I’m ready to jump into your bed.”

“I didn’t even think that, and you know it.” Creslin is tired, physically tired from farm work and from trying to regain his former conditioning, and mentally tired from being on edge each and every day, from not knowing when Megaera’s words will turn acid.

“You’re ignoring what I said about pushing me and everyone else around. Just like always. Just like every man. When it’s convenient, you feel sympathy and understanding, and when it’s not-oh, I’m sorry about that, you say, and you’re not.” Megaera raises her hand until her fingers touch the hilt of the blade she has taken to wearing.

Creslin stiffens as he notes that she has no difficulty in holding the cold steel and that the aura of white that has suffused her is now almost entirely gone… and that she radiates mostly the blackness of a Lydya, though thin, white flames flicker around her occasionally.

“You’re not even listening, like always…”

“I was listening, but I was thinking of how much you’ve changed.”

“Of how much you have changed me, you mean.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what you meant.” The redhead’s hand slides away from the blade.

Creslin looks up into the east, where a line of clouds dots the horizon out over the dark green sea.

“Until you listen, really listen, nothing will change.” Megaera’s steps scuff the stones.

Creslin takes another deep breath, watching as the slender redhead turns toward the new practice yard of the guards.

To the east, the clouds mount as the sun crosses into the western sky.

AFTER BREAKING THE plain wax seal, Megaera reads the lines: “As written by Helisse, for Aldonya, faithful retainer of Megaera, sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn, and Regent of Reduce…”

The redhead wonders whose idea the titles were- Helisse’s through irony, or Aldonya’s through devotion?

… though the birth was not easy, we have a daughter, and I have named her Lynnya, in your honor, and would beseech you, should anything happen to me, for unexpected things can happen to new mothers, that you would make sure that she does not have to submit her future to those she does not know.

In less than five more eight-days, according to the midwives, we will be able to travel, and there will be a ship leaving near that time. Helisse says that we can take it. That is, if we are both well.

Lynnya is a beautiful girl, and she will have red hair. I think it will be darker than yours.

We look forward to seeing you and serving you.

At the bottom, another line is appended: “They are both doing well. -Helisse.”

Megaera Lynnya purses her lips, then walks toward the darkening window, blinking back the wetness in her eyes.

For a long time she listens to the surf, clutching the folded parchment to her breast.

The way is the way, as the west mountains are.

The way is the way, as solid as the sunset towers, and the southern seas.

The way is the way, as all life is sorrow.

The way is the way, as all sorrow is joy.

THE WAY is the way. The silver-haired man ponders the words, stepping into the shadows that had not existed until he had thought of sorrow. As he walks from the shadows into the sunlight, his eyes narrow against the glare, and dust puffs from under his feet.

He lifts another stone, setting it on the cutting bench with a delicacy one would not guess at from the muscles in his arms and the calluses on his hands.

The stonework for the terrace walls is completed, and now he works on the unfinished portions of the guest houses. All of what he has done has been completed between dawns and breakfasts, or between dinners and restless sleeps. Then, what else can he do? Since that night on the terrace, Megaera has become even less approachable.

She will be returning to the Black Holding shortly from her morning run, which now exceeds his in length. He has watched her practice against Shierra, and her blade-work will soon surpass that of most of the senior guards.

The hammer strikes the stone perfectly, and the rock shears away. He sings softly-the words are for his ears alone-and his hands are gentle upon the stone, using only the precise amount of force necessary with the order-hardened chisel and mallet.

“The way is the way…”he hums under his breath.

He finally puts down the tools and walks toward the cistern and outdoor washroom. The echoes of his feet are lost against the faint roar of the sea below the terrace.

As he shaves, he asks himself if what he plans is fair.

No, it is not fair. Have they any other options? None that he can see, and those suggested by Lydya and Klerris have failed. For he will not be merely Megaera’s friend for life, not when her soul is burned upon his. Nor will he spend the rest of his life forever on guard against her tongue and his emotions.

The cold water cools his thoughts. By the time he is dressed, he is calm enough that he will not radiate unrest until Megaera is within cubits of him. He walks across the terrace to watch the summer sun sparkle on the morning sea and waits for her. Shortly thereafter, Klerris will arrive. Even Klerris does not know exactly why Creslin has requested his presence.

“…All sorrow is joy…”He hopes so. But he shivers, thinking about what must be done. Can he do otherwise?

Perhaps, but what? He has listened to Lydya; he has listened to Megaera. Klerris has offered no answers, saying that answers have no meaning unless they are found by whoever asks the questions.

The faint sound of running boots alerts Creslin that Megaera is nearing the holding. He remains by the seaward wall of the terrace, even after she has gone to the wash-house.

Only after she appears on the edge of the terrace, as if to ask whether he intends to walk back to the keep, does he turn. Though his tanned skin is smooth and unlined, a darkness dwells behind his eyes, as if he were older, far older, than he looks.

“You’re worried,” she announces, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade.

He still prefers the shoulder harness but wears no blade much of the time, unlike Megaera, who wears hers everywhere, except when she sleeps or runs.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “This can’t go on.”

She frowns. “Things are going well. The spices are ready for harvest, the traders have finished their warehouse-”

“I meant you and me.”

“You’re pushing again.”

“I’ve made some decisions.” He turns, steps forward, takes her arm as if to escort her.

“I don’t need help.”

He says nothing, catching her chin with his right hand and turning her face toward his.

She tries to step back, but suddenly his muscles are like iron bands holding her in place. “You can’t force…” One hand starts to draw the West wind short sword.

His free hand clamps over hers. “I know.” Inexorably he forces her head back to meet his eyes.

Her booted foot slams against his.

Creslin staggers but holds the pain and concentrates on reaching her soul.

“No… no!”

But it is too late, and she slumps hi his arms.

Creslin holds her for a moment, tears streaming from his own eyes as he watches her chest rise and fall. Her body feels so light with her spirit sleeping, but he carries her into her room and lays her on the bed.

Then he paces by the window until Klerris arrives. Lydya, although she was not invited, follows the Black Wizard in.

“Don’t do it. Another life-link will kill her, and yourself,” she pleads.

Creslin looks at her and opens his soul as much as he can. “I have not touched her, ever, except once in mind when I knew nothing. I have tried to be a friend. I have tried to court her, to sing to her, and to be gentle. The situation is no better, and perhaps worse, than in the beginning. My death will kill her… and continuing in this way will only lead to both of us hating each other. Tell me that things will be better.”

Lydya finally looks away. Klerris waits for them to finish their argument.

Creslin tries again. “Can you tell me that things will get better?”

“No, I cannot promise you that.”

“Can you tell me that letting me know her as she knows me will make things worse?”

“What you plan will either kill you both within days or…”

“Or?”

“I don’t know. No one has ever tried a double link.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Lydya looks at Creslin, and her eyes are clear and deep. “You’re using violence to equalize violence. Because the evil done first was so great, this may be the only answer. That does not make it right.”

“I’ve been a tool of the Blacks, of my father, of the
Marshall. Don’t I have the right to try for happiness and love?” His voice is ragged.

“Patience does not always work for the young.” Klerris’s voice is slow and calm.

“Or for men,” adds Lydya wryly.

The silence in the room draws out. Lydya and Klerris look from Creslin to each other. Finally Lydya shrugs. “It will be quicker this way.”

“Quicker?”

“You’re already starting to develop a link to Megaera. Doing what you want to do will hasten and deepen the process, but it may not change anything. Do you still want to?” Why hadn’t he considered the feelings, the occasional strong thoughts that had not been his?

“Are you sure that you want to do this?” the man in black asks Creslin. “As you know from her reactions, the results can be rather severe.”

“No, I can’t say that I want to do it,” answers the silver-haired man. “It’s just that things will get worse if I don’t.”

Klerris shakes his head. “You’re young. There are worse things than having someone forced to watch out for you.”

“Not many,” answers Creslin, baring his arm. “Not when that someone is Megaera.”

Lydya smiles sadly. “You don’t know what’s in store for you. But the shock just might lead to some understanding.”

Klerris shakes his head, but opens the small case he has brought with him. “I do not envy you, Creslin. She is extraordinarily strong-willed.”

Creslin can say nothing, nor can he speak through the tears that flow.