The Towers Of the Sunset (43 page)

CRESLIN CRUNCHES THROUGH the crisp green root on his plate, swallowing the last hard bits. “It’s really not bad.”

“Not if you like edible shells. You must have teeth like iron.” A pair of quilla roots remains on Megaera’s plate.

“You should eat them, your grace.” Aldonya peers from the kitchen at the redhead. “They help keep the skin soft and clear.”

“I’ve done well enough so far in life.”

“They are tasty,” Creslin adds.

“Stop it. Both of you. I’m not going to eat the rest of them, and nothing you say will change that,” Megaera protests.

“Nothing?”

“Wait until she carries a child, your grace. Then listen to what she says.”

“Stop it, you two,” Megaera orders again. “I refuse to eat something that sounds like shells when you chew it and tastes like the proverbial wizard’s brews.”

“If you say-” A white, soundless thunderbolt flares within Creslin’s brain, and he shudders, putting both hands on the table to steady himself. He shudders again, looking at nothing.

… best-beloved… Megaera has turned faintly green. “What…”

The white emptiness turns within him, and he knows. How he knows, he does not know. But the awful sureness of the knowledge cuts like the dullest of swords.

“Llyse…”He shakes his head, and his eyes burn. “Llyse.” Slowly he pushes back his chair and stands, almost unseeing as he walks toward the door to the terrace and the mist that is not quite heavy enough to fall like rain.

Megaera follows, and Aldonya watches for a moment, until the redhead has left the dining room. Then she shakes her head. “Wizards… but still, they should eat.” She begins to gather the remnants of the dinner that will not be completed, her ears alert for the sound of a child who is due to wake.

Outside, Megaera stands beside Creslin and slips her hand around his. For the first time she can remember, his fingers are colder than hers.

“She’s dead.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Just that she’s gone.”

“Do you…”

“White… it’s all white. They’re both gone. Gone.” Creslin’s eyes are dry, dry like the desert, like Reduce before the rains, and his guts are lead-tight and heavy within him.

She takes both of his hands.

“That’s another I owe them,” he says.

“You can’t look at it like that.”

“Probably not, but I do.”… Llyse… Llyse… He wishes that tears would come, but his eyes are dry and they ache, and his hands are cold in Megaera’s.

As the mist chills the terrace, as the swells of the
Eastern
Ocean
wash upon the sands below, the warmth flows from her hands into his.

“At LEAST WESTWIND’S no longer a problem.” Hartor fingers the chain around his neck, his eyes darting to the mirror.

“Was it worth it? They still managed to get Jeick, and you had to sacrifice your tame minstrel. That doesn’t even count the men the remaining guards slaughtered,” Gyretis points out.

“That leaves Creslin with no support from Candar. Ryessa won’t support her sister. Montgren is ours, and Westwind’s deserted.” The High Wizard smiles tightly.

“What about the guards? There are still three squads and their kept men and children marching across the West-horns.”

“Three squads? With camp followers? Let them march. What can they do? Where can they go?”

“To Recluce, I’d guess. You’ve probably given Creslin the beginnings of an army even more dangerous than the guards… and bearing even more hatred.”

“We destroyed the guards, Gyretis.”

The thin wizard purses his lips. “I think you went too far. Ryessa will probably regarrison Westwind, and I’d rather have had a young
Marshall there than Ryessa. The remaining guards, assuming they reach Recluce, would join the ancient devils to strike back at you.”

“Not if they starve first. Creslin can’t feed what he’s got, and he doesn’t have ships, tools, money, or weapons. What can he do? Create a few more storms? What good will that do?”

“I don’t know. But Jenred thought he had everything figured out, too.” Gyretis shakes his head. “There must be something about that amulet.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” The young White Wizard smiles sadly. “Nothing.”

VOLA’S HOOVES CLICK on the newly-laid entrance road to the keep, another project of the Hamorian stone workers. Despite the lack of coin, they keep working. Is life in Hamor that bad?

Creslin glances to the row of narrow and unfinished stone cots below the road. Despite the still-falling mist, the stone-workers’ hammers rise and fall, and their apprentices mix the crude mortar developed by Klerris from shells and sand and who knows what else. The next line of cots is theoretically for the consorts of both guards and troopers, though there are no consorts for the male troopers… yet. But the cots will ease the crowding in the keep.

Outside the stone bungalow that was once a cot and now hosts the two Black mages, Creslin dismounts and ties Vola loosely to the hitching rail he installed.

The neighboring cot, once deserted, boasts a new slate roof and glazed windows to shelter two stoneworkers who have already announced plans to find wives and stay on Recluce.

“… more faith than I have, sometimes…” Creslin mutters to himself.

He walks to the doorway.

“Come out on the porch. Lydya’s down at the inn.” Klerris’s voice carries from the porch.

Creslin shuts the door behind him and joins the Black mage. “I see that the stoneworkers have been busy.” He gestures at the glistening slate roof of the nearest cot.

“They’re going to build a place off the piers. A warehouse, they said.”

“What?”

Klerris grins. “They have faith. Yord-he’s the grizzled one-says that once you win, everyone will want to start trading and he’ll be able to charge top gold for a ready trading office.”

“Win? I can’t even pay for supplies. The Duke’s dead. The Marshall and Llyse are scarcely cold in the ground, and I still can’t get the weather right.”

“You’re certain Korweil’s dead?”

“Aren’t you?”

Klerris sips from a tumbler of water and says nothing.

“We almost lost everything to the heat and drought, and now we’re about to lose what’s left to the rain, unless this works out.” Creslin shakes his head. “Light! I can’t even sing anymore.” He pauses. “Why would I have trouble singing?”

“I know order, Creslin, not music.” Klerris finishes the tumbler of water and sets it on the table before walking to the front of the porch.

“I don’t think it’s the music. I think it’s me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” The Black mage does not face the regent. “Are either you or Megaera going to claim the title?”

“Korweil’s? I certainly don’t plan to. I’m not even related. I haven’t mentioned it to Megaera.”

“You haven’t-” Klerris shakes his head. “Sometimes you two amaze me. You share minds, almost, yet the most obvious issues-”

“We didn’t discuss it, I think because we feel the same way. At least I think we do.”

“Assuming the obvious can lead to trouble.”

“Tell me about it.” Creslin sets himself on the back half-wall of the porch. “But I don’t intend to be a pretend duke of a Duchy swallowed by
Fairhaven.”

“It would make your claim here stronger.”

Creslin snorts. “One way or another, it won’t come to that.”

“You’re probably right. Who could contest you two?”

“Enough of titles that don’t matter. I asked you about my trouble with singing. You said that you wouldn’t be surprised at it.” Creslin’s eyes narrow.

“Why not?”

“I’d say that you’re off balance. You’ve used order too creatively, and you’re probably thinking of doing even worse.”

“Worse?”

“Listen to your own words. You don’t have enough coinage. You can expect no aid from Montgren or Westwind, and you don’t want to count on Ryessa. Just what are you considering?”

“Nothing… Yet.”

“Creslin, even you cannot go around evading the order-chaos balance forever. You’re going to ‘pay in one way or another. The fact that you have trouble with your music indicates that something’s wrong.”

“What am I supposed to do? Let everyone starve in an orderly fashion?”

“I told you in the beginning that I don’t have all the answers. You asked me what I thought the problem was. I told you. You’re the one who doesn’t like the answer.” Klerris’s eyes are level with Creslin’s.

“It’s not a pleasant answer. You’re saying that I have to choose between order and letting people starve.”

“I said nothing of the sort. I said that you’ve been using order too dangerously. And the number of souls you’ve dispatched with that blade hasn’t helped either.” Klerris shrugs. “I understand your frustration. That’s one reason the Blacks have nowhere to go. We can’t handle that kind of conflict very well.”

Creslin bounds to his feet. “Darkness! Just what I need. Now that I’m halfway there, you’re saying that there’s nothing you can do. If I use any more order, I’m courting danger. If I use my blade, that’s dangerous. Just how am I supposed to get us out of this mess?”

“Preferably without more killing and violence,” answers the mage dryly. “Me included.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry. You’re still angry at me because I don’t have any magical answers. There aren’t any.”

Creslin understands that Klerris is telling the truth as he sees it, and his guts turn as he considers the mage. Finally he continues. “I came about the weather-”

“I don’t think we need to do any more. Those last adjustments to the northern mid-winds seem to be holding . You’d know better than I would, of course.”

“They’re holding.”

“We should have more sunny days as the summer ends.”

“What about…”

Although they talk further about the weather, Creslin’s stomach still churns, and his head aches when he leaves the cot.

Astride Vola and heading to meet Megaera at the public room of the inn, he surveys
Land’s End.

The keep is three times the size it had been when they arrived. All of the abandoned cots have been occupied and repaired, and several larger dwellings are being erected, although their construction-requiring stone, crude plaster, and pine timbers from the small stands of old pine nearly ten kays south-takes more time than it would in Montgren.

At the pier rides the Dawnstar, her canvas finally in place. Freigr has said that the ship will sail in the next day or so. The
Griffin has already left for Renklaar, where Gosssel claims to have both cargo and customers for the small load of spices.

With a last look at the pier, Creslin vaults from the saddle and leads Vola into the covered shed that serves as a stable for the public room. He marches from the stable and through the drizzle to the doorway of the inn.

Megaera has risen from a conversation with a guard to meet him. “You’re angry. I could feel you coming.”

“You’re right. I am.”

“What did Klerris say to upset you?”

“Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you.”

… if he had a mule, he’d give it to a fool,

and if he had a knife, she’d not be his wife!

The troopers and guards clustered around the circular table laugh as the thin guard strikes the final chord. Several of them glance up as Creslin and Megaera seat themselves at a smaller table near the kitchen.

“Something to drink, your graces?”

The serving woman’s polished tone tells Creslin how far the tavern has come. “What is there?”

“Black lightning, wine, hard mead, and green juice.”

“Green juice?” asks Megaera.

“It comes from wild green berries on the cliffs. It’s very sour, but some folks like it.”

“Green juice,” Creslin says.

Megaera suppresses a smile and nods. “I’ll try it, tart as it may be.”

“Thank you, your graces.”

“You’re implying that I’m attracted to tartness?” Creslin asks.

“It seems to have a fascination for most men,” Megaera observes.

He shakes his head, but he cannot hold back the twist to his lips.

Megaera’s hand squeezes his, then releases it. “The public house was a good idea.”

“One of those few that worked almost from the start.”

“You did provide a little… help.”

“There are times I wish I’d sung to someone else before then.”

“Times?”

“All the time,” Creslin admits. He takes a deep breath.

“You’re still angry.”

“I can’t help it. Klerris gave me a lecture about my creative avoidance of the order-chaos balance-”

“Oh.”

“I know. You’ve worried about it for a long time, but I kept asking for help. And he didn’t have any ideas, except the same old bit about patience. What are we supposed to do? Let everyone starve? Beg the Whites to take us back? Eat quilla roots until we’ve uprooted every cactus on Reduce?”

Megaera grins briefly.

“It’s all well and good to preach about absolute order, but it doesn’t feed people, or pay for tools and weapons.”

“That’s why we’re regents, best-loved.” There is no irony in her voice.

Creslin turns and looks into her green eyes.

“Do you think your mother wanted to send you out alone?” She asks. “Or that Ryessa really liked putting me in irons?”

“I thought you hated her for that.”

“I did. I do. Not for doing it, but for not caring. She felt that she had no choice, but she could have cared.”

“Oh…”

“You see?”

Creslin sees, sees that he must do what he must, sees that he must never hide the pain from himself… or damn others for having no answers. Megaera’s hand touches his briefly.

Creslin looks up at the guard on the stool as she eases into another song.

… holding to the blade, a-holding to the blade, He used it like a spade, A-holding to the blade…

Although the notes are not quite silver, her voice is pleasant enough. Yet each note jars in Creslin’s ears, echoes off-key through his skull.

“Are you all right? Megaera asks.

“I thought I was, but the singing…”

“Her notes are honest.”

“I know.”

Clunk.

Two heavy tumblers are set on the table by the serving woman, who does not even pause as she heads for the circular table around which nearly ten men and women sit. All of them are from the keep.

“We really need to think about some sort of common uniform,”Creslin muses.

“That can wait.”

“I know. I know.” He takes a small sip of the nearly clear liquid.

“Oooo…” His lips pucker.

Megaera grins. “It can’t be that tart.”

“Try it.”

He waits until her lips twist. “It can’t be that tart,” he echoes.

“Are you going to drink the rest of it?”

“Of course. We males have a fondness for tartness.”

Megaera elbows him.

“Ooofff…”

“I still haven’t forgotten.” He shakes his head, squinting, but the notes from the singer remain coppered silver, although honest. Yet the falseness echoes through his head. “Do you feel it?”

“Just through you.”

They sip the green juice gingerly, listening to the singer.

In time, the guard strums a last chord, stands, and walks toward Creslin. She holds out the guitar. “Would you like to sing, your grace?”

Creslin smiles faintly. “I feel honored, but unfortunately I cannot. Not tonight. I wish I could.” He does not know which is more disturbing-her look of disappointment or the calmness in his guts that indicates he is not lying to himself.

“Perhaps another time?”

“I would like that, but it may be a while.”

The guard looks from Creslin to Megaera. The two women’s eyes meet before the guard nods. “We all would like to hear you again… when it is possible, your grace.”

“Thank you.” Creslin’s sip of the tart green juice turns into a gulp.

“Do you know what it is?” Megaera asks after the guard has returned to a table.

“Why the notes bother me? Klerris has to be right. But exactly how? No. My order balance is off.”

“I gathered that.”

“I just don’t know. I haven’t done much of anything lately, except to watch from the winds, and that shouldn’t be a problem.” He takes another sip and stares out through the cloudy glass of the window into the blackness of the night. “I just don’t know.”

He takes one more sip, the bitterness passing his lips and throat unnoticed. Megaera leaves her juice nearly untouched.

Another singer takes the guitar.

… the Duke he went a-hunting, a-hunting he did go…“

Creslin waits through the song, sipping juice, his eyes focused somewhere beyond the night. Finally he turns to Megaera. “It’s time to go.” Silently she rises with him.