The Towers Of the Sunset (27 page)

CRESLIN WAKES WITH a start. “No. Nooooo…”

In the darkness, he jerks upright.

Clunk.

“Ooohh…”

“Idiot,” observes Magaera unsympathetically from the lower bunk. She rises and pours a tumbler of juice, her movements in the darkness are sure as Creslin’s.

“Idiot?” protests Creslin. “For what?”

“Nothing. Just for being you.” Her voice is tired rather than harsh. She hands him the tumbler, careful not to touch his hands as she does.

He sips slowly for a time. “Thank you.”

“For what? For calling you an idiot?”

“For the redberry. How late is it?”

“After midnight sometime. Klerris carried you in like a sack of grain.”

Creslin takes another sip of the juice. He hears the sound of heavy rain on the planks overhead.

“How long has it been raining?”

“Ever since you tore those three ships apart.”

Creslin rubs his forehead with his free hand. “You’d better take this.”

“I’m not-” She reaches for the tumbler as she sees him sway, takes it from his limp hand and sets it on the table.

Then she touches his brow lightly, drawing her fingers away at the heat and dampness, wincing at the pain that lances at her as his barriers again dissolve.

Tears streak her cheeks. “Why? Damn you… sister dear. Damn you…” She rubs her forehead and pulls on a cloak before leaving the cabin and crossing the narrow space to the captain’s cabin to get Klerris again.

WHEN CRESLIN NEXT wakes, the interior of the cabin is light, as light as it can be with rain pounding outside on the planks. Hearing voices, he neither opens his eyes nor moves.

“He has no idea?” Megaera’s whisper is strained. Klerris says nothing, though Creslin gains the sense of a head shake.

“And I thought sister dear was cruel.”

“Men are considered dispensable on the Roof of the World.” Klerris pauses. “I do believe that our sleeping friend is about to rejoin us.”

“How long?” croaks Creslin, realizing that his throat requires some lubrication. He eases himself into as much of a sitting position as he can, given the low ceiling above the top bunk.

“Just a full day,” the Black Wizard answers.

“Thirsty…” Creslin tries to swallow.

Klerris supplies a tumbler of redberry, but the juice contains something else; it is not bitter, not sweet, just an extra something.

“What’s… in. this?”

“Extra nourishment. Something healers use. You’ve asked too much of your body lately.” The Black Wizard then adds, “And your mind. Now just keep drinking that.”

Creslin sips slowly, feeling a trace less unsteady after the liquid eases down his throat. “How long before we reach
Land’s End?”

“Early tomorrow, according to Friegr.”

“Friegr’s a bit grouchy right now,” adds Megaera with a trace of a smile.

“Why? The rain?” asks Creslin.

“That’s part of it, but he’s scared to death that you will die, and sort of hopes that you will. And he’s angry because he feels that way,” Klerris explains.

Creslin takes another sip. “I feel better,” he announces. He stretches, as far as the confines of the bunk will permit. “And I’m stiff.”

“No one’s insisting that you stay in that bunk,” replies Megaera.

Gingerly, Creslin extricates himself. He feels grimy all over. “I’m going to wash up.”

“Are you up to it?”

“Probably not, but I’m not up to smelling like I do.” He pulls off his shirt, boots, and trousers and stands there momentarily in his underdrawers before grabbing his razor and opening the door.

“I’m not-” The door closes before Megaera can finish her statement. “He’s impossible.”

“Just young,” temporizes Klerris.

“He’ll be impossible when he’s older, too.”

Klerris says nothing. Instead, he takes a sip from his tumbler and listens thoughtfully to the rain pelt on the planks overhead.

THE GRIFFIN SAILS through long, even swells, gentle enough that Creslin’s stomach has no protests, smooth enough that he actually has enjoyed a breakfast of pearapples and bread, washed down with redberry. Overhead and behind the ship, clouds linger, nearly black to the west, yet no longer following the sloop.

Creslin stands at the railing. A smudge of darkness lies off the starboard bow. Despite the clouds, the air is crisp, and a hint of green emerges from the dark waters below. In time, Klerris joins him.

Megaera stands a few cubits away, one hand lightly resting on the bartered wood of the rail, the other on a cable that braces the foremast. She wears her faded gray travel clothes, worn though they are, that bring out the fire of her hair and the glint of her eyes.

Creslin avoids looking at her, knowing that if he looks too long, she will sense what he feels. His eyes drift astern to the western horizon. “The clouds aren’t really following any longer, like they did for an eight-day in
Sligo, and in Montgren. Why not?”

“Why don’t you try to find out?” Klerris asks with an amused smile.

“You don’t make it easy, do you?”

“Does life?” Megaera’s voice crosses the distance between them.

Creslin ignores her words and sends his senses out upon the winds, aware of himself both on the gently pitching deck of the
Griffin and in the skies behind the ship. For the first time, he looks at the winds themselves, not at the ground or at distant scenes; looks not with his eyes, but with his feelings, catching the snags and swirls, the heat and the chill, the rushes upward and downward, and-far overhead- the cold torrents that almost touch the Roof of the World day in and day out.

How long he is gone, how long he is suspended between two places, he does not know, only that when he stands fully on the deck again, there are small patches of blue in the overhead clouds.

“They’re blocked,” he announces before he realizes that Klerris and Megaera no longer stand beside him but have moved almost to the bowsprit, where they watch a dolphin pacing the sloop.

With a sigh, the silver-haired man walks stiffly toward them.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Megaera smiles as she watches the dolphin give a last leap and dive beneath the dark green water.

“Was it a female?”

“Who can tell?” Klerris says.

“It was a woman, ” Megaera insists. “I could feel her spirit.”

“Then it was,” Creslin agrees.

The redhead’s smile lingers for a moment, but she says nothing.

“What did you find out?” Klerris looks at Creslin.

“The southern winds are stronger. The low ones. Nothing is stronger than the high torrents. Somehow, the way the low winds come across the gulf… it has something to do with the deserts on Reduce, especially the southern part and the northern hills.”

“Mountains and deserts always have a big impact on winds and weather. So do the seas. It has to do with how they affect the heat and the cold.” Klerris looks toward the south, where the smudge on the horizon that Creslin had studied earlier has become the profile of a rocky coastline. Creslin wishes that Klerris would say more, but the Black Wizard has the habit of saying only what he wishes to say and no more. It is probably a good habit to adopt, Creslin thinks even as he wonders how the wizard can call the rocky peaks on the isle “mountains.” Not when they are scarcely foothills to the Westhorns, or even to the Easthorns.

“You might remember that hot air rises and that cold air is heavier and stronger.” Klerris heads back to the helm, where Freigr stands beside the helmsman.

Creslin is still shaking his head when Megaera speaks.

“You’re not yet used to complexity.”

Creslin opens his mouth, then shuts it. After a moment, he speaks. “You’re right. But it seems too many people make things more complicated than they need to be.”

“That’s because most people aren’t simple. Not once they have had to grow up.”

Creslin takes a deep breath.

“You can be as stubborn as the mountains themselves, best-betrothed,” Megaera tells him.

“We’re married, according to the documents.”

“Should I refer to you as ‘husband-dearest’ then?”

“If you must use a name, ‘best-betrothed’ is probably more accurate. For many reasons.”

Megaera looks down at the dark water.

Creslin studies the coastline again, noting the barren rockiness. After a while he follows Megaera to the mess cabin, where they join half of the crew, seven men, in eating a highly-peppered stew accompanied by biscuits harder than any Creslin has ever gnawed.

“Won’t be long now,” affirms Freigr. “By midafternoon we should see
Land’s End.”

“What is there to see?” asks Megaera.

A white-bearded sailor laughs harshly.

“A few fishing cots, a pier, and a breakwater too big for a fishing village, and the keep of the Duke’s garrison. That’s about it.” Freigr crunches through a biscuit and slurps up another spoonful of stew. “But when I told that to the Duke, he sort of swallowed and turned red all over.”

Megaera and Creslin smile, thinking of Korweil. Megaera purses her lips. “That doesn’t sound like much, not after all the fuss he has made about it.”

Creslin winces, but continues to eat silently.

“Well, there is the stable…”

Several of the sailors are grinning.

Megaera shakes her head, and her red hair brushes the shoulders of the gray travel tunic she wears.

Creslin gnaws on his third hard biscuit.

Klerris is grinning with the sailors.

“Now, the Duke has a map with lots of buildings on it…”

FROM BEYOND THE breakwater, Freigr’s description of
Land’s End seems generous. No buildings can be seen on the rocky cliffs flanking the narrow inlet. The breakwater that comprises the eastern side of the harbor is little more than a pile of stones perhaps ten cubits wide and extending three to four cubits above the ocean’s level. Even as Creslin and Megaera watch, some of the water’s low swells slide over the rough-heaped stones.

From the flat ground behind the harbor, a pier protrudes. At the shore end of the pier there squats a small black-stone building. Behind that building, a gentle slope, surfaced in sand and stone, rises until it reaches an ever-steeper slope. The lower slope, showing a few bushes and trees at random, contains a scattering of perhaps a dozen small cots, or hovels. Tall grasses wave in the light breeze.

“Desolate indeed,” murmurs Klerris.

A single road angles from the pier westward to the top of a rise. There the gray-black stones of a two-story building bear the gold-and-green banner of Montgren.

“Where will we stay? All I see is that second-rate keep on the hill and some tumbledown fishing cots.” Megaera continues to study
Land’s End as the sailors scurry across the deck and begin to work the sails.

“We’ll have to build our own palace, ” Creslin quips.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“What else can we do?”

“I can help with the beams,” offers Klerris. “The pines in the canyons will have to do, though. There’s nothing like oak here. Not yet, anyway.”

Creslin and Megaera turn.

“Blacks learn useful trades in addition to their wizardly skills, ” the black-haired man explains, “I do carpentry now and again.”

“Regents building their own palace… ridiculous,” mumbles Megaera.

“Perhaps,” offers Klerris, “But are there any alternatives?”

Once the
Griffin is tied up in the deep water near the end of the pier, out beyond a fishing boat so battered and waterlogged that it looks ready to sink at any moment, Freigr appears on deck in the gold-and-green coat that he has not worn since leaving Tyrhavven. “Might as well get this over.” He lifts the leather dispatch case. “While we’re gone, Snyder will see that the horses are saddled and off-loaded. He’s done it often enough, darkness knows.”

“What about our packs?” asks Creslin, checking his shoulder harness and his replacement Westwind blade, secured from the depths of the Duke’s armory and sharpened.

“He’ll take care of them also. Plus a few other supplies we can spare, as suggested by…” The captain nods toward the Black Wizard. “Shall we go? It’s a steep walk.”

“Ummm…” Megaera closes her mouth.

Creslin smothers a grin.

“Ah, here come some of the garrison.”

On the end of the pier stand two soldiers, wearing leathers and swords.

“They haven’t learned that we never bring anything interesting.” Freigr glances at Megaera. “This time, though-”

“I doubt that they will find me that interesting,” suggests the redhead.

“Let’s go,” repeats Freigr.

On the open pier, the wind whips through Creslin’s short hair and tosses Megaera’s shoulder-length flames in every direction.

“Captain?” A black-haired soldier with a scraggly beard steps toward the group, lank locks falling across his forehead.

“Nothing new, except for this group, who are likely to be very interesting,” Freigr tells the soldiers.

“Very interesting…” murmurs the blond, gray-eyed man at the edge of the pier, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Freigr grins at him. “I’d be careful, Zarlen. All three of them are wizards, and Creslin, here, is reputed to know a little bit about blades.”

Megaera lifts one hand, and a small flame dances on her fingertips. The dark-haired soldier steps back; the blond man smiles faintly. Creslin takes a deep breath but says nothing as the two soldiers turn to follow them.

“How many men are there in the keep?” Creslin asks as he and the captain lead the way up the sandy road.

“Not many more than a score. There were more, but the Duke took them back to Montgren.” The sandy-haired captain glances back over his shoulder, then adds in a lower voice, “Mostly troublemakers left.”

Creslin nods, glad of the sword across his back.

“Are you as good as they say with that blade?” Freigr asks.

Creslin debates an answer; then feeling the twisting in his guts as he thinks about a diplomatic reply, he responds as truthfully as he knows. “I’m probably not as good as the very best at Westwind.”

“Good. That should be adequate. Find an excuse to display that skill. It will save you a lot of trouble later.” Freigr lengthens his stride toward the bleak, black-stone structure ahead.

The white-fir doors are plain, and stand open. Inside wait a lanky, brown-haired man in a gold-and-green surcoat, much like Freigr’s, and a swarthy, short man. Each sports a well-trimmed beard; the tall man’s beard is shot with threads of white, unlike his hair.

The Griffir’s captain tenders the document case to the lanky man in the gold surcoat. “The Duke’s latest proclamation, Hyel. It concerns… us all.”

“Must be important, Captain, since you have brought it yourself.”

“A second messenger will bring information.”

“Very important, then.” The narrow-faced, swarthy man to the right leans over to read the parchments held by the guard captain.

The two men behind Hyel and his assistant-the same two who had met the travelers at the pier-shuffle their feet while Hyel slowly puzzles through the documents.

As he waits, Creslin studies the long room that comprises the entire main floor of the building. The outside walls are of a native stone, almost black. The narrow windows are uncovered except for outside shutters, which are fastened open. The ceiling beams are rough-cut, and several of them still ooze sap.

Megaera looks at the four Duke’s men, her eyes moving from Hyel and the narrow-faced man to the black-haired and short, bearded youngster on his left, and then to the blond, well-muscled giant on the right. Klerris appears to look nowhere, while Freigr shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Fine documents they are,” affirms Hyel, “and the Duke’s seal is clear enough.”

“Why would he even name a regency?” asks the narrow-faced man as he raises his eyes from the ornate script. “There’s just us and a bunch of fisherfolk.”

“That’s simple, Joris.” Hyel grins. “This here young wizard is the son of the
Marshall of Westwind… you know, those women guards who chewed up the wizard’s allies. And this young lady is the younger sister of the Tyrant of Sarronnyn. That makes her the Duke’s cousin. I figure that the Duke needs more help, and a regency doesn’t give away the isle. It’s a sort of loan.” He laughs.

“I don’t like it much.” Joris’s dark-brown eyes flick from Creslin to Megaera.

“Welcome to the holding of Reduce. I am Hyel, guard captain and, until you arrived, the Duke’s representative.” Hyel bows so low, arm extended, that his long fingers almost touch the dusty planks. His smile shows strong, white, and uneven teeth. “I have mentioned Joris, and the other two are Thoirkel and Zarlen.”

Creslin inclines his head. “Creslin. This is Megaera, sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn and regent of Reduce.”

Hyel merely nods without speaking.

“You claim no title?” Joris asks of Creslin.

“There are no titles in Westwind. I would not claim any if there were.”

Hyel turns toward Klerris’s black-robed figure, raising his eyebrows.

“Klerris, formerly of
Fairhaven and still of the Black order.”

“Damned wizard…” This time Zarlen speaks.

“That may be, but I am mostly a healer.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to have one,” offers Thoirkel, speaking for the first time since greeting Freigr in the harbor.

“The real question is, where will you stay?” muses Hyel. “We are not suited… and little building is done… has been done-”

Creslin smiles. “I suspect that we may be able to adapt one of the empty fisher cots until we can build something.”

“No masons or carpenters here… not now,” observes Joris.

“We’ll manage.” A look passes between Zarlen and Joris.

Creslin catches the look, and his guts tighten, but he smiles pleasantly. “It’s been a long voyage. Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to spar a bit with me.” He ignores Megaera’s indrawn breath.

This time, Hyel and Zarlen exchange glances.

“Well, ummm… begging your pardon, ser, but that could cause-” Hyel begins.

“Nonsense,” insists Creslin heartily. “This is such a small community that if I stand on position, I shall have no exercise at all, except for lifting stones and hewing timbers.”

“But… blades?”

“Creslin…” Megaera’s voice is low.

“This is really uncalled for, ” Joris interjects.

Creslin shrugs. “Then perhaps a friendly wrestling match-”

“Still…” Joris shakes his head. “What earthly reason-”

“Because, if you will, I stand for the Duke.” Creslin’s voice turns as cold as the winter storms, and coldness radiates from him.

Even Klerris steps back.

Zarlen grins as he looks at the redhead, ignoring the byplay between the officers and Creslin.

“Surely, we have a few wooden blades,” interposes Hyel, sweat beading his forehead as he compares Zarlen’s height and muscles to Creslin’s and notes the head’s difference between the two.

“A pair, I think,” adds Joris with a resigned shrug. “I’ll get them.”

Creslin almost grins as Megaera’s body relaxes fractionally. But her eyes flare as they rest on Creslin. He tries not to swallow, knowing what he must do and knowing that Megaera will scarcely be pleased.

“You think this… exercise is necessary?” temporizes Hyel.

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Creslin.

Zarlen looks down at Creslin, then at Megaera, and smiles faintly. Thoirkel looks from Zarlen to Creslin, not quite shaking his head. Hyel looks over the parchments still in his hand, as if to extract some meaning from between the scripted lines.

Klerris lays a hand on Megaera’s sleeve, which she starts to shake off, then stops as she looks into the wizard’s eyes.

“Here we are,” announces Joris jovially, returning with two white-oak wands with sword grips and hilts. He offers them to Creslin, who takes the slightly shorter one. Zarlen nods as he receives the other.

Without speaking, Hyel, Joris, and Thoirkel step back to the eastern wall of the keep. Megaera and Klerris remain by the doorway.

Zarlen smiles at Megaera, then leads with the white-oak wand.

Creslin waits. Zarlen’s wand weaves toward him.

Creslin moves his own blade and deflects the bigger man’s attack once, twice, and again. His blade is seemingly independent of his eyes. He has scarcely moved as Zarlen has brought bone-crushing force against him, yet none of the man’s strokes even graze him.

“A dancer, are you?”

Zarlen’s oak wand moves faster, yet Creslin remains untouched. Then, like lightning, Creslin’s wand slashes.

Cluunk.

Zarlen shakes his wrist, where a red welt already rises, looks at his empty hand, and at the white-oak wand on the stones. His eyes flame as he glares at Creslin.

“Berserker…”

The whisper comes from Klerris, but Creslin’s short blade is already out even as Zarlen drives his blued steel toward him with impossible speed. Impossible speed or not, Creslin is not where the blade is when it strikes, and the short sword flashes twice.

Zarlen’s eyes glaze as he looks down at his blade on the stones, just before his knees buckle. Creslin waits only long enough to ensure that the man is dead before cleaning his blade on Zarlen’s tunic.

Hyel’s mouth is wide open. Joris is pale, as is Megaera.

Creslin looks at Hyel, then at the body. Tin sorry that was necessary, but… “ He shrugs. ”He’d already planned to kill me and have his way with my wife.“

Hyel closes his mouth and looks toward Thoirkel.

The dark-haired young soldier looks from Creslin to Hyel and back again. Finally he moistens his lips. “Ah…”

Creslin waits, as does Hyel.

“Ah… Zarlen said… no wizard could stand ‘gainst cold steel. No woman, witch or not, neither.”

“He was wrong in both cases, apparently,” Creslin observes mildly.

Hyel nods to Thoirkel and to the body. The young soldier begins to drag the heavy corpse toward the back doorway of the long room. - “What are you?” asks Joris.

Creslin looks from Klerris to Megaera. Klerris shrugs. Megaera looks away, but Creslin nearly winces at the flames in her eyes before her head turns. He looks back to Joris and Hyel.

“I’m one of your regents.” He pauses. “I was the consort-assign of Westwind. I’m the only man ever trained by the Westwind arms-master, and I walked the Westhorns in the dead of winter to escape marrying the woman I married. I’m told that I’m also a Storm Wizard, and the Duke named both of us regents of Reduce, to hold and strengthen the land for him as we can.” He bows slightly. “Does that help?”

“Shit…” Only Creslin hears the inaudible murmur from Thoirkel.

Joris looks at Klerris. “How good a Storm Wizard is he?”

“Better than any I’ve ever known; he was born to it.”

Creslin looks at Klerris. Even Megaera looks up. “Does the Duke know all this?” asks Hyel tiredly.

“Why do you think we’re here?” Megaera says with near-equal fatigue in her voice. “Do you really think the Duke liked the idea of having two wizards from Westwind and Sarronnyn under his roof?”

“I think you’d better take the cot I’ve been using, at least until we can get something… more suitable,” suggests the guard captain.

Joris nods. “I’ll show you to it, since I am certain that the captain and Hyel have some cargo to discuss.”

“The horses?” Creslin asks, looking at Freigr.

“I’ll find you later, and you can walk back with me to get them, if that’s all right.”

Creslin nods, and the three wizards follow the swarthy man through the still-open doorway.