The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [100]
Now…just think about the answers you deserve…
The words hang in her mind, not in her ears.
What would you not give to understand? Reach toward the glass with your thoughts, just your thoughts, not your hands, and I will show you understanding…
The redhead topples forward before the dark-haired woman catches her shoulders.
“It took you long enough…”
“Sephya.”
The coldness of her name stops the woman’s mouth.
“Now…before she can assert her identity. Now…” His forehead is beaded in sweat, and fine lines seem to have instantly aged his face.
The dark-haired woman grasps the hands of the immobile and wide-eyed redhead and begins to turn the redhead’s face so that their eyes meet—lined dark eyes and clear blank eyes.
On the table the white mists swirl in the mirror that reflects the struggle.
Shortly, only a pile of dust remains where the dark-haired woman had been seated. As the redhead stands, the fire in her hair flickers, then begins to darken.
“I never did like red hair…”
Antonin passes his hand across the mirror, and the glass reflects the dark-beamed ceiling above. “The viscount will be expecting us shortly. Wake me when the time is right.” He totters toward the expansive bed.
The dark-haired woman gestures at the dust on the chair, which swirls, flares, and vanishes. “And she thought she could trust you…”
The white wizard glares, but says nothing as he stretches out upon the white coverlet.
XXXI
THE NEXT MORNING, which was ushered in by bright sunshine and cold gusty winds, Justen again appeared to be the not-quite-youthful gray wizard, up and saddling Rosefoot while I was still rolling my bedroll and trying to wash and shave in the icy brook water. The fallen leaves from the brush around the brook no longer crunched underfoot, but neither was it warm enough for there to be the moldering smell of spring.
Cleaner was definitely colder than having a dirty face and hands, but I swore that Justen hadn’t winced when he washed. Did gray wizards use their powers to heat cold water? Probably, but if it were a chaos-power, I’d forego hot water through magic. The feeling of chaos-isolation was too recent.
I wiped off my trousers and cloak as well as I could, wondering how Justen’s light-gray clothes always looked so good, when my own darker garb was beginning to look ratty. Then again, I wasn’t certain I really wanted to know.
Wheee…eeee…Gairloch pawed at the ground, as if to indicate his readiness to take to the road and that he’d had enough of old grass and greaseberry leaves.
So I strapped on my bedroll and pack and climbed into the old saddle. “How far is it to Weevel, or whatever it is?”
“Weevett. We should be there before midday…depending on the road.” Justen rode easily, not really using the reins, nor lurching in the saddle the way I still did.
With the wind coming at us out of the west, I could already smell the faintest hint of wood smoke, and over the low hills before us rose only a single thin plume of twisted white or grayish smoke. The valleys were either cleared for pasture or were natural meadows, with no sign of crop fields or orchards.
Before we had gone much more than a kay, we passed a rude hut set back from the road on the right and surrounded with a split rail fence, behind which milled a few hogs. Someone in shapeless leathers was pouring water into a long trough. Beyond the fence grazed several dozen sheep.
“When did we leave Montgren?”
“Actually, we haven’t. The countess holds Frven, but that really doesn’t count. Nobody wants that land. The border between Montgren and Certis is on the other side of Weevett.”
“More guards, I suppose?”
“No guard posts, just two stone pillars. The countess is a realist. She just hangs or shoots those who displease her, the ones her few soldiers catch. They don’t catch too many, since most of her modest guard is at Vergren.”
Vergren was somewhere generally northwest of us, according to the maps I had studied.
I hadn’t traveled all that far, and here I was about to enter the third kingdom or duchy or whatever. “Are