The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [89]
“Justen…was this whole valley Fairhaven?”
“As a matter of fact, it was.”
Some recollection from somewhere tickled my thoughts, but as I strained to remember, whatever it was disappeared.
“Those were the north guard towers?” I pointed to the white heaps ahead.
“No…Fairhaven didn’t need guard towers. Those were the gates. They were always open.”
By now I could see the so-called gates. Under a light covering of dirt, the hillocks were a dead pure white. Nothing grew on them. Nothing. As we rode closer, I realized why. Something had melted the stone. Melted it like sugar candy at a carnival.
My eyes flickered from the melted gates to Justen, who was sitting on Rosefoot with his eyes closed, concentrating as his pony picked her way past the old towers.
The odor of old slag and ashes was stronger, almost overpowering, and a cloud of unseen darkness loomed ahead. Everything looked normal for a winter’s day in Candar: gray and brown, cold and sere, with the northern wind at my back. Except for the dead whiteness of the melted gates…
For some reason, I put my hand on my staff, the one that marked me as different whether I willed it so or not. The black steel bands at the top were warm to the touch, even through my gloves.
“Lerris.” Justen’s voice was low. “There may be trouble ahead. Do exactly as I say.”
“What?”
“Do what I say. Do not leave the road. Hold your staff, but do not unlash it. No matter what.”
His eyes were still closed, his features expressionless.
OOOoooooooooo…
At first, the sound recalled the wind, but the breeze had disappeared once we passed the gates. Overhead the sky was darker somehow, although the clouds looked the same as before, and it was not even quite midday.
The odor of dead fires and slag was stronger now, but there was still no sign of anything that had burned, not any time recently.
The leafless bushes by the roadside seemed somehow twisted, and the few leaves left hanging from the autumn before were all white. So were the branches themselves—a near-shining white, although I had never seen a bush with slick white bark. Even the bark of the birches was off-white and rough.
OOOOOoooooooooooo…
I clutched the staff with my left hand, gripping the reins even tighter in my right. Gairloch plodded on down the gentle grade.
Ahead the road flattened and widened. Under the dust and mud I could see traces of stone paving-blocks. Behind the bushes now were roofless buildings, only a story high.
“This was the old town center, made of solid stone. Granite, in some cases.”
I glanced back from Justen, who still rode with his eyes closed, to the ruins beside the road. The roofless buildings, were more intact than the gates. Except for the debris piled around and against them, several looked as though a new roof and some interior work would make them habitable.
OOOOOooooooooeeee…
“Ahead is the newer town center, where the council held court…”
How anything in ruins could be called new was beyond me, and I was getting nervous about the howling sound. Justen seemed to ignore it as he talked and rode, his eyes still closed.
Justen had to be looking at something. He was a wizard. Antonin had said he was, and he had a number of apprentices who had become masters, or so he had indicated.
OOOOOOOOOEEEeeeeeeeeeee…
The sound was closer, on the other side of the “newer” town center.
My left hand still on my staff, warmer to the touch even through the leather of my gloves, I tried to study the ruins, even as Gairloch and Rosefoot picked their way toward the howling.
The stone-melting that had destroyed the city gates had struck even more wildly around the “newer” square. The ruined buildings were twisted as if they had been hot white wax flung through a whirlwind and then stomped flat by a giant foot.
“This was built by the Magician’s Council, the old square by the Stonecutters’ Guild.” Justen did not open his eyes, but, for the first time, his voice sounded strained.
I shook my head. Why bother with the descriptions?