The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [100]
“My wretched neck?”
“It was the only way to save mine, thanks to sister dear and your darling mother the Marshall. But it is your neck.”
“You weren’t exactly beloved in Sarronnyn.”
Megaera begins to rummage through the topmost of her bags. Creslin reclaims his pack and places it on the top bunk.
“You could have asked,” she says dourly.
Creslin picks up the pack. “Which one do you want?”
“The bottom is fine.”
He grins.
“I don’t need your crass comments.” Fire glows at Megaera’s fingertips.
“Never mind.” Creslin places his pack back on the top bunk. “I’m going out on deck.”
LXI
AS THE SAILORS loosen the hawsers, Creslin watches the activities. Megaera has appeared, still gray but without the cloak now that the rain has lifted. Her face and hands are freshly clear of the grime of travel.
“Now what?” he asks.
“Next, I think . . .”
Creslin’s attention drops away from Megaera’s words as his eyes center on a wavering of the light; it resembles a snow mirage, or the summer heat mirages from the black stone roads leading to the Roof of the World. Although his eyes insist that nothing is there, the winds tell him that a man stands behind the twisted light, a man who has walked up the gangway just before it was hauled aboard. Creslin, short sword leaping into his hand, walks slowly toward the figure behind the light shield.
“Creslin?” Megaera’s voice turns from conversational to sharp as she sees the sword, and her eyes widen as she senses what he senses.
The distortion vanishes, and a thin, black-haired man in black—black shirt, tunic, trousers, and faded black traveling cloak—stands on the deck, his empty hands palms up. On his back is a bulging pack of leather and canvas.
Creslin does not sheath the sword, but waits.
“My name is Klerris. I thought you might need some assistance, and you’re going in a direction that might be beneficial.”
Klerris? The name is vaguely familiar, but Creslin cannot place it.
“I’m generally thought of as a Black healer, and often I have helped with injuries to the road crews.”
The healer who had helped restore Creslin’s memory had mentioned the name. “Where is she?” Slowly, he replaces the sword.
“Lydya? On her way to Westwind. The White Wizards are not exactly pleased with either of us at the moment.”
Megaera glances from Klerris to Creslin and back again. “Would one of you mind explaining?”
As she speaks, the last of the lines is cast free; the Griffin swings away from the pier and, under partial sail, glides past the Fairhaven schooner and toward the open sea. On the war schooner, white-clad sailors are busily moving about, as if preparing to follow the Griffin.
“There was a healer at the road camp,” answers Creslin slowly, studying the schooner; it bears the name Lightning on a plate above the stern. “She helped me get my memory back. She mentioned the name of Klerris.”
“Does that make this man the same Klerris?” asks Megaera.
“Not necessarily,” admits Creslin. “But I can’t see any benefit to impersonating a Black Wizard, and he certainly isn’t a White Wizard.”
“Perhaps this would help,” suggests Klerris, extending his hand. In it rests a heavy linked-gold chain. “Yours, I believe.”
Creslin takes the chain, studies, it, notes the twist to the links. “Thank you.”
“Lydya recovered it when you were brought into the camp. She thought you might need it.”
“That’s worth a fortune,” Megaera notes coolly, “assuming it’s real.”
“Touch it. It’s real.” Creslin sways as the deck lurches.
Megaera’s fingers brush the gold.
Outside the breakwater, the seas are heavier, but the sailors breaking out the full rigging of the sloop have no trouble with either footing or coordination.
“The first part of the trip is the roughest,” offers Klerris.
“Oh?” Megaera’s eyebrows rise. “You’ve made this voyage before?”
“Darkness, no. But the winds are higher north and west of the gulfs, and the northern seas harbor the storms.”
Creslin steps to the rail and grasps the worn wood. His senses go out to the Fairhaven schooner, which glows with the whiteness he has