The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [107]
LXVI
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.
LXVII
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 battered 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