The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [114]
“Plants?”
Klerris points to a scraggly blue flower that droops from a thorn vine twining from half a dozen heaped rocks a cubit or so from Creslin’s right foot. “Watch closely. It’s not really obvious, but . . .”
A certain sense of power flows from Klerris toward the tiny blue flower . . . and slowly, at the deliberate pace of drops falling from a roof corner to a rain barrel long after the storm, the petals firm, the stem strengthens, and the color brightens.
“Now, Lydya and Marin, they can actually take a pearapple seedling and make it so the fruit will be sweeter or tarter, larger or smaller.” He shrugs. “But most people aren’t interested in growing plants or miracles that take years for the results to show.”
“I suppose not. Magic is supposed to create instant results.”
Klerris grins, boyishly again. “Magic itself is quick. It’s the results that take time to become obvious. And unlike the skills of our friends, the White Wizards, our skills create results that are rather hard to undo.”
Creslin can sense Megaera staring through the narrow window. Freigr walks down the dusty hillside road, and both horses are now tethered on the pier.
“I’ll have to think about that.” Creslin takes a deep breath. “In the meantime, I need to reclaim some horses. I think the good captain wants off Recluce.”
LXXI
THE CENTER OF the white-misted mirror displays a black keep upon a black cliff. The black walls shimmer, as if they are not quite real.
Before the mirror, the High Wizard’s lips move, but his words are not audible. Then he frowns, and only the ceiling reflects in the silver of the mirror. He walks toward the single narrow window in the stone wall.
Thrap!
“Come in.”
Hartor edges through the door to the small chamber. “You heard?”
“Bah. I felt it. Who couldn’t? The whole world screamed. I didn’t want to bring it up in council.” The High Wizard gestures to the chair closest to the door, then eases himself into a straight-backed seat.
Hartor sits down and looks at the blank mirror. “Do you have something in mind?”
Jenred nods slowly, his lips turning in an expression of disgust. “Yes. Leaving him alone.”
“You were the one who claimed—”
“It doesn’t matter what I claimed. I was wrong about his powers. But I wasn’t wrong about his inclinations.”
“So how do we deal with him?”
“Let the envoy from Hamor know that Creslin has on the island the treasures of Heaven, stolen from Westwind. Let the Westwind spies know that Hamor is thinking of attacking Recluce.”
“Oh. Will it work?”
“Use a Compulsion on the Hamorians. No one will check there. They don’t believe in magic.”
“Any special images?”
“You might try the idea of the lances of winter. You know, from the Legend.”
“Did they ever really exist?”
“Who knows?” Jenred shrugs. “They’d certainly like something like that. So they might be bold enough to attack Land’s End. The Marshall might send a few troops, and anything she sends there won’t come back.”
“Can you be sure of that?”
Jenred nods. “Creslin’s just the type that people follow.”
“Doesn’t that mean he’ll be a danger?”
“No. Not to us. In a generation or two, they’ll damn us for being short-sighted, but we can’t afford to lose any more wizards and allies. So do what you can with Hamor. You might even let the Nordlans know first.”
LXXII
CLICK . . .
The redheaded woman glances up, pausing briefly from her exercise routine, and extends her senses beyond the room into the morning air.
A chipmunk has dislodged a pebble and is skittering under the stone that serves as the doorstep to the cot. She smiles as her senses follow the hurrying rodent. Then the smile fades. “Back to work, Megaera. Back to work. He isn’t the only one who can be as tough as green oak,” she mutters to herself.
Sweat streaks down her flushed face, and her muscles burn, but she continues until she can no longer force her body into the proper patterns. Then she straightens and begins to take deep breaths, walking slowly around the narrow space she has created by shoving the heavy table