The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [115]
In a few moments she is to meet with Klerris for her lessons in the basic theory that her co-regent appears to spurn.
As she cools after having rearranged the cot again, she wets a worn towel with water from a pitcher and dabs herself into a more presentable state. “. . . really need to learn Klerris’s tricks for removing dirt and grime from myself, not just from clothes . . .” she murmurs.
Then she combs her hair and uses two combs to hold her tresses away from her face, adjusts her faded gray work trousers and shirt, and steps out of the cot. She pauses.
Something, someone, waits around the comer of the small structure.
Fire? She shakes her head, then quickly lifts the heavy black stone that serves as a doorstop. She senses the lustful anticipation of the man who, knife in hand, waits for her to step on the path that will carry her past the comer of the cot toward the keep. Her stomach turns in response to his cold hatred.
Megaera eases forward, the small boulder held high, noting with her mind where the man stands. Finally she scuffs her foot and whistles softly, oh so softly, and casts an image on the path where he expects her to be.
A bearded figure lurches forward, grasping—
She brings the rock down with all of her strength and steps back.
Megaera looks at the semiconscious man who struggles to rise, to grasp the knife, the lust-hate still welling up within him. Deliberately she kicks the knife clear and again hoists the heavy rock. This time her aim is more accurate, and the bearded figure lies sprawled motionless on the clay. The thorough combination of human evil and chaos that writhes within the man—even though he is unconscious, dying—beats at her.
She swallows, forcing the bile back down her throat, but she does not hesitate. Creslin has taught her the value of swiftness, taught her well, and she reaches for the knife.
Should she take his manhood as well? That would be too gruesome . . . and also just plain disgusting. Instead, she slits his throat, easily, for the knife is sharp indeed, and he would have died from the fractured skull in any case. Healing was out of the question, at least for someone like the now-dead trooper.
After replacing the doorstop and thrusting the knife in her belt, she drags the body the few dozen paces to the keep. Then she checks her hair and garments to make sure that she appears more composed than she feels.
Thrap! Thrap!
Joris steps out, followed by Creslin and Hyel.
“What—”
“Light!”
Of the three, Creslin alone says nothing and just looks at her, his green eyes as blank as the heavy swells of the sea.
Her eyes fix Hyel, and she wills them to burn. “I don’t appreciate your troopers attempting rape. I trust I won’t be required to take care of your failures in discipline again. Next time I won’t be kind enough to use cold steel.” At her last statement, her stomach twists and she wants to damn Creslin for betraying her with his squeamish order.
Instead, she ignores his faint smile, though she would like to lash out at him for understanding what is happening to her.
She watches Hyel, keeping him pinned with her eyes until he looks down, even though he stands a head taller.
“Yes, Regent . . .” the guard captain finally whispers.
“I leave the body and other disciplinary arrangements to you. Good day.” She forces a cheerful smile and is gratified by the pallor on the faces of Hyel and Joris.
Creslin, still silent, seems to give a nod of approval, and she wants to strike him with every trail of chaos fire that she can seize. What is he turning her into? Why doesn’t he understand? Will he ever understand? Knowing that he will not, she turns with careful and measured steps toward the more dilapidated cot downhill, which Klerris has begun to clean and otherwise restore.
She lets her senses gather while trying to ignore the mutters behind her.
“. . . skull’s caved in, and his throat’s cut.”
“. . . must have hands like steel.”
“. . . how you live with her—”
“No, she permits me to live with her.”
Creslin’s cool comment, true as it is,