The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [118]
“But it’s not fair.”
Klerris understands the thought behind her words. “You are not called to chaos, thankfully. You can choose. Creslin has no such choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you think Creslin doesn’t like to use his powers to kill?”
“He gets sick.” She grimaces. “I know that too well, but I don’t understand how a man can lose his guts if he calls a storm to kill but remain perfectly calm if he uses a blade.”
“I don’t,” Creslin responds. “But the reaction isn’t nearly so great with the blade. You don’t feel what I feel when I use a blade because it’s shadowed with your own anger.” His stomach remains quiet, reassuring him of the truth of his statement.
“But why?” persists the redhead.
“Because,” answers the Black Wizard, “death is a form of chaos, and order that causes death creates stresses of a logical nature within the magician. That’s why Black magicians move away from the violent uses of order as they grow older. A young, healthy person can take that stress for a while, but not forever.”
“So . . .” Megaera sighs. “How do I learn order?”
Klerris shrugs. “I wish I could give you an easy answer. There are less than a handful of people who have made that transition. None would share the particulars, but the first step is to renounce all uses of chaos, even the silly little things like finger-fire.”
“I have to give up . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
Neither man says anything, nor do Klerris or Megaera appear to notice the dampness on Creslin’s cheeks as he looks away and out through the small window, the one that shows the hillside to the north where the existing keep will be expanded.
He swallows but says nothing as his hand reaches out and pins down the nearest corner of the paper. Although he could still the breeze, the coolness is welcome.
“Hyel won’t like his troops being used as builders,” Klerris adds.
Creslin looks at the rough plans on the table again. “We don’t have much choice. Neither does he.”
“Are you going to tell him that?”
“Who else?”
“Of course,” adds Megaera. “Another chance for best-betrothed to establish his authority.”
“Don’t you think that is a little unfair?” asks Klerris.
“Yes. But most men are unfair by nature.”
Klerris begins to roll up the plans.
After a time, Creslin frowns, his eyes still focused elsewhere. “We need trees, too. Can you get seedlings?”
“Trees?”
The silver-haired man with the sun-tinged skin and the recently calloused hands nods. “They use aqueducts in Sarronnyn to bring the water from the mountains.”
“Creslin . . .”
“He’s off somewhere,” Megaera interjects from the other side of the table, her eyes turning from Creslin and out through the narrow window on the wave-tossed winter sea beyond the breakwater.
LXXV
“YOU WANT THEM . . . us . . . to act like common laborers?” The garrison commander’s voice is not quite disrespectful.
“No. I want them to earn their pay.” Creslin adds, “They just might survive that way.”
Hyel’s hand goes to his sword. “Even you wouldn’t—”
“How do your men like eating fish every day? Or having just enough dried fruit to keep them barely healthy? Eating lime rinds to ensure that their teeth stay firm?”
The grim expression on the lanky guard captain’s face is replaced with one of puzzlement. “They don’t. But what—”
“It’s clear enough. Fairhaven isn’t likely to want to lose any more ships. They won’t touch the Duke’s ships, either one of them. And they won’t touch the ships that carry refugees from Candar or anywhere else. But they will make it known that any ship trading with Recluce cannot trade with Fairhaven, and who besides a few smugglers will risk losing the White Wizards’ gold for our few coppers? Yet I wouldn’t be surprised if we had five hundred more souls here in Land’s End in less than a year. We need a larger keep for the soldiers, and one with separate quarters for female guards—”
“Women?” Hyel’s tone turns colder than the troubled northern seas beyond the breakwater.
“I expect a detachment of Westwind guards,” Creslin notes coolly.