The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [122]
He would smile, except that he has felt the cold fury of that steel will of hers. He forces his pace into regularity, trying instead to think about the other provisions that must be made: provisions for hay, for vegetables, for some sort of cows to provide milk and cheese. And trees. Klerris keeps telling him that trees, rain, and time, plus some order magic, could turn Recluce into a garden.
In the meantime, Klerris is working with Hyel. The guards are also learning stonework and expanding the keep, particularly the guard quarters in process. Except for a few, who would rather garden.
Creslin begins to pant halfway up the slope, and his legs begin to burn.
“Finally . . . bastard’s hurting . . .”
The glee in Megaera’s mutterings forces him to pick up his legs, to deny the fatigue, and to push the last hundred cubits uphill.
“Whoooff . . .”
He slows, looking over his shoulder to see the redhead stumble, then wobble back upright. Quickly he turns his head and drops into a walk. A walk for the last kay will supply enough conditioning. He realizes, as he has for the past eight-day, how much work it will be to regain his former shape, and how much more tiring it is to be active in the moderate heat of Recluce than in the chill of Westwind.
The chill. Whatever happens, he will always miss the clean cold of the Roof of the World.
By the time he is within a half kay of the partly built stone shell of what will be the co-regents’ dwelling, carefully planned with separate bedrooms, Megaera has caught up with him.
Creslin walks straight past the stonework, past the raised-stone cistern that he, Klerris, Joris, and several guards completed even before the foundation stones were laid. At the edge of the cliff where, before too long, there will be a stone-paved terrace and a stone wall, he pauses and looks down at the long swells of the dark green water.
Behind him, Megaera splashes her sweaty, dusty face with cool water. He waits until she is finished, then walks back and follows her example, enjoying the coolness of the water from the stone basin fed by the cistern. Klerris had located the spring, and had shown both Megaera and Creslin the tracing of order lines. Megaera, somewhat surprised, had had no problem at all.
“You’re not necessarily White,” Klerris had said.
But she had pointedly ignored his words. Creslin shakes his head at the recollection, then splashes more water across his brow. The dripping locks over his ears remind him that his hair has again grown too long.
There is so much to do, for he has no doubt that the White Wizards will provide yet another challenge.
After wiping his face on the shoulder of the worn shirt he uses for exercise and stonework, he takes a last swallow of water from cupped hands and straightens. Should he cut stone, or should he mortar?
Megaera is surveying the low line of stones that will become the northern wall of the structure. “For a warrior and a wizard, you do good stonework.” Her voice is light.
“We try to please.” He steps toward the pile of rough-cut stone, each stone carried nearly a quarter kay from the jumble to the south. Soon he will have to carry stone again before either cutting or mortaring further.
Finally he picks up an odd-sized chunk, letting his senses enfold it as he carries it over to the waist-high block dragged nearly a kay by three horses to serve as a cutting table. He searches for the order lines, the places of weakness, the stresses, then tries to visualize what the finished stone might look like.
Like so . . . or if he strikes it there . . . He lifts the heavy iron mallet and the order-hardened wedge. Clung . . . clung . . .
Megaera has disappeared into the rock jumble, and in time she returns staggering under the weight of a large black stone, which she deposits near the cut pile.
Creslin wipes his forehead and sets another cut stone in the row. While his abilities and strengths are improving, the house still appears like an endless undertaking.
Clung . . .
More cut stones appear, but as they do, so