The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [125]
“That’s more than statecraft or duty, Creslin.” Megaera has moved close to his shoulder. “Maybe it’s the only way your mother the Marshall can declare her love.”
Creslin says nothing. What can he say? Instead, he swallows and watches as the two Black Wizards separate, wearing near-matching smiles. Klerris and Lydya do not hold hands, although they might as well, for the closeness between them is obvious.
His heart pounds, and somehow he almost wishes that he were Klerris, and he wonders if no matter what he does, or what he becomes, Megaera will always be forever beyond his reach.
The forward hatch cover is coming off, and two sailors are beginning to rig a pulley attached to a geared hand winch.
“Megaera, would you like to escort Guard Captain Shierra?” His question is not rhetorical, for he is not certain whether he or she would be better in dealing with the Westwind contingent.
“I think that might be best, since she would prefer to deal with women and since the captain clearly prefers not to . . . although—” and her momentary smile is like the clear noonday sun “—we could make them both uneasy.”
Creslin smiles, without strain for one of the few times in recent days. “We could . . . but then I’d have to explain how a mere man managed to escape from Westwind, and you’d have to fry something or other to assure the captain that you meant business.”
“I’ll take the Westwind troops.”
Creslin wonders, once again, what he has said to upset her.
“A woman can be competent without using force or wizardry.” Megaera looks past him and toward the pier, where the Westwind captain is marshaling her guards.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Creslin apologizes.
“Oh . . . best-betrothed . . .” She shakes her head.
Creslin feels like shaking his head, too. Instead, he waits for the two Black Wizards who are making their way off the ship. Lydya is carrying a black leather case that appears familiar.
“Creslin, I’d like you to—” Klerris begins.
“We’ve met,” Creslin interrupts gently. “Lydya is the one to whom I owe my life, and perhaps more.” He bows, the first bow he has made since he has left Westwind, but the Healer Wizard deserves that respect. He straightens to find her blushing, to find Klerris with a bemused expression.
“That’s quite an honor, Creslin, from a . . . regent yet.” Lydya’s tone reveals thoughtfulness, and something else.
“It is a signal honor, indeed. There may be hope for him yet.” Megaera’s words are not quite humorous, nor yet etched in acid.
“Lydya, might I present you to my co-regent, Megaera, also sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn?”
“I am pleased to meet you, Megaera. The Tyrant seemed most helpful.”
“Sister dear? She did? And how did she manifest her graciousness?”
“With a pledge of grains and olives, and some timber . . . to be sent after the fall harvests.”
“I will look forward to that shipment with pleasure.”
Creslin nods. So will he, although both he and Megaera understand the timing of the pledge. If they survive the wizards and whatever other hazards await them in the summer and early fall, such a shipment will be more than worth it to Ryessa.
“I must be going, Lydya, to deal with the arrangements for the Westwind guards,” Megaera says. “I look forward to talking with you later.”
As Megaera makes her way toward Shierra, who still appears familiar to Creslin, Lydya bends down and picks up the black leather case she has carried. “This is from the Marshalle.”
Creslin frowns, wondering what Llyse could possibly have sent. As he takes the case, he suddenly knows. His guitar. But why?
“There’s a note inside.”
Creslin decides not to look for the note while still on the pier. Then he sees the captain looking toward him.