The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [128]
In time, he sleeps . . . but not well.
LXXXIII
MEGAERA BENDS, ANGLES her wand and lets the junior guard’s practice wand slip by, then follows with a quick thrust.
“Oooffff . . .”
“The thrust was adequate, but you let down at the end and you didn’t recover,” states the senior duty guard. “You’re not supposed to be dueling. You’re fighting to kill and to keep from being killed.”
The redhead wipes her forehead, then glances around the Westwind guards’ practice yard. No one else has even looked directly at her. Three other pairs of guards continue to practice. The rest of the detachment is working with stone or timber to turn the rough-built keep addition into more livable quarters, except for the three working at the cliff house with Creslin.
Why they feel so constrained to help him, she does not know. She tightens her lips and grips the practice wand.
“Don’t grip so tightly that your fingers are white,” adds the guard.
Megaera forces her hand to relax. Before long, she is due to meet with Klerris and Lydya to work on the glass problem.
“Try it again,” suggests the guard. “Remember, there’s always someone else waiting to strike.” She nods sharply and walks to the next pair, studying them for a time before speaking. “Hold it. You’re both going to get killed . . .”
Megaera takes a deep breath, then resumes her position, signifying with a quick nod that she is again ready. If Klerris is correct, the blade will be her only reliable defense before long.
Her shoulders already ache, and her arms bear more bruises than she would have believed possible. But she always wears long sleeves, and she will until her arms are not purple from shoulder to wrist.
“. . . Westwind guards . . . aren’t . . . the only deadly fighters . . .” The words hiss under her breath as she parries, giving ground.
“Ooofff . . .”
This time she is the recipient.
“Are you all right, lady?” asks the junior guard, barely old enough to have been allowed to choose the detachment.
“I’m fine. Let’s try again.”
She should be leaving, but there is never enough time for everything, and she wonders how Creslin has managed to juggle so many projects. But she owes him, owes him so much for his pigheadedness and his failure to understand.
“Damn you . . .” The words hiss under her breath again as her sword wand weaves her defense, as she imagines that he is the junior guard, as her wand moves even faster. She ignores the twisting in her stomach.
LXXXIV
THE LATE-AFTERNOON sun breaks through the clouds above the northwestern seas and pours through the narrow window in the old part of the main keep.
“The public-room idea isn’t working.” Hyel frowns. “My men sit on one side and her guards glare at them from the other. The only people who like it are the fisherwives who pour. That’s because everyone drinks more when they don’t talk. And we don’t have enough to drink, either, by the way.”
“Have your men . . . I don’t know. We may be dry for a while, but the orchards are going to produce more than enough to ferment something drinkable.” Creslin thinks about other fruits and grains. “We might be able to do something with those purple berries that grow on the cliffs. Isn’t there somebody who’s making his own alcohol in the keep?”
“Several,” admits Hyel. “But would you want to drink it?”
“Put them on half-duty if they’ll gather the berries and use them for something. Let either Megaera, Klerris, or me look at the casks or barrels or whatever they put it in before anyone drinks it.”
Now he is worrying not only about quarters, and the lack of sanitary facilities in the expanded keep, the lack of bedding, the lack of—He even has to suggest a brewery! He shrugs. Megaera is working with Shierra on refitting and further expanding the keep, using the green timbers from Suthya and the tools brought by Lydya. Where additional linens will come from, who knows?
All of the