The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [133]
“Not very good.”
“You’re right.” Lydya’s voice softens. “What’s worse is that if you come to her in guilt tonight, she’ll take your head off, and you’ll deserve it.”
“What am I supposed to do? Besides think?”
“You’ll listen to every nasty word she says, and you will think about them, and you will not say anything nasty in return. You will not act superior. You will not act guilty, and you will not try to make amends, whatever they may be, tonight. You will tell her, however it seems fitting, that you honestly did not understand all that she felt and that you will try to make up for it by treating her as a friend in the days ahead.”
“I don’t know if I can . . .”
“If you can’t, you’ll both die before the end of the summer.” Lydya stops. “Good night, Creslin.”
Her retreating steps are so silent that they are lost behind the chirring of the insects in the rocks that line the road combined with the gentle hissing of the waves upon the sand.
He stands there, listening for either Lydya’s footsteps or the oncoming footsteps of a red-haired woman. He hears neither. So he turns back to the south and walks slowly uphill. Since he reaches the black stones of the house first, he lights the lamps, one in his room and, in turn, one in hers.
Then he stands by his window, leaving the door ajar and waiting. The night air is cool, but not so cool as even the warmest of summer nights on the Roof of the World, that simple castle that had seemed so complex while he had dwelt there.
The lamps continue to burn, but Megaera does not appear. Has she decided to spend another night with the Westwind guards? Has he appeared that uncaring?
He walks back to the terrace, letting his senses flow to the winds and through the light sea breeze that flows off the ocean and up the cliffs. How long he floats there, he does not know. He only knows that when he senses her coming, he drops back into himself and crosses the terrace toward the Great Room.
He reaches the door and opens it as her hand reaches for the crude handle. “Good evening. I wanted to make sure you got back safely.”
“Who would trouble me?”
“No one, I suppose. I just needed to say something. We didn’t really talk, and you said you wanted to.”
“It doesn’t matter. You haven’t listened before. Why would you listen now?”
“I’m listening now.” He eases the door shut behind her. The light streaming down the corridor from her room and across the dusty stone floor is enough for him to see by.
“It’s easier to listen, I suppose, after yet another conquest.” Her eyes dart to his right, as if she wants to step around him.
“It wasn’t meant that way.”
“You never mean anything the way it turns out. You just act, and damn how anyone else feels. Or you feel without thinking about how your feelings make other people feel.” Her eyes rest directly on him, cold, yet burning.
“You’re right,” he admits. “I still act before I think things out.”
“I’m supposed to be wed to you, best-betrothed, and I didn’t even know that you can sing love songs that wring women’s hearts. Or marching, songs. You never bothered to tell me.”
He swallows instead of pointing out that she has seldom given him enough time to tell her many things. “I suppose I didn’t. Perhaps I was afraid that you would criticize me for that, too.”
“Criticize the great Creslin? Heaven forbid.”
“I didn’t realize that you felt that way. You know what I feel. I don’t know the same about you.”
“Whatever you’ve been doing tonight, you ought to keep doing—for several years.” She starts to step around him.
He holds up a hand, but does not touch her.
She stops. “Well?”
“We can’t keep going like this, Megaera.”
“I’ve only been telling you that since the day after you woke up in cousin dear’s castle.”
“So . . . I’m slow.”
“I’m tired. It’s been a long day. All my days have been long lately. What do you have in mind? Throwing me into bed and calling it love and thinking it will solve everything?” Her lips quirk angrily.
Creslin