The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [134]
She shakes her head. “I just don’t know. Right now you feel that way. But will you feel like that tomorrow? Or the next day?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. But could we try?”
“You try. I’ll see. Good night.”
He let her step around him.
“Good night.”
For a time he stands in the dimness of the unfinished Great Room, the coolness of the sea breeze flowing over him. Then he returns to his room and peels off his clothes, snuffs the lamp, and stretches out on the pallet that is marginally softer than the stone flooring on which it rests.
As he listens to the unseen insects and frogs, as he wonders how he will learn to consider his actions before he acts, his eyes grow heavy.
Good night, Megaera, he thinks.
Does she hear his wish? He turns over on his stomach and tries to ignore the tightness within him. Dead before fall? He squeezes his eyelids together, then tries to relax.
LXXXVI
CRESLIN WAKES EARLY, not long after the sun has cleared the swells of the Eastern Ocean. There is time for some stonework before he and Megaera head to the keep to meet with Shierra, Hyel, Klerris, and Lydya.
“The unofficial High Council of Recluce . . .” he murmurs.
On his feet, he pulls on the old fishing trousers he has scrounged, work boots, and the tattered, short-sleeved green shirt.
In the recently walled room that will some day be the kitchen, he retrieves some stale bread. A fuller repast will have to wait until they reach the keep. He chews the tough crust and walks to the cistern, where he fills a mug with cool water. Although the air is still brisk and damp coming in off the ocean, the cloudless day promises to be hot.
Because Megaera is probably still asleep, he does not work with the mallet and chisel but carries rough stones from the jumble, stacking them by the stone that serves as his trimming block. After having made a dozen trips, he stops and wipes his forehead. The day may be the hottest yet of the early summer, and it is far from even mid-morning.
“You’re up early.” The redhead leans out of the open window. Her hair is tousled, and she wears a faded blue robe.
“I tried to be quiet.”
“I appreciate the thought. Someday, if I can ever wake before you do, I’ll demonstrate a comparison between real quietness and what you call quietness.”
“If you ever make it up that early . . .”
“Some of us have no desire to greet the sun. Aren’t we supposed to meet with everyone this morning?”
”I’ll get washed up in a moment.” As Megaera’s head disappears back into her room, he puts a stone on the block and raises the heavy hammer.
Clung . . .
He stops with one stone. As he lifts and fits it so that there is less than a hairline crack between it and the one below, he wishes again that he were better with creative chores, like woodworking and stonemasonry, rather than expert with the ethereal and the deadly, such as music and blades and bows. After removing the stone and setting it down until he is ready to mortar, he picks up the tools and puts them away.
By the time he reaches the washroom, the wash stones are wet and Megaera has already finished. He hurries through a cold and quick shower and—naked and carrying his work clothes—dashes for his room.
His hair is still wet when he joins her on the terrace. “You run more gracefully without clothes,” she tells him.
“What can I say? Do I get to see whether you do?”
“After last night?”
He wonders whether this is the time for an apology but seeing that she still smiles, he decides against seriousness. “I thought I’d ask.”
“At least you’re asking now.”
“It seems like a better idea.”
“We’d better go.”
For the first fifty paces, neither says anything. Creslin just enjoys the sun and the peacefulness. They cross the crest of the hill overlooking the harbor. Only one damaged fishing boat remains in the water.
“It’s too bad this place is nothing but starving fishermen and disgraced courtiers.”