The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [135]
Creslin laughs. “I can’t fish, nor was I ever very good with the polite phrases. Disgraced? I suppose so.”
“You seem . . . resigned, calmer.” She looks evenly at the man who is scarcely taller than she, although he is becoming ever more solid with maturity and the heavy stonework he does. “As if you decided—What are you going to do?” Her eyes flick from the road out toward the waves of the north of the town below, then to the silver hair above the gray-green eyes.
“I told you last night. Try to work at being your friend.”
“I mean about Recluce,”
“We’ll try to build it into something, at least into a place for people—”
“Like us?”
“That was the general idea.”
“Do you think it’s really possible? Not just a dream?”
“Somehow . . . yes. In the morning, anyway. By nighttime, it seems a lot harder and more distant.”
She says nothing, withdrawing into herself, and Creslin wonders what touchiness his words have rubbed against. But he walks beside her and they do not argue, nor is there a wall between them. Not this morning, at least.
LXXXVII
THE EVENING IS warm, purple-clear in the moments after true twilight. Creslin stands behind the completed stone wall that marks the end of the terrace and looks down the thirty cubits or so of hillside leading to the sheer cliff overhanging the white beaches below. While he cannot see the sands, he can sense, through the winds and the scents, their presence.
The swells of the Eastern Ocean are flatter and lower than usual, with the foaming of the breakers on the sands barely audible in the near-silent evening. Behind him, the Black Holding is black; no lamps are lit, for neither Creslin nor Megaera needs them, and no one else is present.
In the near-darkness, he clears his throat and begins to sing softly.
. . . they’ll cut you and leave you
all bleeding and cold,
and no one will find you,
till the mountains grow old.
The rocks they will splinter,
and the snows will fall deep,
and the guards of the mountains
will hold to their keep . . .
He stops and turns. Megaera stands at the far end of the terrace. “Go ahead. I want to hear you sing.”
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t.”
Creslin has his doubts, but he buries them, coughs softly, and returns to the song.
. . . till my songs have been buried
in the depths of the night,
and none of the young men
seek out that cold height;
and none of the young men
seek out that cold height.
“Do you know any happy songs?” Soft as it is, her husky voice carries across the stones from the side wall where she has seated herself.
“Not many, but I’ll try.”
Pursing his lips, he casts back into his memories, trying to recall a cheerful melody. He runs his left hand through his ragged and short hair, wondering if he should get his guitar. He decides against it, clears his throat once more, softly, before humming a bar or two, trying to touch the right key, the hint of silver that is his to reach. He looks to the south, not quite at Megaera but not exactly away from her either.
. . . catch a falling fire; hold it to the skies;
never let it die away.
For love may come and fill your empty eyes
with the light of more than day . . .
When he finishes, his eyes flicker to his right. Megaera has not moved, nor does she say anything. Creslin hums again and tries to search out another song.
. . . I would not live without you,
like aching souls I know,
like older men with hearts of stone,
who chose to live alone . . .
I would not love without you,
like empty homes I’ve seen . . .
“That’s too sad.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Could you sing something happier?”
“I don’t know many happy ones. Let me think.” The stars begin to glitter as the last hints of twilight dissipate in the western horizon. The song frames in his mind, and as trite as the words are, they say what he has wanted to say, what he has avoided saying.
You are the fire of my nights,
the light of my days,
and the end of my wand’ ring ways.
You are . . . you are . . . you are
the sun in the skies.
When he finishes, he does not