The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [137]
“That was different. I didn’t even know who you were.”
“Wonderful! You raped me in your mind, and it was all right because you didn’t know who I was?”
“That’s not it at all. And you know it’s not.”
He swallows as she runs across the stones toward her doorway.
. . . never understand . . .
The fragment of thought, or is it feeling, twists in his thoughts as the surf hisses against the sands below. Standing alone in the star-drenched night, Creslin again recalls the healer’s words: “If you can’t, you’ll both die before the end of the summer.”
Light! How can he be a friend to a woman who invariably attacks him whenever they are close? How can he court a lady who rejects every word that might have a sensual overtone? Why does she hold him responsible for thoughts and reactions that arose from ignorance? Why doesn’t she hear what he means, what he feels?
The stars glitter coldly, and the wind off the Eastern Ocean reminds him once more of Freyja, and of the Westhorns he will never see again. But the winds are warm, and they do not comfort him, and the Black Holding behind him is lightless.
Shhhsss . . . ssshhhh . . .
The seas beat on the sands, and the sands throw back the sea.
LXXXVIII
“THE LAST ITEM is the taxation notice from Montgren.” Shierra glances around the table.
Hyel nods warily, his gesture a mere acknowledgment. As usual, only one of the two older Black Wizards is present. Lydya’s nod is perfunctory. Creslin glances at Megaera. To him, she seems paler than normal, and her jaw is set. Outside the sun beats through the clear sky.
Shierra’s eyes reach Creslin. “Is this some sort of joke?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” Megaera answers. “It’s just about what cousin dear would let himself get pushed into by Helisse or Florin.”
“What does it say?” asks Hyel.
“That the quarterly assessment is fifty gold pence.”
“Has the Duke sent an assessment before?” Creslin turns toward Hyel.
“No,” admits the brown-haired man. “He’s usually had to send coins to cover the supply costs, along with the pay chest.”
“Could it be a trick?” asks Shierra. “Something from Fairhaven?”
“It’s his signature, and it arrived in the pouch with the confirmation of the regency.” Hyel shrugs, his eyes looking down at the battered table.
Creslin frowns. “The ship was a Suthyan coaster, wasn’t it?”
“Yes . . . the Swift Serpent.”
“I see what you mean,” Megaera interrupts. “If cousin dear sent it through Suthyan channels, it should have arrived with the Westwind detachment.”
“That’s not certain.” Hyel’s fingers drum on the wood before him.
“It really doesn’t matter,” Creslin says slowly.
The others look at him.
“First, we don’t have fifty golds. Second, there was no agreement for tax collection. Third, whom would we tax? And fourth, what can the Duke do to enforce it?”
“Are you talking about rebellion?” asks Hyel.
“Who said anything about rebellion?” Creslin sighs. “To begin with, we’re not quite certain whether it was even the Duke who sent the notice, or if he even knew what it was he signed. More important from a practical sense, you cannot collect taxes when the people you would tax have nothing of value. What do we have? A mostly built inn that has collected perhaps twenty golds in total. A score of fishermen who probably don’t net thirty golds in dried fish during the year. And three-score soldiers and guards we can barely pay, even with the last pay chest from the Duke. Unless we can develop greater trade, become self-sufficient, or find some other way of raising money, in less than a year we’ll be begging at someone’s doorstep.”
“There are some possibilities . . .” suggests Lydya. “Most of the pepper in Candar comes from Hamor. Rosemary and brinn come from Astran. Winterspice comes from Nordla.”
“Pepper?” asks Shierra.
“Are you saying that you can grow those here?” Megaera interjects