The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [139]
“But you stayed beside me . . .” Creslin’s now-tanned forehead knits in puzzlement.
“It was easier for both of us.”
She is not telling the whole truth, as shown from her shift in position and her obviously suppressed feeling of discomfort.
“Why do you lie about it?”
“Damn you! You think you know everything! A kind word, some consideration, and you think I’m ready to jump into your bed.”
“I didn’t even think that, and you know it.” Creslin is tired, physically tired from farm work and from trying to regain his former conditioning, and mentally tired from being on edge each and every day, from not knowing when Megaera’s words will turn acid.
“You’re ignoring what I said about pushing me and everyone else around. Just like always. Just like every man. When it’s convenient, you feel sympathy and understanding, and when it’s not—oh, I’m sorry about that, you say, and you’re not.” Megaera raises her hand until her fingers touch the hilt of the blade she has taken to wearing.
Creslin stiffens as he notes that she has no difficulty in holding the cold steel and that the aura of white that has suffused her is now almost entirely gone . . . and that she radiates mostly the blackness of a Lydya, though thin, white flames flicker around her occasionally.
“You’re not even listening, like always . . .”
“I was listening, but I was thinking of how much you’ve changed.”
“Of how much you have changed me, you mean.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s what you meant.” The redhead’s hand slides away from the blade.
Creslin looks up into the east, where a line of clouds dots the horizon out over the dark green sea.
“Until you listen, really listen, nothing will change.” Megaera’s steps scuff the stones.
Creslin takes another deep breath, watching as the slender redhead turns toward the new practice yard of the guards.
To the east, the clouds mount as the sun crosses into the western sky.
LXXXIX
AFTER BREAKING THE plain wax seal, Megaera reads the lines: “As written by Helisse, for Aldonya, faithful retainer of Megaera, sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn, and Regent of Recluce.”
The redhead wonders whose idea the titles were—Helisse’s through irony, or Aldonya’s through devotion?
. . . though the birth was not easy, we have a daughter, and I have named her Lynnya, in your honor, and would beseech you, should anything happen to me, for unexpected things can happen to new mothers, that you would make sure that she does not have to submit her future to those she does not know.
In less than five more eight-days, according to the midwives, we will be able to travel, and there will be a ship leaving near that time. Helisse says that we can take it. That is, if we are both well.
Lynnya is a beautiful girl, and she will have red hair. I think it will be darker than yours.
We look forward to seeing you and serving you.
At the bottom, another line is appended: “They are both doing well.—Helisse.”
Megaera Lynnya purses her lips, then walks toward the darkening window, blinking back the wetness in her eyes.
For a long time she listens to the surf, clutching the folded parchment to her breast.
XC
The way is the way,
as the west mountains are.
The way is the way,
as solid as the sunset towers,
and the southern seas.
The way is the way,
as all life is sorrow.
The way is the way,
as all sorrow is joy.
THE WAY IS the way. The silver-haired man ponders the words, stepping into the shadows that had not existed until he had thought of sorrow. As he walks from the shadows into the sunlight, his eyes narrow against the glare, and dust puffs from under his feet.
He lifts another stone, setting it on the cutting bench with a delicacy one would not guess at from the muscles in his arms and the calluses on his hands.
The stonework for the terrace walls is completed, and now he works on the unfinished portions of the guest