The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [140]
She will be returning to the Black Holding shortly from her morning run, which now exceeds his in length. He has watched her practice against Shierra, and her blade-work will soon surpass that of most of the senior guards.
The hammer strikes the stone perfectly, and the rock shears away. He sings softly—the words are for his ears alone—and his hands are gentle upon the stone, using only the precise amount of force necessary with the order-hardened chisel and mallet.
“The way is the way . . .” he hums under his breath.
He finally puts down the tools and walks toward the cistern and outdoor washroom. The echoes of his feet are lost against the faint roar of the sea below the terrace.
As he shaves, he asks himself if what he plans is fair.
No, it is not fair. Have they any other options? None that he can see, and those suggested by Lydya and Klerris have failed. For he will not be merely Megaera’s friend for life, not when her soul is burned upon his. Nor will he spend the rest of his life forever on guard against her tongue and his emotions.
The cold water cools his thoughts. By the time he is dressed, he is calm enough that he will not radiate unrest until Megaera is within cubits of him. He walks across the terrace to watch the summer sun sparkle on the morning sea and waits for her. Shortly thereafter, Klerris will arrive. Even Klerris does not know exactly why Creslin has requested his presence.
“. . . All sorrow is joy . . .” He hopes so. But he shivers, thinking about what must be done. Can he do otherwise?
Perhaps, but what? He has listened to Lydya; he has listened to Megaera. Klerris has offered no answers, saying that answers have no meaning unless they are found by whoever asks the questions.
The faint sound of running boots alerts Creslin that Megaera is nearing the holding. He remains by the seaward wall of the terrace, even after she has gone to the wash-house.
Only after she appears on the edge of the terrace, as if to ask whether he intends to walk back to the keep, does he turn. Though his tanned skin is smooth and unlined, a darkness dwells behind his eyes, as if he were older, far older, than he looks.
“You’re worried,” she announces, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade.
He still prefers the shoulder harness but wears no blade much of the time, unlike Megaera, who wears hers everywhere, except when she sleeps or runs.
“You’re right,” he agrees. “This can’t go on.”
She frowns. “Things are going well. The spices are ready for harvest, the traders have finished their warehouse—”
“I meant you and me.”
“You’re pushing again.”
“I’ve made some decisions.” He turns, steps forward, takes her arm as if to escort her.
“I don’t need help.”
He says nothing, catching her chin with his right hand and turning her face toward his.
She tries to step back, but suddenly his muscles are like iron bands holding her in place. “You can’t force . . .” One hand starts to draw the Westwind short sword.
His free hand clamps over hers. “I know.” Inexorably he forces her head back to meet his eyes.
Her booted foot slams against his.
Creslin staggers but holds the pain and concentrates on reaching her soul.
“No . . . no!”
But it is too late, and she slumps in his arms.
Creslin holds her for a moment, tears streaming from his own eyes as he watches her chest rise and fall. Her body feels so light with her spirit sleeping, but he carries her into her room and lays her on the bed.
Then he paces by the window until Klerris arrives. Lydya, although she was not invited, follows the Black Wizard in.
“Don’t do it. Another life-link will kill her, and yourself,” she pleads.
Creslin looks at her and opens his soul as much as he can. “I have not touched her, ever, except once in mind when I knew nothing. I have tried to be a friend. I have tried to court her, to sing to her, and to be gentle.