The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [146]
A small lamp, its wick low, hangs from a bracket on the stone wall just beside the open door, where a pair of guards stand. Outside, the sky is the purple of twilight, and the dampness of rain fills the air. The thunder is distant, as if coming in over the northern sea.
He dozes, but not for long. When he wakes, Lydya has returned, and the sound of the rain continues.
“Megaera?”
“Better than you, but she’s at the Black Holding. The distance helps some, although the link is too strong for her to escape it, no matter where you are.”
Creslin lies motionless for a time on the narrow bed. Lydya offers him the cup.
“Uggghh. That’s bitter . . .”
“You need it.”
“. . . drinking it. Don’t have to like it.”
When she withdraws the cup, he sinks back, but not into sleep.
“I didn’t handle this one very well,” he mutters, low enough that the guards by the doorway cannot hear.
Her lips quirk. “Since you’re both considered great heroes, I doubt that anyone will question your judgment at this point. They just look at the sky.”
“What happened?”
“You saw it all. After you destroyed the Hamorian ships, and the guards and troopers mopped up the stragglers, there wasn’t much left.”
“How many guards, troopers, did we lose?”
“Despite all the Wood and arrows, less than a score.”
Creslin shakes his head, and bright stars flash in front of his eyes. A score is far too many to have lost. If only he had been watching the seas, many of those deaths could have been avoided.
“You cannot redo the past.”
“. . . hard not to think about that.” Creslin tries to moisten too-dry lips. He wants to shake his head again but remembers the dizziness, and the stars in his eyes. “Stupid . . . so stupid . . .”
“What? Being human? Or trying to do everything yourself?” For the first time, the healer’s voice is tart. “You can’t do it all. Neither of you can, even together. Megaera’s almost as bad as you are. But you can think about that later. In the meantime, take another sip of this.”
He complies, then lets his head fall back on the pillows. “How is she?” Lydya never really answered his question.
“She took several gashes, but no arrows. She also had to fight the shock of your wound.”
“Damning my weak guts . . . the whole way . . .” he murmurs as he drifts back into the darkness of sleep.
He wakes with the light, and Westwind guards still remain posted outside his doorway. He no longer sees stars or fires when he moves his head, and his shoulder is only fevered rather than fired. The dressing has been changed.
He tries to moisten dry and cracked lips. Finally he croaks, “Anything to drink around here?”
“Yes, sir. The healer left something for you.” The slender guard, no more than just past junior training, carries the mug to the narrow bed. The contents are not quite as vile as swamp water or as salty as the sea, but the bitterness makes raw ale taste like fine wine by comparison.
“Uggghhh . . .” He swallows it all, slowly, holding the mug as the dark-haired young guard retreats, an opaque expression on her face.
Whatever the potion is, it helps, for in time he can sit up. The rain continues, although the skies are not so dark as before. After a while he leans back and dozes once more.
When he wakes, before he can speak, another guard, gray-haired, is offering him more of Lydya’s concoction. He drinks. It still tastes worse than sour swamp water. “How long has it been?”
“Since the battle? Four days, more or less.”
Creslin wonders how Megaera is faring and if the Black Holding is even habitable in the continual rain. Gingerly, he moves the fingers of his right hand. The motion sends a twinge to his shoulder, and he purses his lips. If only he had thought ahead; one more Westwind blade hadn’t really been needed on the pier. If anything, he had probably just been in the way. Yet how could he have stood back and let others fight for him?
“How are you doing?”
Creslin’s eyes focus on Hyel as the tall man slouches into the room.
“About as well as . . .” He breaks off the confession. There