The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [149]
Klerris smiles. “Someday . . . someday you may undertake something that absolutely cannot be done.”
“I already have.” Creslin pauses. “Megaera. But I have to keep on as if things will work out.”
“Did you tell Lydya that?”
“No.”
“You should have.”
“Why?”
Klerris shakes his head. “Never mind. Are you going to talk to Hyel now?”
“Why not?”
“I’ll come with you. That way, he’ll believe we’re both crazy.”
XCVIII
THE WOMAN IN black leathers stands in the late-afternoon sun, watching as the peak that is Freyja turns into a glistening sword raised against the towers of the sunset. Her black hair is uncovered in the chill wind that passes for a summer breeze on the Roof of the World.
Beside her stands another woman, younger, in green leathers, still holding a dispatch case.
“They’ve already begun to change the world . . .” muses the black-haired woman.
“Begun?” asks the silver-haired Marshalle.
“Begun,” confirms the Marshall. “No one else could do it besides those two. In that, Ryessa was right.” She shrugs. “But they’re still fighting each other.”
“The dispatch doesn’t—”
“Unless Creslin is more understanding than I was, he’ll destroy both of them.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Believe it or not. He has that much power.” The Marshall remains studying the ice needle until it is cloaked in the early moonlight.
XCIX
SAND AND SEA and birds, and a black boulder rising above the surf—how many hundreds of places are there with such a combination? Creslin does not know exactly, but one of them is where Megaera is.
With the briefest of head shakes, he places the hammer and chisel in the chest, which he stores in the third guest house. He has waited and waited, and knows that further waiting will solve nothing. He pauses, reflecting that he has felt that way before and it has always led to pain.
This time he shrugs—with sadness—and heads for the washroom.
“You have to be clean?”
How else? He laughs bitterly as the cold water flows over him and as he uses the harsh soap to scrub away stone grit, sweat, and dirt. Little enough governing or wizardry has he done while he has recovered, and only a trace of stonework, and too much thinking. Still, the captives from Hamor have completed the walls along the walkways, as well as the interior walls and roofs of all three guest houses. The Black Holding is coming to resemble the plans that Klerris had once laid out on the keep table. The only problem is that the two people for whom it has been built are unable to live anywhere close to each other.
Creslin steps away from the cold water and snaps the tap closed. As he dries himself with the worn and frayed towel he has carted across Candar and beyond, his lips twist into a wry smile. He has a title he never wanted, a land to build that he never asked for, and he loves a woman for whom he walked the winter snows of Westhorns to escape marrying. Yet he married her for convenience.
And for lust, he reminds himself. He cannot deny how much he wants Megaera. He rips his thoughts away from images of the red-haired lady before too-graphic fantasies appear in his mind.
Lust or not, the time has come for the two of them to resolve their destiny. “Resolve our destiny?” he thinks. “How pretentious!” He snorts as he pulls on his trousers.
After donning the short-sleeved shirt and his boots, his hair still damp, he begins to walk down the dusty road. He hopes that one day the road will be a highway stretching from one end of Recluce to the other. For the wizards are right about one thing. Good highways knit people and trade together. But that will come later, assuming that Megaera will accept him. If Megaera will ever accept him.
He continues walking, his thoughts searching the winds