The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [156]
Megaera finds him still on the terrace wall long after the sun has cleared the sullen dark green of the ocean. Her hands touch his bare shoulders, and her lips the back of his neck.
“Thank you.”
“No thanks, best-beloved. You just sat here so you wouldn’t wake me, didn’t you?”
Creslin nods as she sits beside him in the familiar faded and thin blue shift. “I hoped that one of us could sleep.”
“The hot weather’s hard on you.”
“I miss the Roof of the World a lot more when it gets this hot.”
“Lydya thinks it will get hotter.”
“I can hardly wait.” He turns, easing an arm around her waist and squeezing, then releasing. The soft scent of Megaera fills him for an instant, and his eyes water.
“. . . flattering me . . . it’s morning, and I’m just as sweaty as you are . . .”
But her hand takes his, and they watch the ocean for a time.
Finally, he speaks again. “We can’t survive if this keeps up.”
“The heat?”
“It’s the dryness. There’s another score or more of refugees camped by the keep. This bunch is from Lydya. One of us is going to have to desalt more water. The pearapples are turning brown.”
“Lydya says that’s because the water for the fields used to flow under the orchards.”
“No matter what we try, we get stopped by the lack of water. We need food. If we irrigate the fields, the orchards die. And with all the new people, we can’t buy enough food.” Half of the heavy links on his gold chain are already gone, and it is but early summer.
“You have something in mind?”
“Changing the weather.”
“That’s not a good idea.” . . . terrible idea!
He rubs his forehead at the violence of her thoughts, and she blushes as she feels his discomfort. “I’m sorry. This still takes getting used to,” she explains.
“Not all of it,” he says, thinking of one aspect of the night before, flushing as he does.
Her embarrassment matches his. Then they laugh—together.
“Sometimes . . .”
“. . . you . . .”
A few moments later, Megaera speaks. “Will you at least talk to Klerris before you try anything with the weather?”
“I will.” He can feel her start to stand. “Let’s get dressed.”
“Do you want to talk to him this morning?” she asks.
“Why not? If I’m right, we should get started. If I’m not, somehow, I need—we need—to look for another answer.”
In time, somewhat cleaner from the water that Creslin has lugged up once again from the beach, they make their way to a small cot in Land’s End. Both are sweat-streaked and dusty by the time they arrive.
“So much for cleanliness. We ought to think about adding a stable,” Megaera suggests.
“It’s hard to stay clean when it’s either too hot or too cold.” Creslin glances at the cot door. “Klerris is expecting us.”
The Black mage stands in the doorway of the one-time fisher’s cot that has been expanded into a comfortable bungalow, with even a covered porch to catch the cooler breezes off the harbor. “You’re here early. Shierra and Hyel weren’t expecting you until later.”
“We’re here for a different reason. I want to talk to you about changing the weather. Megaera feels that no matter how bad things are, trying to make Recluce wetter on a permanent basis would just make things worse.”
Klerris motions them toward the porch. “That’s really almost a tneoretical question, and I thought you weren’t fond of theory.”
“Theoretical?”
“Well,” Klerris smiles, “until you appeared, no one was ever strong enough to think about it. So why didn’t you just go ahead and do it?”
“Megaera convinced me otherwise.” Creslin steps out onto the porch and stands facing the light sea breeze.
Megaera glances from him to Klerris and back. “There’s something he’s not telling us.” Her right eyebrow lifts for an instant.
“I’m sure there is.” Klerris wanders to the corner of the porch, then turns. “Since you are here, you obviously have a reason—”
. . . doesn’t he always?
“You’re both right,” Creslin tells them. “We need cool weather, and we need rain. I can call the ice winds, but I feel that to get them here—now—would bring so much destruction that the orchards and crops would be