The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [157]
. . . at least he asked . . .
“Would you please—?”
This time Megaera is the one to blush. “Sorry. I still forget.”
“That’s because you use force in the wrong places.” Klerris takes one of the rough wooden chairs. “Sit down. This is going to take a while.”
Megaera eases into one of the chairs, while Creslin sits on the stone wall at the back of the porch, where he can see Klerris, Megaera, and the harbor—vacant once more except for the waterlogged fishing boat.
“Think of a lever,” Klerris says. “If your lever is short and you have a boulder to move, it takes a lot of force on the lever, and the movement, if it happens at all, happens right then. A longer lever takes much less force, but you have to move the lever farther. Working with weather is similar if you think of the lever’s length and movement as distance and time. When you built the storm that destroyed the Hamorian raiders, you used brute force immediately—”
“I didn’t have much choice.”
“Don’t be quite so sensitive.” Klerris shakes his head. “That isn’t the point. Had you been able to predict when the Hamorians were about to arrive, you could have reached farther away, days earlier, and shifted a few winds slightly in order to create a storm front that would have been much easier to tap—”
“But how do you know which winds to change and how?”
“If,” Klerris takes a deep breath, “you wish to listen, I would be happy to explain. You may recall, I wanted to tell you this some time ago, but you didn’t seem interested.”
“I was seasick at the time,” Creslin answers dryly.
Megaera looks at him.
“Sorry . . . you’re right. I could have asked later.”
“Before we get started, and this will take some time, would you like something to drink?”
Creslin nods and stands. “Where—”
“I’ll get it,” Megaera interrupts. “You can tell Creslin the background information you’ve already told me.”
Creslin does not sigh. Once again Megaera has shown that he needs to think ahead more clearly. He takes the other chair, sits down, and turns toward Klerris.
CIV
“YOU’LL TAKE CARE of the details?” asks the Duke as the black-haired woman lifts the cup to his lips. He struggles upright against the pillows.
“Of course, of course.” The woman touches his feverish brow with her free hand. “I know how you worry.”
“. . . feels good . . .” he mumbles between sips.
“Drink some more. It’s good for you.”
“Tastes terrible . . . hand feels good.”
Helisse lifts the cup from his lips, suppressing a frown.
“Can’t keep going like this. Every time it’s worse. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” The words are followed by a ragged series of gasps. “So hot . . . so dry . . .”
“They say that’s because of the Black magic on Recluce. They’ve stolen the rain.” Helisse sets the cup on the table next to the high bed.
“Don’t believe it,” gasps the Duke. “Year started hot. More rain when Creslin was here . . . any time last year. Make sure the pay chest goes on the next shipment.”
“I understand, dear man. I understand.” Helisse lays a hand on his sweating forehead again. “But you need to rest.”
“Rest, rest. It’s all I do.”
After a time, Helisse removes her hand. A shimmer of reddish-white lingers at her fingertips. His eyes closed, the Duke coughs raggedly.
“Sleep softly, dear man. Sleep softly.”
She turns to the girl seated on the stool by the window. “Call for me if he needs anything. They know where to find me.”
“Yes, mistress.”
The Duke coughs again, but Helisse does not turn as she departs his sickroom, only nodding at the pair of guards in the corridor outside.
CV
FROM THE TERRACE southward, the dry plateau stretches into the dusty horizon. Before long, heat devils will appear. Out on the Eastern Ocean, its swells low and flat, the water barely laps at the beaches below the terrace.
Creslin glances at the buckets and the yoke. Today will be another long day of desalting water for the keep and the handful of refugees at Land’s End. Should he even bother to wash up? Megaera has said that he should not do so much manual labor, and