The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [158]
“Creslin?” Megaera’s voice is soft as she stands in the morning light just outside the doorway from the hallway, barefoot and in her thin shift.
He wonders what she wants.
“Is it that obvious?” She twists her face into a grimace. . . . damn you . . . But the feeling is not edged, only regretful.
“Sorry,” he says.
“The Griffin will land tomorrow.”
“And?”
“Aldonya and Lynnya will be on board.”
“You want them to stay here?”
“I promised.”
“Which guest house?”
“You don’t—thank you.”
The arms around him are more than worth the inconvenience that may follow. He slips an arm inside the shift and around her naked back.
“Creslin . . .” No! Not now . . .
With a last squeeze and more than a slight wandering of his hand, he releases her.
“You—” . . . take too many liberties . . . always have . . . “—always have one thing on your mind.”
“Not always. Just when I’m around you.”
She shakes her head and straightens her shift, not meeting his eyes.
“Anyway . . .” Creslin says to break the silence and to change the unspoken subject on his mind, “. . . I know that you’ve worried about Aldonya.”
“She’ll be pleased.” Megaera’s smile lifts some of his fear.
“I know she’ll be pleased to see you . . . she’s very loyal. But will she be pleased to see me?”
“Of course. She once told me that you’re good at heart.”
“But do you believe her?”
“Of course not. You still haven’t changed that much, best-beloved.”
Beneath the banter, the anxieties bounce back and forth.
Why does she still. . .
. . . can’t he see?
. . . never meant that, and she knows it . . . love her . . . never hurt . . .
Creslin wipes his suddenly damp forehead, swallowing, looking down at the terrace stones, concentrating on their shape, pushing away mental images of Megaera.
“Best-beloved?”
He looks up.
Tears streak her cheeks, a hint of the fine red dust that settles everywhere muddying her clear skin. “I didn’t mean . . . just hold me.”
Creslin wraps his arms around her and does not think. Nor does she. In this, or in much else, they can scarcely deceive each other.
She lets him be the one to break away. “I’m going to get some water, just for us,” he tells her.
“What are you doing today?”
“Looking for another well. Klerris says there’s water somewhere beyond the high fields.” He shrugs. “It’s better than watching the island dry up and blow away. How about you?”
“More blade practice, then some glasswork. Avalari’s done a goblet, and it’s pretty good. I still can’t get the mixtures right all the time. Some of the glass cracks.”
“But—”
“I know. I could bind it with order, but that’s not the point.”
Creslin agrees. Neither of them can do everything, but it’s hard for them to realize it sometimes. He crosses the terrace and hoists the yoke. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
CVI
CRESLIN SQUINTS AGAINST the glare of the sun. Behind him, on the eastern side of the pier, is tied the newly named Dawnstar, her masts still bare of canvas. A half-dozen men work on the former Hamorian war schooner. At the shore end of the pier, a wagon and a cart wait. A few steps from him stands a squad—half trooper, half guard—waiting to help off-load the sloop.
“She’s heavy,” offers Creslin as he watches the Griffin wallow toward the pier.
“She is not,” counters Megaera, her eyes on the dark-haired woman standing by the railing, an infant in a cradle-pack on her back.
“I meant the ship.”
“Sometimes you’re just too serious.” Megaera grins at him.
He shakes his head, then grins back at her. They wait as the Griffin is moored to the stone bollard.
Freigr acknowledges their presence on the pier with a half-salute, but he remains by the helm as the sail is furled and the gangway lowered.
Aldonya is the first off the sloop, nearly running down the plank despite the child on her back. She kneels at Megaera’s feet. “Your grace . . .”
Taking her hand, Megaera helps her rise.
“. . . it is so good to be here!” Aldonya breathes.
Creslin and Megaera consider the black-walled keep, the heat-browned hills, and the heat waves that ripple off