The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [168]
Smoke puffs rise from valley after valley as tinder-dry meadows burn. Yet there are no soldiers in Montgren, only tiny points of whiteness that flicker in and out of existence. And none of those points of light appear near Vergren.
The soldiers will come later, much later.
Creslin stands and walks out of the study, down the short hall, onto the terrace, and into the cold mist that blankets the afternoon.
Megaera is at the keep, finishing her blade practice. That he can sense. Should he see her first, or Klerris?
After strapping on his short sword, he looks for Aldonya, but she and Lynnya are not in the holding. He debates walking and decides that Vola would be quicker, even with time taken to saddle her. Besides the mount needs the exercise.
Vola’s strides are quick and sure, each hoof leaving its mark in the damp red clay of the road with each step northward to the black-stoned keep that may represent the hope of order.
The hope of order? Pushing away the self-importance of the thought, he hurries through the cool dampness of the day. Overhead, gray clouds shift, but only a fine mist shrouds the town and harbor. The fishing boats are out, leaving only the Dawnstar and the waterlogged boat that never moves. Creslin reminds himself that he should do something about the abandoned boat.
Megaera stands in the doorway to the keep. Her lips are tight. “Have you looked at what we’ve wrought, best-beloved? Really looked?” Her face is pale, almost blank compared to the inner turmoil that tears at her.
“Should I?” He shakes his head at the flippant comment that was meant to disguise his feelings.
“Should you!” Then her voice drops, as she senses his pain and his reaction to her anguish. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand what you meant.”
Creslin forces a smile. “I just meant—”
“I know.”
“—that I didn’t want to hurt you more.”
“I’m stronger than that.” She lifts a wrist, where a white scar remains. “And I want you to see and feel the chaos that you can create with pure order.”
“That’s why I came. I already have seen it. The wizards are burning Montgren.”
Megaera raises her eyebrows . . . . expected any less?
“No. They’re setting hundreds of little fires in dry fields, meadows, houses,” he tells her.
“Anyone who can tell the difference would be identified as a Black mage, right?” she asks.
“Clever of them. I either change the weather back and bring on storms that will flatten and swamp anything that’s unburned, or Montgren burns.”
“Would you? Change the weather back?”
“I’ve been working with Klerris to make a new pattern, one with less rain here, more in Candar, but not as much as before. If I try to put out the fires . . . I don’t think it will work.” The cold steadiness of his stomach chills him as much as it confirms to both of them the truth of his statement . . . unless he is honestly mistaken, and that possibility worries him as well. Klerris is right, honesty is not infallibility.
Megaera looks at him. “They must have been waiting. They would have found some way to get at cousin dear.”
“I expect so.” Creslin is not thinking of Korweil but of Andre the shepherd and of his daughter Mathilde, who had insisted that Creslin was a “good master.”
“That doesn’t make it easier,” she adds. . .. so much death . . .
“No. I’ll talk to Klerris, but I wanted you to know.” He has to ignore her feelings about death. “What are you working on? Right now, I mean.”
“Besides riding the winds to look at Montgren? Besides watching the wizards use you to destroy Montgren? A trading plan for the Dawnstar. ”
“Perhaps the maiden voyage should be to the east, or as far west as Suthya.”
“Suthya was the plan. How do we know that the Nordlans or the Hamorians wouldn’t just seize her? In Candar, at least, they fear you. Even Fairhaven will grant you that.”
Has it come so quickly to this? That for Recluce to endure, he must be even more greatly feared than the White Wizards?
Megaera’s smile is faint, but she reaches out and squeezes his hand. “We still need