The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [169]
“The trading plan . . . first. I still need to talk to Klerris.”
CXIX
A SLOOP WITH tattered sails beats northeast from Tyrhavven, trying to clear Cape Kherra before the war schooner, farther offshore, can intercept her.
Even with his senses so extended, Creslin can feel the whiteness of the war schooner, and he knows that there are but a handful of sloops that would risk the heavy seas. He shivers in his chair, nearly breaking his concentration, aware that he must do something to help the Griffin. He has never tried to focus the powers of the storms or winds at such a distance.
Recalling what Klerris mentioned about technique, he searches and searches . . . until he finds the gaps in the winds. While he cannot precisely judge distances with his mind, the wind sheers are close enough, for the schooner has not yet neared the Griffin. Creslin nudges almost persuades, a further shift in the sheers, and withdraws.
He is gasping, nearly drained, his mind blank. Shortly he rises and walks to the kitchen, where he finds some cheese. He cuts a slab of black bread and trims the mold from it. Flour is in short enough supply as it is, and the continuing dampness is causing all the bread to mold. He rewraps the loaf and takes a bite of the bread and cheese.
He can see the changes that he and Klerris have worked on, but once again, doing things delicately takes time, and the excess of moisture will not disappear immediately.
The pearapples, at least, have recovered and retained what fruit remains, and the spice crops are promising, except for the dark pepper. He takes another bite of bread and cheese.
“You must be hungry, your grace, to eat that.” Aldonya stands in the doorway, carrying an openweave basket from which the odor of seaweed and fish emerge. On her back, Lynnya sleeps.
Creslin’s mouth is full, and he shrugs, then swallows. “Sometimes the weather’s hard work, Aldonya.” He looks at the basket. “Fish tonight?”
“There’s precious little else, your grace.”
“Sorry.” He takes another bite of bread and cheese, trying to ignore the taste of the bread. Lydya insists that the mold is not harmful, but the flavor is terrible. Still, he has bread, unlike most of those on Recluce.
“Will her grace be here for dinner?”
“I think so. Excuse me.” Creslin remembers that he still has some work to do with the winds if the Griffin is to escape the Fairhaven schooner.
Aldonya shakes her head.
“Mmmmm . . .” Lynnya burbles.
Creslin smiles at the red-haired baby, but the smile fades as he reseats himself in the study, where he looks out the open windows to the cloud-swirled north.
The white war schooner has almost reached the Griffin by the time Creslin casts his senses to the winds and relocates the sloop. He edges the sheer between the two ships and watches the distance open between them as the schooner plows into a welter of chop and swirling head winds, while the Griffin clears the cape full before the wind.
Klerris and Megaera were right—again. If he can only plan ahead and use time to his advantage, even more is possible. He frowns. His success with the sloop ignores the chaos from which the Griffin flees.
Once again he quests toward Montgren, but he can sense nothing through the cloud of dense and dull whiteness that lies across the land. Fragments of fire, fear, and sickness escape the white gloom like arrows released at random. Vergren itself, Korweil’s stronghold, smolders, but whether the fire is real or magic, Creslin cannot say. Nor, he suspects, does it matter.
When he stands, his head again is splitting, and at first he must steady himself on the chair. Not all of the pain is his, and he wonders if Megaera knows what he has discovered.
“Are you all right, your grace?” Aldonya stands in the doorway.
“No, but it will pass.”
“Her grace is heading up the road, and I thought you might like to know.” She departs. Lynnya is no longer with her, but sleeping in her cradle.
Creslin steps toward the terrace,