The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [170]
Both the faint thud of hooves on the damp clay and the warmth that is Megaera flow toward him in the dampness before the twilight. He rises and walks toward the stable.
Vola lifts her head and whinnies as Creslin steps forward. He is uncertain of whether he should offer Megaera comfort or whether he is the one who needs the comfort.
“Does it matter?” Megaera offers him a lopsided smile and dismounts.
They hold each other, she still with the reins in her hands. Then she breaks away. “You’re going to have to let me go, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”
He blushes. “I’ll take care of Kasma.”
“Thank you.”
As Megaera scurries for the jakes, Creslin leads Kasma into her stall and begins to unsaddle her. Then he racks the saddle and removes the bridle. When he finishes, he walks around the holding to the terrace, where Megaera waits for him on the ledge, her trousered legs hanging over the edge above the slope leading to the cliff.
“Thank you again,” she says.
He shrugs, seating himself next to her. “What does Shierra think?”
“She’s worried, but Lydya thinks that the rain was soon enough for most of the pearapples to have some fruit, and the grasses on the plateau are already coming back. We can start grazing the horses there again in a day or so.”
“But?”
“There still won’t be enough food to get us through the winter, with nothing coming from Montgren.”
“I’m sorry about Korweil . . .”
“Best-beloved, there wasn’t much we could have changed.”
He squeezes her hand. “If I’d only known more earlier.”
“That’s the story of life.” She brushes a stray hair out of her eyes.
“The Griffin’s on the way. How Freigr got her clear, I don’t know.”
“You had something to do with that. I felt it.”
“Oh, getting her away from the White war schooner, yes,” Creslin agrees. “But how he managed to set sail—that took some doing. He’ll have some supplies, knowing Freigr.”
“Anything will help.”
For a time, they sit quietly.
“Does Lydya know anything more about . . . about the Marshall?” asks Creslin.
“No. Just that Llyse has taken over. The traders didn’t know anymore than that Westwind has a new Marshall.”
“I should have felt . . . something.”
Megaera touches his hand. “She didn’t want you to be that close.”
He looks into the darkness of the Eastern Ocean. “But . . . something . . . ?”
Mist settles on them, the faintest of drizzles as the overcast darkens into twilight.
“Dinner will be late,” Megaera says.
“I suspected that. Lynnya was giving Aldonya fits.”
“I offered to fix it, but Aldonya insisted that it was her job.” Megaera smiles. “She threw me out.”
“She does have definite ideas.”
“So do you.” She squeezes his hand for a moment.
Creslin’s thoughts are still on the whiteness that blankets Montgren, and he returns the gesture absently. Megaera withdraws her hand but does not move, and the misty drizzle continues to bathe them.
“While we’re waiting, could you . . . a song would be nice if . . .”
He clears his throat, moistens his lips, swallows.
. . . high upon highland, the brightest of days,
I thought of my lover, and his warm, loving ways. . .
The notes are cold copper, and his guts twist within him. He breaks off. “I don’t . . . somehow . . .”
Her hand touches his. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
“That’s all right.”
But the song that would not sing worries at him, and they are both glad when Aldonya appears in the doorway.
“You two will become sick, sitting there in the darkness and the rain. And how will the rest of us fare with our regents ill? Your dinner is ready.” She gestures with a large wooden spoon, jabbing it at them as if it were a blade. “Come on.”
Creslin and Megaera exchange grins as they turn and rise to walk across the terrace.
CXX
CRESLIN’S WHITE-OAK wand flashes, moving like the lightning that he has often called from the skies, and strikes.
“Oooff . . .” Shierra staggers back.
“Blackness,” mumbles Hyel. “Are you all right?”
“I