The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [171]
“I was lucky.” Creslin sets his wand aside.
Shierra smiles, a smile that recalls Westwind and a kiss on the stones outside the Black Tower from another guard. “No. Luck has nothing to do with it. Your technique is sloppy around the edges, but unless you run into someone a lot faster, it won’t matter. Or—”
“Unless I’m fighting more than one person,” finishes Creslin. “That’s what happened with the Hamorians.”
“There’s not much I can do about that, unless you want to try taking on two at once.”
Creslin laughs. “How about you and Hyel?”
“Not now.” She rubs her shoulder again. “I’m going to have the devil’s bruise there anyway. Besides, it’s starting to rain harder.”
“Has it ever stopped?” Hyel glances up, and then at Creslin.
“I’m working on it. We just have to be careful.” He grins ruefully. “Haven’t you noticed that it doesn’t pour any longer?”
“We only have endless mist.” Hyel’s tone is dour. “I think I liked the heat better.”
Shierra completes racking the wand. Her eyes flash from Hyel to Creslin, and she smiles broadly.
“You two,” complains Hyel. “You’re from the coldest spot in the world, and you’ve got no sympathy for anyone who likes heat.”
“It’s not that bad, dear man,” Shierra says with a smile.
Hyel blushes.
Creslin looks away, but he is pleased. “The Griffin will be landing in a bit. Are you coming?”
“Is there any need to? Won’t Freigr be staying for a while?”
“This time . . . yes. He’s likely to be here for some time, in fact.”
“Is it that bad?” Shierra slips into the shoulder harness bearing her blade. “Already?”
“Sooner than I thought,” admits Creslin.
“It’s certain, then, about the Duke?”
“Nothing’s certain, but I think so.”
“Why didn’t he come here to Recluce?”
“Vergren was his life.” Creslin picks up his harness. The hilt of his short sword is cold to his touch, colder even than the mist that falls. “How could he give it up?”
“I don’t know.” Hyel looks down at the stones of the courtyard. “I used to think I understood things. Now—”
“It’s not that bad,” interrupts Shierra.
“I don’t know,” repeats Hyel, mechanically racking the practice wand and readjusting his sword-belt.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Creslin tells them, “after I see what shape Freigr and the Griffin are in. Don’t forget to send a squad and some carts for off-loading.”
“They’ll be there.”
Leaving Vola in the keeps’ stable, Creslin stretches his legs toward the harbor and the expanded cot that has become Megaera’s glassworks.
His eyes study the harbor, but he does not see the white sails of the approaching Griffin; only the Dawnstar and the sunken fishing boat are in view. He shakes his head. He had meant to discuss the relic with Shierra and Hyel. Sooner or later they will need the pier space.
Creslin stops outside the rough, clay-brick walls of the glassworks, then steps through the open doorway.
Her face smudged, Megaera does not look up from the stone-topped table where she studies a translucent blob. Beside the blob is a glass goblet, one of the products of her work with Avalari, an apprentice glassblower before his impression into the Hamorian fleet. Apprentice or not, the goblets are good, and in time their production will provide another trade item, assuming that Recluce lasts that long.
Megaera looks up at Creslin and smiles.
“You’re not coming, are you?” he asks.
“What good would it do? You can deal with Freigr, and I’ll see you both later.”
He steps around the table, hoping for at least a quick kiss.
“You . . .”. . . impossible . . . oversexed . . .
He gets both the kiss and a full-bodied hug that leave his heart racing.
“Creslin . . .”
“I know.” Another squeeze and a kiss and he is out into the gray afternoon. Before he has cleared the doorway, she is back at work with the mixtures of sand and chemicals that Klerris has laboriously provided.
As he reaches the foot of the pier, Creslin glances toward the point of white, still perhaps two kays seaward of the