The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [172]
He walks out on the pier, looking at the nearly refitted Dawnstar. Without Lydya’s ability to mend wood, or Klerris’s art of strengthening the timbers, rebuilding the Hamorian ship would not have been possible, not in just one summer. He smiles, though the smile fades quickly, for the Dawnstar still lacks adequate sails.
So they have waited for Freigr and the Griffin . . . and waited. It has been only three days since Creslin rescued her from the Fairhaven war schooner. Now he waits to confirm what he suspects but what the white mists have kept him from learning.
Montgren is quiet now, the whiteness subsided, but there are troops from Jellico, and even from Hydlen, camped throughout the gentle valleys that had once held little more than sheep. And Vergren alone still seethes with white.
In time, the sloop wallows up to the pier, half of her sails already furled by the time she passes the breakwater. By then, a group of guards and troopers has arrived and reported to Creslin. They stand a pace or so behind the silent regent.
As the lines are made firm and the gangway eased into place, Freigr finally looks out at the guards on the pier, then at Creslin. The captain’s hair that had been sandy and silver is now mostly silver, and the clean-shaven chin is covered with a short and scruffy beard.
The Griffin, up close, bears its own scars: gouges in the once-smooth railings, patches on the single sail still unfurled, and an unseen and lingering sense of chaos.
As soon as lines are secured and the gangway settled, Creslin is across and onto the deck, where Freigr meets him, garbed in the green-and-gold surcoat worn over a graying black sweater. The crew, almost as scruffy as the captain, looks away from Creslin.
“That was your doing? To the war schooner, I mean?”
Creslin nods.
The flint-gray eyes are bloodshot. “I can’t say that I want to be here, Creslin. Or should I say, Duke Creslin? Or will your co-regent wear the coronet?”
“I would claim no title, Freigr.”
“No, you wouldn’t. That I know. But can you afford not to?”
“How did it happen?”
Freigr shakes his head. “Who knows? Was it the plague? Or an assassin? All I know is that people were dying, mobs running through the streets threatening to stone anyone who was connected with the Black Wizards, and the messengers said that the keep had fallen to the mob.”
“I take it that the White Wizards sent in the troops to restore order?”
“How—”
“I could see the troops after the magic cleared, but not how they got there. The keep itself is still clouded in White magic.”
“It was magic?”
“Chaos magic of some sort. You can’t use order-mastery for that.”
“But they said that it was all your fault, changing the weather.”
“The weather, yes.” Creslin sighs. He glances again at the battered Griffin. “And I suppose the disasters that followed are my fault, although I didn’t cause them.”
“Cause . . . who can say?” Freigr looks at Creslin, the bloodshot eyes still flint-hard. “What do we do now?”
“You’re welcome to become the flagship of Recluce.”
“Do we have much choice?”
“No. You could command the Dawnstar. “Creslin points to the nearly bare-masted ship across the pier.
“You’ve done a lot with her. We’ve got the sails. Plus some extra canvas. And as many provisions as we could bring.” The seaman gestures at the barrels lashed across the forecastle, then pauses. “I’ll have to think about it. Might be better to have Gossel as her master.”
“It’s your choice. Gossel could replace you here.”
Freigr looks at the keep on the hill. “I don’t know. I knew it was a bad omen, bringing three friggin’ wizards here. Just didn’t know how bad.”
Creslin sees a woman peering from the hatchway leading to the mess.
Freigr’s eyes follow his. “Synder’s sister. Couldn’t have more bad luck, so I let those who wanted to bring their women, sisters, whatever, do so. I figured you wouldn’t mind, and I couldn’t have done less.”
“We’re a bit crowded, but that’s the best news you’ve brought.” Creslin looks to the northern skies