The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [178]
He used it like a spade,
A-holding to the blade . . .
Although the notes are not quite silver, her voice is pleasant enough. Yet each note jars in Creslin’s ears, echoes off-key through his skull.
“Are you all right? Megaera asks.
“I thought I was, but the singing . . .”
“Her notes are honest.”
“I know.”
Clunk.
Two heavy tumblers are set on the table by the serving woman, who does not even pause as she heads for the circular table around which nearly ten men and women sit. All of them are from the keep.
“We really need to think about some sort of common uniform, “Creslin muses.
“That can wait.”
“I know. I know.” He takes a small sip of the nearly clear liquid.
“Oooo . . .” His lips pucker.
Megaera grins. “It can’t be that tart.”
“Try it.”
He waits until her lips twist. “It can’t be that tart,” he echoes.
“Are you going to drink the rest of it?”
“Of course. We males have a fondness for tartness.”
Megaera elbows him.
“Ooofff . . .”
“I still haven’t forgotten.”
He shakes his head, squinting, but the notes from the singer remain coppered silver, although honest. Yet the falseness echoes through his head. “Do you feel it?”
“Just through you.”
They sip the green juice gingerly, listening to the singer.
In time, the guard strums a last chord, stands, and walks toward Creslin. She holds out the guitar. “Would you like to sing, your grace?”
Creslin smiles faintly. “I feel honored, but unfortunately I cannot. Not tonight. I wish I could.” He does not know which is more disturbing—her look of disappointment or the calmness in his guts that indicates he is not lying to himself.
“Perhaps another time?”
“I would like that, but it may be a while.”
The guard looks from Creslin to Megaera. The two women’s eyes meet before the guard nods. “We all would like to hear you again . . . when it is possible, your grace.”
“Thank you.” Creslin’s sip of the tart green juice turns into a gulp.
“Do you know what it is?” Megaera asks after the guard has returned to a table.
“Why the notes bother me? Klerris has to be right. But exactly how? No. My order balance is off.”
“I gathered that.”
“I just don’t know. I haven’t done much of anything lately, except to watch from the winds, and that shouldn’t be a problem.” He takes another sip and stares out through the cloudy glass of the window into the blackness of the night. “I just don’t know.”
He takes one more sip, the bitterness passing his lips and throat unnoticed. Megaera leaves her juice nearly untouched.
Another singer takes the guitar.
. . . the Duke he went a-hunting,
a-hunting he did go . . .”
Creslin waits through the song, sipping juice, his eyes focused somewhere beyond the night.
Finally he turns to Megaera. “It’s time to go.”
Silently she rises with him.
CXXV
WITH A SINGLE sail in place, the Sligan coaster edges through the heavy chop and past the breakwater. A crewman on the bowsprit tosses a light line to one of the guards standing pier watch by the deep-water bollard.
Below the Sligan ensign there flies another banner, one of crossed black and silver lightnings on the azure.
Why would a Sligan coaster be flying the Westwind banner? Creslin is practically running down the hill road now, his steps dodging the deeper puddles as he dashes through the light rain. He can think of only one answer, and it is not one he wishes to face.
Behind him, Hyel and Shierra exchange glances. “You’d better let Megaera know.”
“She’ll already know that he’s upset,” Shierra observes.
“But not necessarily why.”
“You’re right. We’re going to have more guards, though. That’s for certain.”
“More—”
“Don’t groan so loudly.”
Hyel grins. “Are you coming?”
“I might as well.”
They follow Creslin’s steps in time to catch up with him before the coaster is fully secured at the deep-water end of the pier.
“Do you want to explain?” asks Hyel as he steps up beside Creslin.
Creslin points to the deck, where Westwind guards stand in loose order.
“I still—” Hyel begins.
“I see what you mean,” interjects Shierra. “I hope they aren’t all that’s left.”
“You think that