The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [179]
“The Marshall’s dead. Llyse is dead, and Ryessa has been moving troops eastward into the Westhorns. If Westwind still existed, there wouldn’t be three squads coming to Recluce.” Creslin’s words are hard, solid.
The coaster is made fast as her heavyset captain gestures silent orders to a quick-moving crew. Several men glance sideways at the guards, moving around them as necessary.
As the gangway is swung into the stones, a blond guard marches down the planks. She steps past Hyel and halts before Shierra. “Squad Leader Fiera reporting.”
The hardness of her voice tears at Creslin, and he swallows, waiting.
“Report.” Shierra’s voice is as hard as her sister’s.
“Three full squads. Also ten walking wounded, five permanently disabled, and twenty consorts and children. Three deaths since embarkation in Rulyarth. We also bring some supplies, weapons, and tools . . . and what is left of the Westwind treasury.”
“Report accepted, Squad Leader.” Shierra turns. “May I present you to Regent Creslin? Squad Leader Fiera.”
Creslin nods solemnly. “Honor bright, Squad Leader. You have paid a great price, and great is the honor you bestow upon us through your presence. Few have paid a higher price than you.” He hates the formality of his speech but can offer her nothing besides the ritual, nothing to compare to her travails. At the same time, he remembers a single kiss beneath the tower called Black, and he swallows, for he knows one reason why he now possesses the guards and the Westwind treasury.
“Will you accept the presentation of your heritage, your grace? For you are all that remains of the glory and power of Westwind.”
“I can do no less, and I will accept it in the spirit in which it is offered.” His eyes meet hers, and he lowers his voice. “But never would I have wished this. Even long ago, I wished otherwise.” That is as much as he dares to voice on the pier, but it must be said.
“We know that, your grace.” Fiera swallows. “By your leave, Regent?” Her face is tear-streaked.
“The keep is yours Squad Leader, as is all that we have. We are in your debt, in the angels, and in the Legend’s.”
“And we in yours, Regent.” Tears continue to seep from the young, hard face, but the voice is like granite.
“Form up! On the pier!” snaps Shierra, her voice carrying to the coaster.
The guards file off the battered and damp-decked ship; the drizzle continues to blanket both ship and pier.
“What was all that about?” whispers Hyel to Creslin.
Creslin swallows and blots his forehead, and eyes, with the back of his hand. Finally he steps back to the other side of the pier, away from where Fiera and Shierra preside over the disembarkation of the Westwind guards. Hyel follows him.
For a time, Creslin looks out at the ocean, struggling to regain his composure. “That’s . . . they’re . . . all that’s left . . .”
“Of what?” Hyel queries.
“Of Westwind.” Creslin turns abruptly and steps back beside the two sisters, watching as the guards disembark and the crew begins the off-loading.
Several carts roll toward the pier, their passage clearly organized by Megaera, who will—must, unhappily—understand the lead in his heart.
CXXVI
SITTING IN THE wooden armchair with its back to the pair of bunks, Creslin studies the parchment sheets; Gossel studies Creslin; Megaera looks at neither.
Finally Creslin lifts his eyes. “You need ten golds. That’s what you spent over the loss allowance.”
“The ten golds—they aren’t that important.” Gossel clears his throat. “The holds were nearly always full. Most of the time, break-even is around half-full.”
Creslin pushes the chair back and stands, ducking at the last minute to clear the low timber bracing the cabin’s ceiling. “You brought back more than expected. And the lot of oak seedlings . . . Lydya is more than pleased with that.”
“And I appreciate the cobalt,” Megaera adds.
Gossel looks down at the inlaid crest on the table, the crest of a duchy that exists only in memory. “It isn’t going to work, ser. Begging your pardon, it won’t. Not unless things change.” He takes