The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [200]
His tattered thoughts find his body, and he rests in darkness. Finally he straightens in the chair and opens his eyes. But he sees nothing. He knows that Megaera is there, and two others. But there is only blackness.
He squints. Night? Hardly. He swallows. “Megaera . . .” His voice is tentative, not the voice of the lightnings and thunders he has been.
“Are you all right?”
The warmth in her words reassures him, and his hand reaches for hers.
“I can’t see,” he admits. “The blackness again.”
Her fingers grip his, and the blackness dissolves into the piercing green eyes that search his face.
“You were gone so long.” Tears cascade down her cheeks. “Too long. Don’t ever—”
“I won’t, I won’t.” He shakes his head. “Strange. I’m all right now. But I couldn’t see. I knew you were there, but I couldn’t see.”
“I don’t think you’d better do anything more with the storms. Not until you talk to Lydya.” Her forehead wrinkles, and her eyes and her sense study him. “There’s something . . .” She shakes her head.
Creslin forces a laugh. “I shouldn’t have to do much more now. Not with the weather. Anyway, you can. Your touch is . . . more deft.” He feels alone, and his hand squeezes hers.
“You’re . . .” she begins. . .. frightened . . . oh . . . best-beloved . . .
Creslin does not have to provide the words to admit his fear—to acknowledge the chill created by that sudden blindness that can scarcely be an accident, not this second time—for Megaera understands, and her arms go around him. His eyes remain open, greedily drinking in the damp redness of her hair and the faded blue of the uniform tunic that encases her, even as his arms bind her to him.
CXXXVIII
“YOU’D BOTH BETTER drink something,” suggests Lydya.
Megaera picks up one of the tumblers, and Creslin follows her example. He takes a deep swallow, ignoring the warmth of the bitter liquid that Lydya has provided. Perspiration drips from his short hair, dribbling behind his ears and down the back of his neck. He looks at Megaera.
Her hair is dark with sweat, matted against her skull. Both he and she stink of sweat, strain, and fear.
“Shierra took the eastern beaches. Klerris went with Hyel.” Lydya’s voice is flat.
Outside the porch, rain continues to fall, not quite in sheets. Creslin turns his head, looking northward, but the clouds are gray, not black, reassuring him that his efforts have not dislodged permanently the controls he and Megaera had placed upon the high winds. Even without straining, he can tell that the worst impacts of the great storm are flowing westward and mainly onto Sligo, Lydiar, and Fairhaven.
“What exactly did you do on that last trip?” asks Lydya. Her voice is neutral.
Megaera takes a deep sip from her tumbler. Creslin can feel her guts twisting, not from an order-chaos conflict, but from something more basic.
“Creslin?” asks the healer again.
“I’ll be fine, best-beloved.” Megaera’s hand touches his.
For a moment after her hand lifts, he cannot see, although his eyes are open. He swallows, takes a deep breath, and the darkness passes.
“Oh . . . I built a storm,” he tells Lydya.
“I had rather guessed that. For the bigger White fleet. Wasn’t it leaving already?”
“Yes. I’d expected it to,” He licks his lips. “But when I thought about it, it didn’t seem like a good idea to let it go.”
“It was a good idea to murder another four thousand people?”
Creslin takes a deep breath. “Yes. Even if you put it that way.”
“Why?” Why, best-beloved? So much death already . . . did you have to add . . .
“Because,” he says carefully, “it means that Recluce can survive even if we don’t.”
“So you murdered nearly ten thousand men to save a mere fifteen hundred?” the healer asks.
Creslin takes another sip from his tumbler. “Go back to Candar if that’s what you want, Lydya. Wait while they slowly strangle the continent. Be happy with the lack of fighting as those who don’t support the White Wizards vanish, or die. Then come back in a decade and tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Best-beloved