The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [201]
Creslin pushes away the nausea that is hers but does not try to stand.
The healer forces a smile. “He’s right. Megaera. But it doesn’t make it easier.”
Puzzlement wars with nausea, and nausea wins as Megaera staggers toward the bucket that stands in the corner. Creslin chokes back the bile in his own throat and manages somehow to keep down the contents of his near-empty stomach as he struggles beside Megaera.
“Just let me be . . . sick alone . . .”
“I can’t, remember?”
Laughter mixes with queasiness when she finally lifts her head. “It’s going to be an interesting nine months.”
Creslin swallows. “That was the look . . .”
Lydya nods.
“You—we—still have some more work to do,” reminds his co-regent. “Such as making sure that the few survivors of our efforts don’t sink the glorious land of Recluce before it’s even launched.” She breaks off her words for another lurch to the bucket.
This time Creslin’s weakened stomach fails to handle the strain, and he ends up emptying his guts over the edge of the porch. He shakes his head after rinsing out his mouth.
“It was your idea,” she reminds him. “You had to feel what I felt.”
“He would have anyway,” reminds Lydya dryly.
Creslin is not listening as his thoughts skip along the eastern beaches, skirt the dissipating white fog, slip from one shattered hull to another and another, and from those to a schooner seemingly untouched save that it rests firmly on the soft white sands. Below the Feyn River estuary, timbers and sodden bodies bob in the heavy swells, and the whiteness of death seeps toward him. His thoughts hasten farther southward, noting in passing that a good dozen hulls appear sound enough to be reclaimed for trade or defense.
He also notes that more than a few armed groups have formed, especially on the sole western beach where Megaera attacked the main Nordlan fleet. He frowns, wondering if there are perhaps too many for the half-dozen squads that have become the army of Recluce. The invaders would certainly feel as though they had nothing to lose.
He straightens. “I think I’d better be going.”
Megaera stiffens and reaches for her sword-belt. Unlike Creslin and the guards, she prefers the belt to a shoulder harness.
“Should you?” His stomach tightens as he asks.
“Does it matter, best-beloved?” Her voice is hard.
He bows his head and for a moment cannot see through the burning mist. Her hand, with a trembling warmth, touches his, and he swallows.
“Both of you, drink this.”
“What—”
“You’re each near the edge. This will help.” The healer extends two small cups. Her face is drawn.
Creslin downs the liquid in a single swallow, wipes his mouth, and buckles his shoulder harness in place. “Klerris?”
Megaera, finishing her draught in two swallows, glances from face to face.
“Just go. They’re on the western beach. That was the closest landing.”
“Oh . . .” Megaera’s soft exclamation rips through him.
“Success has other prices,” he observes as he starts toward Vola, tethered to the railing below the porch.
Extending a hand to Megaera, he ignores Lydya’s puzzlement even as Megaera ignores his gesture and swings into her own saddle fluidly and unaided. Creslin follows her but does not catch up to her until they are nearly halfway up the path toward the keep.
What can he say? Often enough he has done exactly what he planned, only to discover that the results created greater problems. Now Megaera has done the same. By ensuring that most of the ships she has beached are usable, all too many soldiers survive. Still, he had expected more understanding.
“Just stop gloating!”
He swallows. “Is there anyone left at the keep?”
“You told Thoirkel to stay.”
“We’ll take him and anyone else there.”
“Fine.”
Light rain continues to fall, its droplets far smaller and sparser that those that will scour eastern Candar.
Thoirkel is waiting. “Ser . . .?”
“Round up anyone who can fight,” snaps Creslin. Go to the western beach, the one below the second field.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Are there any mounts left?