The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [210]
“They don’t know that, and I’m not sure that sister should.”
“She knows already.” Creslin steps past the horse harnessed to the cart. “The Whites know, and that’s probably how she found out.” He laughs as his steps carry him toward the inn and the horses. “Besides, it was clear enough that the cargoes were for you, not for me. Ryessa fears you far more than she does me.”
“That’s sad.”
“I know.”
“The cargoes are my wedding gifts and dowry, so to speak, only because she fears us.”
Creslin can add nothing, and his head has begun to ache with the concentration required for maintaining his balance and for the occasional use of his order-sense in keeping himself oriented. He matches steps with Megaera but says nothing, even during the ride back to the keep.
The wind gusts in from the northwest now, chill, and even damper than earlier. Kasma’s and Vola’s hooves echo from the stone of the courtyard as they carry the two regents toward the stable.
Creslin leads the way, for by now he knows the stairs by feel and size.
The other four—Klerris, Lydya, Hyel, and Shierra—wait for them in the room that has become their council chamber.
“How did it go?” Shierra asks.
There is silence while the co-regents seat themselves at the table. Then Megaera answers. “They were quite deferential. Although they wanted to show us all they had brought, or at least some of it, we were most gracious and accepted it on faith.”
“Which made them even more nervous, I suspect,” adds Shierra.
“I had that impression.”
“You’ve just added to the image of the mysterious and powerful regents of Recluce.”
“None of this regent or Duke or Tyrant or what-have-you.” Creslin shakes his head, and the blackness seems to swirl. “We’ve done much better as a council, anyway. And that’s what we’re going to remain.”
“But only because you’ve been in charge—” Shierra says.
“Crap! Anyone could have done better.”
“I beg to differ.” Creslin catches the edge in Klerris’s voice and waits.
“I beg to differ,” repeats the Black mage. “The idea of a council is fine, but only if you or Megaera lead it.”
“Fine. Megaera can lead it. She’s better suited to it than I am.” Creslin pauses at the churning in his guts, swallows as he realizes that the feelings are not his, but Megaera’s.
“I am sorry, best-beloved, but I disagree.”
Creslin sets his jaw and waits. Megaera will speak as she wishes.
“Thank you,” she begins. “First, like it or not, most of the world does not follow the Legend. Second, having a council composed half of women will do for Sarronnyn and Southwind. Third, you are the great and renowned Storm Wizard, he who has single-handedly destroyed most of the world’s navies. Fourth, not having you as the head of the council would give rise to rumors that either you are not well or that the council is a charade.”
“They’ll say it’s a farce if I am the head.”
“They’ll consider the council as at least an advisory body rather than a charade,” observes Lydya.
“And it allows for continuity when . . .”
Creslin and Megaera nod together, leaving Klerris’s statement uncompleted. Neither will survive the other. That is all too clear.
“So, best-beloved, you have to be the head of the council.” Megaera smiles.
“Wonderful. And a blind man shall lead them.”
“For a wizard, it doesn’t matter, and you certainly don’t act as though you’re blind.”
“Except that I’ll never lift a blade again.”
“I rather doubt you will have to.” Lydya’s voice is dry.
Creslin fights back a surge of nausea—Megaera’s. Although the queasiness is diminishing, it is being supplanted by other equally disconcerting feelings, such as an awkwardness, and an increased urgency to relieve himself.
“Who will be on the council?” ventures Hyel.
“For now, the six of us. There could be others, but we’ll choose them as their advice or knowledge become necessary.”
“I think it’s better with you running the council, best-beloved.” . . . at least in name . . .
Creslin sighs. Some things will never change, whether he can see or not.
CXLIV
TO THE EAST