The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [211]
His sharpened senses tell him where the wall is, although he cannot see it, and he seats himself on the stones he laid, his face warmed by the rising sun. He does not shift his still-sightless eyes toward the source of that warmth, but listens instead to the sea.
Keee-aaaaa. . .
His lips quirk at the sound of the sea gull circling somewhere above the beach, but he makes no sound . . . for Megaera still sleeps, and she needs that sleep, both for herself and for the daughter she carries.
The first sea gull is joined by another before both fly from earshot. The breeze fades away, as does the morning warmth, when the clouds from the west reach the eastern horizon.
Shortly the wind, cooler now but not chill, springs from behind him, heralding the cold rains that he knows will fall later in the day.
“Best-beloved?”
Megaera carries something as she steps carefully across the damp terrace stones, but his perceptions are not sharp enough to make out the large object.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“A little tired, but Aldonya keeps telling me that’s normal.” She seats herself beside him, carefully setting the object on the stones on the side away from him.
“It’s a lovely . . .” . . . sorry . . . I’m stupid . . .
“It’s all right. Even I can tell that it’s a lovely day. The air smells fresh, and I could even feel the sun before the clouds came.” He shrugs.
“Would you do something for me?”
He frowns. “What? I can sense enough not to fall on my face, and I can dress myself . . .”
“Creslin . . .” . . . no more self-pity . . .
He cannot help but grin at the acerbic feel of the unspoken words, so like the lady he loves. “All right. No more self-pity. If I can avoid it.”
“You can try.” She extends something toward him.
The smooth feel of the guitar stuns him. “But—”
“You don’t need to see what you play.”
His fingers touch the strings. Why has he avoided the music?
“You had good reasons, but don’t think about them. Just play and sing me a song. Any song.” . . . please . . .
Her pain slashes like a knife, and his hands fumble with the neck of the instrument. After a moment, he swallows and lets his fingers find the notes.
. . . down by the seashore, where the waters foam white,
hang your head over; hear the wind’s flight.
The east wind loves sunshine,
and the west wind loves night . . .
When he finishes, Megaera is silent, but the warmth within her is enough to encourage him to touch the strings again.
Ask not the song to be sung,
or the bell to be rung,
or if my tale is done . . .
The answer is all—and none.
The answer is all—and none . . .
As his voice dies away and his fingers release the strings, the guest house appears before him for a moment, stark against white, puffy clouds and patches of blue-green sky. But it is only a moment before the blackness closes around him again. No towers of sunset, no great visions, just a stone guest house, clouds, and sky.
His eyes burn, and he sets the guitar gently on the wall. “Did I . . .?”
Megaera’s hand is on his wrist, warm, reassuring. “Best-beloved . . .”
He swallows.
“The notes—” she continues, . . . were golden!
Her arm goes around his shoulder, and for a time they sit silently.
Finally he asks again, “Was that a vision? I wish I’d been looking at you . . .”
“It wasn’t a vision.”
He takes a deep breath. “Lydya was right, wasn’t she? About not being able to handle physical chaos? You asked a long time ago why I could use a blade to kill. Now I can’t, can I?”
“No.” Her voice is soft.
“And I never can again, can I? Even if I come to see? Or call the winds for anything but order.”
“Lydya doesn’t think so.”
He laughs, a sound half-joyous, half-bitter. “So . . . to see you again, to escape darkness. Is that why you brought the guitar?”
She nods.
He reaches for the guitar again, but his hands do not touch the wood before Megaera speaks.
“Best-beloved