The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [65]
“Not quite true, Harlaan. Would you like to grow another beard, right from your eyes?”
The young guard swallows.
“Would you just call Gyretis?”
“Could I tell him why?” asks the Black Wizard.
“Unlicensed Black wizardry, able to carry and use cold steel, and the sword is a Westwind blade.”
As the Black Wizard studies Creslin, Creslin feels unseen fingers across his thoughts.
“You’re damned lucky that he’s essentially untrained, Syrienna. There’s enough power there for three Blacks. Unlucky for him.”
Creslin frowns in spite of himself. Power? Black power? In him? What are they talking about? Surely his meager ability to channel the winds—or to recreate an apple from cider—is not to be envied or a cause for alarm.
“Where’s Gyretis?”
“He’s been notified.” The man in black smiles wryly.
Creslin’s eyes feel heavy and he wants to yawn, but his knees shake and he can barely get his hands out to keep himself from toppling to the floor in sheer exhaustion. At the same time, he throws up a mental arm against sleep, but . . . the floor is deep and black.
XXXIV
“ARE YOU SURE he’s the one?” asks the High Wizard.
“How many are there who can bend winds and wield blades?”
“Why can’t you just kill him?”
The questions circle the table of white-clad men like vultures circling a carcass.
“We know that the Tyrant of Sarronnyn has a lifelink to him, assuming this is the same youth. What happens if he dies?”
“So does the lifelink, of course.”
“And?” pursues the skeletal man in pure white.
“That means the Tyrant knows he’s dead. So what?”
“The Tyrant and the Marshall suspect that he is in Fairhaven,” responds the High Wizard.
“You worry about two women across the Westhorns?”
“I worry about the only two rulers remaining in Candar with armies worthy of the name. I also remember what happened to the expeditionary force you encouraged so effectively, Hartor. Besides which, the Tyrant is the cousin, if by consortship, of the Duke of Montgren.”
“Oh . . .”
“Exactly. If this youth were to become weaker over time and die, of course . . .” He shrugs. “It wouldn’t be that bad, in any case, but why give either the Marshall or Ryessa another affront when we don’t have to?”
“I’ll ready the cell,” Hartor offers.
A sigh replies. “Don’t you ever think? If his life-signs stay in one place, that’s a sure indication. The other thing is that we really don’t want it known who he is quite yet. Then we can spread a few rumors about the barbarian nature of the western wenches, driving a poor boy to his death. That certainly can’t hurt.”
“But we’re the ones—”
“So, who will know? We’re not exactly constrained by Black-order considerations.” The man in the blinding white smiles his non-smile.
“The Blacks won’t like it, Jenred.”
“They don’t have to know. Even if they did, how could they prove anything?”
“I see. What about the main road camp?”
“That will do splendidly, with one minor addition. He doesn’t have to know who he is.”
“Won’t the White prison wear off?”
“Not for a year or so. And by then . . .”
The white-clad men around the table nod sagely, except for one, but his blank face is lost in the nods.
XXXV
THE RED-HAIRED woman staggers to her feet, blotting her forehead with a cloth. ”The bastard. Why doesn’t he take care of himself? Why? Damned fever, damned headaches. What did they do to him?”
As her eyes fail to focus, she sinks back into the wooden chair bolted to the deck, her fingers grasping the arms carved into the representation of leaping dolphins. The white scars on her wrists tingle, and a touch of redness suffuses them, almost as if the cold iron still encircled her flesh.
“Sister . . .” She chokes back what she might have said, glancing instead at the rack above the narrow bunk, her eyes picking out the white-leather case with the mirror inside. Her left hand lifts itself from the carved chair arm as if independent of the rest of her body, then falls back on the arm of the chair as the deck lurches under her.
The coaster bearing her