The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [69]
She smiles faintly, then turns back to the man on the table.
The nameless man pulls on the boot slowly. The healer does not look at him until after he picks up the empty shoulder basket and heads westward to the pyramid of shattered granite.
XXXVII
“RIGHT NOW THEY only pay lip service to the Balance, and they ignore the Legend totally.”
“Can we really believe the Legend?” asks the healer.
“Look at Fairhaven, and the way things are heading. Then look at Sarronnyn, and tell me.”
“What about Westwind?” The healer purses her lips.
“The Marshall’s almost as bad as the High Wizard. How Werlynn ever stood it . . . He loved her.” The man in black shakes his head. “And he went there only to do his duty. His son is a miracle, and we owe him that much.” He appraises the healer. “Are you willing to try to lift the memory block? It could be fatal if they discover your efforts.”
“They won’t. He has an injured foot. He’s been to see me once, and I have already started the process. He may be able to do the rest on his own. If not, I can stage it in a way that he looks out of his mind.”
“You wouldn’t use a Compulsion?” The sound of repugnance chokes his voice.
“I’m not that far gone, Klerris. He’s bright, very bright, and still struggling hard under that White prison. He can speak and understand, and that’s a wonder in itself. Next time they won’t catch him.”
“If he gets away . . .”
She looks down. “There’s no risk to us there. He either escapes or they kill him.”
For a time, both are silent. Finally she stands. “Do your best with the leg.”
“That’s easy enough, compared—”
She waves him off. “The Whites serve only chaos. If we don’t serve the Balance, who will?”
“If we don’t serve the Balance, who will?” Her words ring in his mind long after he has mounted the steps and begun to repair a prisoner’s shattered leg under the watchful eyes of the road guard.
XXXVIII
THE REDHEAD FIXES her eyes upon the mirror once again, ignoring the damp patches on her forehead and cheeks, and the hair matted with sweat.
On the dark oak-paneled wall two oil lamps burn steadily, flickering only when she casts her thoughts into the silvered depths before her.
“Damn you . . . damn . . .”
She senses the thinnest of threads . . . a touch of whiteness, smooth, and the swirl of winds beneath that barrier—her teeth bare in a fierce smile as she throws her energies along that thin line of sweat and blood.
Crack!
On the heavy oaken table, the mirror lies shattered. The lamps on the wall behind her are snuffed out.
Blood oozes from a cut on the redhead’s forearm, above the scar that circles her left wrist. Her head slumps onto her arms, tears and blood and glass mixing as shudders take her body.
“Damn . . . Creslin . . . and damn you, sister . . .” The words are low, nearly a hiss.
Behind her, the heavy door silently swings open. A short, slender man, dressed in green and gold, stands in the light from hall lamps bright enough to show his white-streaked red hair and the creases in his forehead.
He stares at the slumped figure, the shards of glass and the black lamps, and his mouth opens, then shuts. He makes a gesture of protection, steps backward into the hallway and closes the door as silently as when he entered.
Within, the shudders continue.
XXXIX
THE MAN WITHOUT a name limps into the wagon, his right foot bare and carrying a boot in one hand and a damp sock in the other. He ignores the road guard who has followed him back from the water trough.
“No more roaming around, not after dark,” growls the rail-thin night guard. Unlike the day guards, the night guards wear knives and swords. The white-red glow of both is clear to the limping silver-haired man.
“The healer said—”
“Before dark, silver-top. That’s it. You know the rules.”
The prisoner moves into the darkness of the