The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [71]
Before the silver-haired man can focus on what has happened, both singer and soldier are gone and the lamp flickers in the wind of their disappearance.
“Singing disrupts the road work . . .” The sotto-voce imitation is nearly inaudible, cruel and bitter in its mocking overtones.
No other voices rise in protest. None.
The silver-haired man wipes away his tears and turns his face to the wall, but the unsung words resound in his mind, their tones echoing in his ears.
. . . the answer is all—and none.
The answer is all—and none . . .
In the darkness of the wagon, long after the others have drifted into exhausted sleep, he lies awake, staring at the planks less than a cubit from his face. Through the blackness whisper the small sounds; the snores of exhausted men, the creaking of bunk frames as those men turn in their sleep, even the few murmurs of Hamorian as a foreign prisoner mutters into the depths of his dreams.
The nameless man’s muscles no longer ache as they did in the first days he worked on the road, and his pale skin has bronzed and toughened. But he has no name, no past save the whispers of voices within his skull, voices so faint that he cannot make out their words, barely comprehending that they are there. Only one thing does he recall clearly: the shadow with a woman’s face.
In time, he sleeps, dreaming about golden notes that glitter against gray stone walls and endless white snow.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Let’s go! Up and out!” The gravelly voice of the morning guard grates more harshly than normal.
Outside the bunk wagon, a faint drizzle fills the canyon, but even the mist bears the grit of crushed and shattered rock. So does the porridge ladled out to each road-work prisoner. Only the water is pure and cold, and the cold reminds him of falling white flakes, and of song.
The wooden bowl bounces off the rock underfoot, the porridge splattering across the stone. His eyes open, seeing not the fog and mist above, nor the prisoners around him, nor the guards behind him.
“NOOOooo!” The scream goes on and on, never ending, and the silver-haired man wonders why the guards do not do anything, even as he realizes that the tortured voice is his and that the guards are moving toward him in slow motion.
The cold and whiteness of his thoughts, the rushing images of . . .
— an endless expanse of snow beneath peaks that touch the sky
— silvered notes shattering against gray granite walls
— eating in green leathers at the high table
— riding a narrow, stone-worked road . . .
He totters on wobbly legs, not lifting his hands to fend off the blows. The images are dispelled with the second blow and the rush of darkness it brings upon him.
When he wakes, he cannot move, for he is bound upon a table, and overhead, damp canvas sways in the wind.
Plip . . . plip . . . Droplets of water collect in the depressions of the tent above his head, some seeping through the worn fabric and falling onto the stone, others falling upon his half-bare body.
The dark-haired healer glances over at him, although her hands are dressing the gash in the arm of another prisoner, a thin, bald man who once was fat.
“That should do it. Try to keep it clean.” Her voice was flat, as if she knows that the dust and rock powder will infiltrate anything.
The silver-haired man closes his eyes, tries to keep his breathing regular.
“Is he ready?”
“This one? Yes.”
“What about silver-top?”
“His breathing is more regular, but until he wakes up, I can’t say. A second head injury isn’t good for anyone.”
“No loss. He didn’t even know who he was.”
“He may never know if you keep beating his skull.”
“He went nuts!”
“Did he strike anyone?”
“He started screaming ’No!’ at the top of his lungs. Wouldn’t stop. The wizards were real upset. Gero had to crack him. They would have done worse.”
“I’ll let you know.”
The slooshing footstep sounds of the guard and the bald prisoner retreat.
“They’re gone.”
Her voice is almost on top of him, and he jumps. “Easy. I’m going to untie these.”
He relaxes, as much as he can, while moving his stiff arms out of