The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [72]
“Don’t try to sit up yet.”
He opens his eyes slowly to see the healer studying his face, looking from one eye to another.
“What happened?” she asks.
“I . . . don’t know,” he mumbles, feeling the once-familiar tightening in his stomach. “Exactly . . .” he adds to relieve the tension.
She nods slowly. “You could probably go back to work tomorrow, but you will have to be very careful. You won’t see things exactly as you have, and the adjustment will be difficult.” Her eyes turn toward the opening in the front of the tent and follow the stone pavement stretching eastward. “There’s a beautiful valley five kays back toward Jellico. The wizards left it for a future inn or a resting spot. The stream leads up to where one could cross into the northern valleys of Certis on the way to Sligo.”
Heavy steps sound in the rain outside.
“Let’s see those eyes again.”
“So silver-top is recovering?” The growling road guard stands just inside the tent.
“He’s still dizzy, but you didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. He might even recover, provided you let him rest today. He could have dizzy spells for several days. So if he sits down suddenly, it’s probably real.”
“How long will he be like that?”
“It might last for just a day. It might last for three or four. If he gets through three or four days, he’ll recover. There’s nothing broken, and I can’t do much more.”
“Fine! He can lie on his bunk as well as here. Let’s go, silver-top.”
The healer looks at the guard. “Not yet. He may not even be able to stand without getting dizzy.”
“I’ll be back.”
The drizzle of the morning has turned into a flood of water from unbroken gray skies. For the first time in days, if not longer, the odor of dust and rock has vanished.
“Try to sit up.”
He swings his feet over the side of the table. For an instant he feels as though he is two separate people, sitting side by side, yet together. Even the rain seems to fall in two separate patterns.
“Stand up.”
The urgency in her voice spurs him to his feet. She studies his eyes as he sways upright. His hand grasps the table to steady himself.
“You can sit down.” Her voice is flat again.
The guard steps into the tent, ducking under the sagging and damp canvas.
“He’s still unsteady, but there’s not much else I can do.”
The silver-haired man, for he now knows that it is dangerous even to admit he has a name, follows the guard through the rain to the bunk wagon, which is filled with the other prisoners.
“Silver-top’s back.”
“Must have a skull like armor. You see how hard Gero cracked him?”
He makes his way to the top bunk, gingerly, trying to ignore the single empty bunk once occupied by a singer. Soon the bunk will be filled with another hapless prisoner, but the song will remain unsung.
Escape . . . there is little time before the White Wizards will recognize him. While he knows what once he could do, he does not know his present abilities.
Light sears the canyon through the rain, followed by a roll of thunder. The rain continues to drum on the roof, with an occasional gust of wet air blowing into the doorless wagon.
In time, the throbbing of the lump on his skull subsides into a dull ache. He eases himself to the side of the bunk and begins to clamber down, his booted feet clumsy on the wood.
“. . . stay in your place.”
“. . . just silver-top.”
He says nothing, trying to keep a vacant expression on his face as he stumbles toward the doorway, where he halts, apparently staring out into the rain.
The old patterns reassert themselves, though each look sends a wave of agony through his eyes. The heaviest rain will continue, but not for long.
The bored guards stand under canvas, talking.
After a moment he lurches into the rain and begins to amble eastward, angling toward the incomplete wall that separates the raised roadway from the sunken drainage channel on the left.
“. . . silver-top. Crazier than ever.”
“. . . don’t do it!”
He is not crazy, but saner than in many eight-days, for