The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [74]
As the sound of horses’ hooves echo down the wizards’ road and the artificial canyon that contains that road, the silver-haired man reaches the cover of the trees. His steps slow, but continue upward. The sound of pursuit grows, then fades as the fugitive works his way through the firs, glad for the skimpy underbrush.
The rain falls again in waves, each wave pushed by gusting winds and restricting vision to mere cubits. He struggles upward, knowing that he must cover as much ground as he can before the cover of the falling water vanishes and either the White Wizards or the trackers’ dogs can follow his trail.
At times he stops, but only long enough to regain his breath, to rebuild his strength. And thus he proceeds throughout the rainy morning and into the afternoon, following the trees over the crest and into the decline that will become a river valley leading into the Certan plains north of the valley where sits the walled city of Jellico.
He rests again in the late afternoon, under a sky filled with white clouds scudding across the clear blue-green and next to a berry patch. Even with the goodly distance between himself and the wizards’ road, he is careful to tuck himself into a hollow created by a boulder and a fallen tree, shielded from the view of high-flying dark birds. There he slowly ingests the dark-purple berries.
Curled into his shelter, thankful that he was raised in real cold on the Roof of the World, he tries to put the pieces together, the rain of memories that the nameless healer has allowed him to recapture. Was she Megaera? Or another tool of the Fates and Furies of the Legend?
As he rests, dreams, half-sleeps, his thoughts drift back.
XL
“IT IS HARD, I admit, to function when part of one’s mind is blank, but I have overcome greater obstacles.” Megaera smiles wryly.
“You have been here from late spring, and now the end of fall approaches. How long yet do you plan to be here?” the Duke of Montgren inquires.
“I do what I can, cousin. But under my handicap . . .” She smiles again, a twisted smile. “For as long as it takes.”
“You can’t mean—”
“For as long as it takes. He recovers, escapes, or dies. Dying, of course, would be the easiest on you and sister dear. I am doing my humble best to help him break the spells.” She pauses. “I’m not well trained, though. Sister dear ensured that. So it could be a long time that I may have to enjoy your hospitality.”
“Which I must supply,” notes the Duke coolly.
“Ah, yes. We all have burdens to bear.” She turns toward the antique desk on which she has placed her crystal goblet. She blinks, then reaches out toward the desk.
He shakes his head slowly, not noticing her hesitation.
“Aeeeii . . .”
The redhead sinks to the floor under the weight of the kaleidoscope of memories and twisted images that scream through her skull like nightmares riding on warhorses with spiked hooves.
The small and precisely dressed man who has held her arm but a moment before whirls, nearly dropping the goblet of red wine. Instead, only scattered, dark-red splotches mark the ancient Hamorian carpet dating back to the prosperous days of his grandfather.
Before he can replace the half-empty crystal goblet on the desk, the redhead is flat on her face, unconscious, though still breathing.
“Now what?” he mutters. “Helisse! Helisse!” He looks down at the woman, then finally kneels beside her. “Now what?”
II.
STORM-MASTER
XLI
The dashing young man on the wind-bearing skis, He flew down the cliff with the greatest of ease, A sword on his pack and his soul in the breeze, That dashing young man on the wind-bearing skis.
With fury to heel and his gray silver hair, He stepped from the heights out over the trees, And he dropped from the Roof to the magic so fair, That dashing young man on the wind-bearing skis.
His eyes on the dark and his soul upon ice, He flew from the Tyrant, a life filled with ease. He left behind wealth for love without price, That dashing young man on the wind-bearing skis.