The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [77]
“No.”
The innkeeper backs up another step.
Light flares at the fingertips of the redhead. “Women are not things.”
A fireball sears past the man’s right ear.
“I trust you’ll remember that.” She laughs, a hard laugh, almost a bark, and the fire fades from her hands. Then she looks down at the girl. “You still want to be saved?”
The smallest of nods greets the question.
“Gorton. Help her mount behind me.” The redhead watches as the innkeeper backs up the stairs.
The taller mercenary dismounts and lifts the short but stocky girl up behind the redhead.
“Put one arm around me, and hang on to the saddle rim there with the other. It’s not perfect, but we don’t have far to go.”
“Your grace—” protests the girl.
“Just do it.” The redhead flicks the reins.
The mercenaries follow, and the innkeeper glares from the doorway. The two bravos who have watched the entire proceeding shake their heads, but neither moves until the three horses have picked their way a good hundred cubits up the avenue and toward the walls of the Duke’s keep.
The horsewoman asks, “What are you called?”
“Aldonya, your grace.”
“Will you serve me, at least so long as I am at Vergren?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“That will do.” The redhead says nothing more as the horses walk up the sloping road to the keep.
XLV
“THERE’S NOT MUCH to go on,” the military chief says.
“Enough. The Blacks helped him,” snaps the High Wizard. “Who else could have?”
“Well, Gyretis says the only direct input was White.”
“White? He is certain?”
“Is the noble Gyretis ever less than certain?”
“Hmmphh . . .” Jenred taps his fingers on the white oak of the desk. “White . . . of course. White. Get detachments out to cover every main approach to Montgren.”
“Montgren?”
“Don’t you understand? White magic. Not anyone we know. Who else is left? The Tyrant couldn’t do anything from Sarronnyn. Damn! She must be strong.”
The other shakes his head. “No. That was the other thing. Gyretis said that whoever the White was, he—or she— didn’t have the strength to break the barrier.” He shifts his weight as he stands on the hard white granite. Marble is too soft for the workings of chaos.
“That means that some Black helped then, but was too clever to be detected. Damn them! What about the healers?”
“We don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“There was only one, and she’s dead.”
“Dead?”
The other shrugs. “That’s what they say. The road wizard burned her body, as per your instructions.”
“Idiots!” The High Wizard shakes his head. “That wasn’t her body they burned. She got them to see something else. Demons only know where she is now, and this time they’ll get away with it, unless those detachments find Creslin alive! Do you understand me?”
Hartor nods. “I understand. I don’t know if it’s possible. Especially if he avoids the roads.”
“Do what you can.” The High Wizard looks away, but his fingers continue tapping on the gold-sheened finish of the white oak. “Dead. Bah . . .”
XLVI
CRESLIN SITS UNDER the yellowing leaves of the scrub oak, slowly eating the last redberry he has pulled from a nearby bush.
Overhead, another vulcrow circles, and the white-clad road guards below show little signs of departing any time soon; it is almost as if they know he is somewhere close. But how?
The young man takes a deep breath, ignoring the soreness around one rib, resulting from a dive out of the way of a Certan cavalry officer with a bias against beggars, or apparent beggars. Creslin remembers the man’s laugh, and his words: “Leave the roads for those who can use them!”
Through the yellow leaves, he watches as the vulcrow circles the end of the valley in a continuous slow spiral. Beyond the other end of the long valley, beyond the range of his vision, are the rolling hills that separate those gently climbing meadows from Fairhaven.
Could he find another road into Montgren? Probably. Would it be guarded as well? Probably.
Creslin? The voice is faint, so faint that he can barely hear the word.
He squirms around under the scrub oak, trying to find the speaker, but all he can hear is the rustle of leaves