The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [80]
“Wait for me, your honor.”
He slows, looking at the small figure huddled inside the herder’s heavy coat, realizing belatedly that the day must seem chill to Mathilde, despite the clear sky and warm sun. “Sorry.” He channels some of the wind away from her, absently. “Did they say what they wanted?”
“Only the lady spoke. She asked for the master who had appeared from the west.” The girl, after catching up with him, looks at him with an accusing stare. “You never said you were a master.”
“I’m not.” The tightness in his stomach betrays him, and he adds, “I don’t like to think about it. Some people think lam.”
Her short legs scurry to keep up with him as he strides through the high, damp grass. Shortly they come to the gentle incline leading to the house.
“I think you are. So does Papa. Mama doesn’t know what the fuss is all about. She says that you’re too gentle to harm a fly and that any fool can see that.” An anxious glance crosses the thin face under the woolen cap. “Isn’t that right?”
“I couldn’t harm you or your family. Or anyone good,” he adds.
“You hurt some bad people.”
“Yes,” he admits.
“I know it! You’re a good master. That’s what I told the lady.”
Creslin does not sigh, torn between the child’s faith and her damning honesty.
From the north, heavy clouds roil toward the hillside like chargers bound for battle. With each instant, they seem darker. He shifts his eyes to the troopers waiting by the house. All of them are mounted, save two, for there are two riderless horses. A woman is standing before Andre, and her voice carries toward the silver-haired man and the child.
“. . .he walked out of the storm? And he was not wet?”
“Saving yer grace, that’s true. But wounded and bleeding, and as hot as a kettle boiling, spewing words that made no sense.”
The conversation stops as both the red-haired woman— her hair flows almost to her shoulders, though it is swept back with heavy combs—and Andre watch his approach.
“I found him, Papa,” announces Mathilde.
Andre does not look him in the eye but stares at the damp clay by the feet of the lead chestnut.
Creslin catches the woman’s deep green eyes for an instant, nods, then moves toward the shepherd. “Andre?” His voice is gentle. “Thank you for everything.”
The shepherd still does not look up.
“I mean it. What will be, will be. Without you, I doubt that I’d be alive.”
“Shepherd?” The voice of the redhead is commanding, although quiet.
Andre faces her.
“I mean him no harm,” she says, “but he cannot remain here.”
Creslin looks at the second empty saddle, wondering where the remaining soldier might be.
“Your honor?”
Creslin looks down at Mathilde.
“You won’t forget us, will you?”
No, he will not forget this respite, nor the family’s kindness. Nor the solemn, thin face and bright brown eyes. “I’ll remember, Mathilde.”
He straightens and turns toward the shepherd, who stiffens. Creslin ignores this and hugs the bearded man, briefly, but strongly enough to convey his thanks. “I meant it,” he whispers as he steps back.
“Better man than me . . .” mumbles Andre.
Creslin looks toward the woman, who has remounted, then inclines his head toward the empty saddle. “Where is the other soldier?”
“Oh, no,” she chuckles, and the sound is not quite music. “How else would you get to Vergren?”
“Lady—”
The flat voice of a man mounted on the far side of the woman grates on Creslin’s sensibilities, and he steps forward to look at the speaker, a man with short silver-and-black hair and an aquiline nose.
“Wizard, just stay where you are,” the man orders. “Look back.”
Creslin turns and sees the pair of crossbows aimed at him. “Not exactly friendly,” he observes.
“They’re somewhat . . . overprotective,” adds the woman.
Puzzlement shows on Creslin’s face. “But—”
She