The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [82]
The heavy iron-bound door whispers open on well-oiled hinges. Although the castle does not seem to be drafty or cold, the woman who enters the room wears a hooded cloak. Closing the door, she eases past the lamp on the wall, and her soundless steps carry her toward the high bed. Her cloak and the dim light shadow her features.
Still, Creslin’s night sight is little diminished by his weakness. She is the same lady who retrieved him from Andre’s lands, though now garbed in colors of black and white and gray.
“Good evening.” He tries not to croak the words.
“I’m glad to see that you have finally returned to the land of the living.” She slides the nearer chair from the table until it is beside the bed and sits down.
“That makes two of us, but which land of the living?”
“Oh, this is the castle of Vergren, ancestral hold of the Duke of Montgren, and you are his honored guest. As am I,” she adds dryly.
“I’m afraid that I have not had the pleasure . . . except on our ride, and my thoughts were not the clearest then.”
“We have met,” she says, “but we were not properly introduced. You may have heard my name. But you have not introduced yourself, either.”
Creslin shifts his weight, and sparks flash within his eyes. “I must question . . . whether doing so is wise.”
She waits, her shadowed eyes on his face.
“Then, I do not see what difference it could make. My name is Creslin.”
“No patronymic? No great and illustrious titles?”
He snorts, and fireflies of light blossom in his eyes at the exertion.
“You are weaker than you think,” she confirms. “You’re fortunate to be here. Few manage that sort of trip, and fewer still with such an illness.”
Illness? Had his foot become reinfected in his flight from the wizards? What has he said? He had not mentioned his travels during the ride to the castle.
“I just wanted to see how you were coming along.” She stands, extending a hand toward his face. Her fingers are warm, gentle against the damp heat of his fever for the moment they rest on his forehead.
Even so, even with the flicker of lights in his eyes, he notes the white scar that rings her wrist. Yet before he can utter another word, she is gone.
His eyes close, almost as quickly as the heavy door swings shut.
L
“WAIT?” ASKS THE Duke of Montgren. ”How long must I wait? This is madness. Each day that he remains at Vergren, there is a greater chance that they will find him.” He paces in a tight circle.
“There is no chance of that at all. The biggest risk to you is if he should be caught. And you can certainly ensure that. Just force him to leave before he regains his strength.” Megaera leans back in the padded leather chair.
“Why did I—”
“Because, cousin dear, you just happen to need those horses that are arriving on the next coaster, and the western bows and cold steel shafts. You also need my dearest sister’s protest to the High Wizard. You even benefit by the anger of the Marshall of Westwind.”
“None of that will do me much good should the wizards find him here.”
“You really don’t think, do you?” Her lazy smile shows even, white teeth, and a flash in her eyes erases momentarily the tiredness. “They can’t afford to invade you to find out whether he is here, not right now. You’re safer while we’re here than you will be later. He alone is probably worth several cavalry squads, assuming he can bear the weight of death.”
“I just wish he were well and that you both were off doing whatever you’re supposed to be doing.” The Duke pauses. “What are you supposed to be doing?”
Her smile widens. “I don’t know, dear cousin. Except that I’m unwelcome west of the Easthorns, and he doesn’t seem to be welcome anywhere.”
“Light!” The Duke closes his mouth, then opens it. “You aren’t planning on . . .”
“Staying?” The smile fades. “I had thought about it.”
He looks at the coals on the grate. One flares into a white flash of light, then fades.
Her smile returns. “That really wouldn’t be possible. Sister dear owns too many people in your retinue. And she wants