The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [83]
“You agree with her mad schemes?”
“Does it matter?” Megaera fingers a wrist but says nothing.
“I suppose not, not where Ryessa is concerned.” He moves toward the corner desk that has dominated the study since before his grandfather’s time. “But I wish Creslin were well.”
“We’re going to take a ride in the morning.”
“Does he know how?”
“Only well enough that he rode ten kays while delirious and unconscious. Only well enough that he placed in the junior guard trials at Westwind.”
“Ha! So Ryessa found someone strong enough to stand up to you, and with the talent as well.”
“Do be so kind as to close your mouth, cousin dear. You don’t have either the talent or the strength.”
The Duke glares but slowly turns toward the dusty desk. Behind him, another coal on the grate pings.
LI
CRESLIN EASES HIS bare feet onto the heavy sheepskin covering the polished floor stones. Over by the window are the small table and two chairs, one of which he has used while eating the meals that have been regularly served to him for the past three days.
He has not seen the mysterious lady again. His only visitors have been a solemn, white-haired healer and the shy young woman who brings his meals. Were it not for the near-luxurious shower and jakes in the adjoining room, he might have been imprisoned in some Western stronghold.
Laid neatly on the chair is a complete set of green leathers, cut and quilted in the style of the guards of Westwind. Their arrival in the hands of the serving girl had awakened him. The green leather is a shade brighter than that used on the Roof of the World. There is also a Westwind dagger, but no sword.
He stands, no longer dizzy as he has been for the previous days, but still aware of the weakness in his legs. For the first time, he realizes that the undergarments he wears are not his; they are of a softer fabric than the beaten linen of the guards.
The young, dark-haired and stocky girl enters through the heavy door, bearing a tray. She does not wear the green and gold of the Duke’s household, but blue and cream. Creslin finds his mouth watering at the sight of the breads and the steam rising from the mug of tea.
“Good day,” he ventures. “Who are you? You’ve been so kind . . .”
“Good day, ser. I am Aldonya.” She sets the breakfast on the table, then looks at him, ignoring his state of undress. “The . . . her grace . . . would like to know if you are well enough for a ride this morning.”
Creslin suppresses a smile. Why is the mysterious woman’s name such a secret? Why does she remains hooded, and why is she always accompanied by guards? She cannot be the Duchess, for she wears no jewelry to signify that she is wed or affianced. The serving maid does not wear green and gold. The blue and cream are familiar, but he does not recall from where.
“I think so,” he finally answers.
Aldonya nods and departs.
He remains a prisoner then, if a well-treated one about to partake of another solid breakfast. He debates between eating and dressing, but only momentarily. The memories of the wizards’ gruel and the scraps and berries of his second trip eastward remain too fresh for him to pass up the tea, pearapples, and heated breads. In time, Creslin reflects, he may return to more casual eating habits. Perhaps.
The shakiness in his legs departs with the warmth of the tea and the first morsels of a honey roll. Hungry or not, he spaces his bites and forces himself to chew each mouthful slowly and evenly. Between bites, he looks through the leaded windowpanes at the clear blue-green sky above the heavy gray stonework facing his window. His quarters are surrounded by walls higher and thicker than the two-cubit-deep stonemasonry manifested in the window ledge before which the table tests.
While the serving girl did not mention an exact time, Creslin had heard the word “morning.” He stands and makes his way to the washroom. Although the water coming from the tap is not ice-cold, neither is it particularly warm, and he hurries with his shaving and washing.