The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [85]
Instead of spurring the chestnut, he lets the horse drop to a walk. The air is crisp for the first time he can easily remember. He takes another deep breath, pleased to be again in the wind and the sunlight. His horse carries him down the long ridge road at an easy pace. By the time he reaches the first trees—a small grove bordering a stone-fenced field where black-faced sheep graze on browning grass—the lady is waiting for him. She has halted her mount apart from the guards, and the man who has followed Creslin joins the others.
Creslin reins up next to her. “Good day.”
“You ride well.” Her smile is polite, and her long red hair is bound back and partly covered with a blue silksheen scarf.
“I am somewhat out of practice.”
“It doesn’t show.” She dismounts and leads her horse to a patch of grass underneath one of the tall oaks and loops the reins around a post protruding from the stone fence. She seats herself on a wide, flat stone.
Creslin follows her example with his mount but remains standing next to the fence. Even without nearing her, he can feel a thin line of . . .something . . . between them. He senses the flickering of unseen black-and-white flames that lick around her.
“Who are you?” he finally blurts out.
“Don’t you know?”
“Why don’t you just tell me? Why all these games? I know that you’re a witch of sorts. Everyone edges away from you.”
“I don’t notice anyone exactly cosying up to you, Creslin.” Her expression is wry as she shifts her weight on the stones of the wall.
“But the Duke? The guards?” He studies her eyes.
Her face is pale and serious. “The guards are there for me, as well as for you. The Duke is my cousin, and he sincerely wishes I were not here.”
“Who are you?” he repeats.
“You know, whether you will admit it or not.”
His eyes lock on the green eyes above the small, square jaw and the pale, freckled face.
“There is, for example, the rumor that the sole male heir to Westwind not only rejected his bride, the noted and most attractive sub-tyrant of Sarronnyn, but labored as a common prisoner on the great east-west highway.” Her face grave, her green eyes glittering, the woman looks at him.
Creslin swallows, his heart beating faster.
“And further, this ingrate had the temerity to leap into a snowstorm to escape the fabled guards of Westwind. Then, I’m told, he let himself be taken by the White Wizards, lost his mind, yet walked through a storm and disappeared into the impassible Easthorns without even giving the High Wizard a chance to examine his body.”
He laughs, recognizing at last the husky voice that does not quite match the fair complexion and freckles. Whether from relief or from joy, he knows not, but he laughs, and the notes of his laughter are golden, even against the chill wind. “You have me, lady. You have me.” His laughter fades, for the glitter in her eyes is not laughter. “But what have you? A man who is less than a ruined heir? A man who must flee all Candar? A man who does nothing more than passably, except to escape from disaster after disaster? And not always then.”
“Enough.” She leans closer to him, her fire-red hair alive above the polished blue cotton of the light riding jacket. “I owe you something.”
The words do not match the posture.
Crack! Creslin does not move—neither his eyes nor his face—as her white anger lashes across him, following her hand against his cheek.
He forces himself not to reach for the winds, though his teeth begin to grate. “I take it you believe that being the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn entitles you to abuse others.”
“Very impressive.” Her tone is only half-mocking.
“Megaera,” he says slowly. “That must mean fury. Or senseless destruction.”
“Don’t you understand yet?”
“Understand what?” His voice is cold. “That I’ve been pushed, prodded, and manipulated across most of Candar? That