The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [94]
The heavy man inclines his head toward the mirror on the tabletop. “There’s more here than your mirror shows. Are you sure that Klerris went west?”
“No. But there’s nothing he can do here. Or in Montgren. Order has never been able to stand up to us in a direct battle.”
“That may be.” Hartor licks his lips briefly with a tongue too small for his broad face. “How long before we can move against the Blacks?”
The High Wizard smiles coldly. “I doubt that we’ll need to. Most of them should leave of their own accord. Those who don’t—”
“You’re cold, Jenred. Cold as the poles.”
Jenred nods vaguely, his mind still on the escaped heir of Westwind. “You’d better send a full White, somebody like Bortren, and two full troops from Certis.”
“Creslin will be riding only with her and four second-rate Spidlarians.”
“I can’t believe that the White bitch hasn’t taught him something, and he did destroy seven before he knew what he was doing . . . if you got the story right.”
“I’ll send Bortren. But that’s a bit much, I think. Besides, where could they go anyway? To Recluce? To Hamor?”
“Recluce is no problem. Hamor might be. What if they put him in charge of their Legion training? Westwind has never let its training secrets be known. He went through all the courses.”
“Hmmm . . .”
The two exchange glances. Finally Hartor sighs and stands. His lips clamped tight, the High Wizard stares into the blank whiteness of the mirror on the table before him.
LVIII
CRESLIN LOOKS TOWARD the pass, then back over his shoulder, although he has no need to do so since his senses show him the white mist that follows. Megaera shifts in her saddle. Behind them, the whiteness continues to pour from the road valley that twists its way back toward Fairhaven.
One of the four blue-vested mercenaries accompanying them also looks back at the white cloud, then forward at the dust cloud that represents a Certan force sent directly from Jellico, according to the Duke’s spies.
Mixed with the white mist is the dust of a handful of horses, perhaps six or seven. One of the riders has to be a wizard of sorts.
“I can feel them,” Megaera affirms.
“You can? I thought—”
“It’s partly through you and partly on my own.”
Creslin wonders how many of the talents that he and Megaera possess are inborn and how many come from the knowledge that such powers are possible. Those in white behind him could inform him, but neither he nor Megaera would survive the informing. His left hand strays toward his shoulder, toward the short sword there in the shoulder harness.
“Ser . . . ?” asks the thin soldier who is the leader of the mercenary guards accompanying Megaera.
“Yes,” she answers.
“We’re not—”
“Hired for pitched battles. I know.”
Creslin briefly seizes the winds and throws his senses ahead. Then he turns to Megaera. “There is a pile of broken boulders about a kay ahead and two hundred cubits north of the road. Can you use whatever you have to hold off that cavalry troop—if they get here?”
“And you’re going to play hero and dispatch the wizard?”
Creslin tightens his lips. “I’m not a hero. I could use the winds and some fog to get us past the horsemen up ahead, but not with a wizard behind.”
“And I’m not good enough to go with you?”
“No.”
“You’re being honest.”
Creslin turns the chestnut back toward the white mist and the wizard that the whiteness contains. “I’ve never had much choice.”
“One way or another, you’ll be the death of me.”
“We can discuss that later.”
“If there is a later. Take care.”
“Thank you. And there will be,” he adds in affirmation as he nudges the chestnut toward the troop from Fairhaven, now less than two kays away. As he rides, he begins to gather the winds to him, especially the colder winds from high above, the winds that sweep to the west and dust the Roof of the World.
“. . . just one rider.”
“. . . sent us after one man . . .”
Creslin narrows the distance between himself and the party from Fairhaven. Six white armored and white-clad road