The Towers Of the Sunset (40 page)

“THE SECOND TAX notice went as scheduled, and we have the pay chest.” Gyretis smiles happily. “It’s nice when you can even make a profit on an operation.”

“Don’t be so quick to rejoice,” warns the High Wizard. “What if Creslin or Megaera find out?”

“How? They can’t return. They’re bound to blame Korweil, and Korweil will resent them-”

“That’s one possibility.”

“What are you going to do if Creslin changes the weather?”

“When he changes the weather?”

“You think he will?”

“He has to, and someone is far-sensing on all the high winds. I’d guess it won’t be long.”

“Then what?”

The High Wizard spreads his hands, looking at the blank mirror on the table, then out the tower window. “We see how the disruption can be used. I have some ideas. It has already been a dry summer, and if the rains go to Reduce…”

“Then what?”

“We’ll see. We’ll see.” Hartor fingers the chain and amulet he wears around his neck.

CRESLIN CHEWS THE fish methodically, grateful for the sauce with which Aldonya has basted the dark meat. Fish is still fish. A deep pull of warm water follows. He looks at the unnamed roots lying on his plate beside a heap of fish bones, then across the battered wooden table at Megaera.

Aldonya, sitting in a chair at the foot of the table and feeding Lynnya, also looks up.

Megaera meets Creslin’s eyes, but shrugs.

“What are they?” he asks.

“Quilla roots,” answers Aldonya. “You should try them.”

“Quilla roots?”

“I dug them myself. They come from the prickly long-leaved cactus. One of the fisherwomen told me about them. They’re almost like yams.”

Creslin looks at the pale green cylinders on his plate, then at Megaera, who has not touched hers either.

“Shush, you two. You would attack the world, and you hesitate at a mere root?” Aldonya rocks the red-haired infant, who, wide-eyed, stares at her mother. “Little Lynnya, would you believe it of these two brave warriors? If you grow up to be a magician or a warrior, will you spurn good food because it’s different?”

Creslin winces, then cannot help grinning. After another swallow of water, he uses his knife to cut a small portion of the quilla, which he pops into his mouth. He forces himself to bite into the crunchy green. “Ummm… that’s not too bad.”

“You see, Lynnya? Your mother knows what she is doing…”

Megaera hastily follows Creslin’s example.

“Aren’t there a lot of these in the high valley down the road?” Creslin asks.

“I would think so.” Aldonya shifts Lynnya from one breast to the other.

Creslin shakes his head. “We should have asked the local fishing people. What else did we miss?”

Megaera continues crunching the quilla root, finally swallowing. “It’s chewy.”

“Tomorrow we’re having a new kind of seaweed,” announces Aldonya.

“Then, again…” mumbles Creslin.

“It’s really not bad, best-beloved.”

“The seaweed is good. I tried it,” adds Aldonya.

Seaweed, and cactus roots? Creslin takes another bite of the quilla, chewing thoroughly.

CRESLIN WIPES HIS sweating forehead and stretches out on the pallet, wondering how long his efforts will take.

“You’re still going to do it, aren’t you?”… beloved idiot… Megaera stands in the doorway.

He sits up. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.” She laughs softly. “You found me from kays away, and you can’t tell when I’m entering the holding?”

“That’s different.”

“Because you’re trying to hide the fact that you’re going to try to switch the weather?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I can’t keep you from it, nor can Klerris and Lydya. But do you really understand what you’re going to do?” How can you understand?

“Probably not.”

“Thousands are going to starve because their crops will be either parched or flooded by your meddling. At least one or two rulers will lose their heads or their kingdoms or both, and the White Wizards, who will love the chaos you’re going to create, will end up stronger than ever. Do you still want to do it?”

“Do I have any choice? If I do nothing, Reduce will fail. Korweil has cut us off, and what can I do about that? Threaten to destroy him? That won’t bring back the pay chest.”

“It could be Helisse who did that.”

“Does it make any difference? How would I accuse her from fifteen hundred kays away?”

“It’s not that far.”

“All right, but it might as well be. Helisse is all he has left. Even if he believes me, he won’t last long if she dies.”

“I wondered about her. That was one reason I was glad to have Aldonya with me.”

“Where is she?”

“At the keep, silly.”… likes privacy sometimes, too…

Creslin flushes again. “Anyway, if I do nothing, the White Wizards will still get stronger, and they’ll still take over Montgren when Korweil dies. And Ryessa will still probably embark on some conquest, but she’ll avoid
Fairhaven. Westwind will eventually fall, because it will be caught between two absolute empires that will grind it to pieces.”

“So much for belief in the Legend.”

“That was unfair.”

Megaera swallows. “I’m sorry.”

He smiles faintly. “No matter what I do, it’s going to be wrong. But I can’t wait any longer.” He reaches into a pouch by the pallet. “Here.”

She takes the five heavy gold links.

“That’s what’s left. That’s all,” he tells her.

“The last Suthyan coaster’s supplies… did they cost that much?”

“Yes, between the Coaster and the refitting supplies that Freigr brought for the Dawnstar. I had to pay for the canvas in advance, and it will be an eight-day yet before it’s delivered.”

“That’s unreasonable! You could have destroyed the whole Suthyan ship for that extortion.”… thieves! White-hearted merchants…

Creslin rubs his forehead at the violence of her thoughts, then holds up a hand. “I could have. But that was the only ship arriving in I don’t know how many eight-days besides the
Griffin. If I ruined her, who else would risk both the White Wizards’ anger and mine?”

“Damn sister dear! Where is her promised support?”

Creslin waits. It’s clear that they cannot count on Ryessa.

“I know… but it’s hard. I remember when we played ”Hide and Seek“ in the courtyards and she promised we’d always be sisters, no matter what happened.”

“You are. She’s just doing what she thinks is best for Sarronnyn.”

“Would an occasional cargo of hard cheese or old grain hurt anyone?” Finally she shrugs and sits down next to him. “Before we do this…”

“What?”

Her lips still surprise him as they meet his, but his hands are gentle on her skin… best-beloved…

. ‘. . Megaera…

Later, far later than Creslin had intended, his arms still around her, her scent still around him, he kisses her neck, slowly, then finds her mouth again.

“Mmmm…”

Megaera eases away from him. He lets her go but studies her body, drinking in the fire of her hair, the luminescence of her skin, the fine bones; he marvels again that she is there.

“You’re impossible.” Her voice is throaty.

He listens to every nuance, letting her words die before speaking. “I’ve always felt this way about you.”

“Not in Sarronnyn.”

“I enjoyed your sense of humor, even when I didn’t know who you were.”

She smiles. “That was a big point in your favor.” She reaches for the clothes she has discarded. “We, unfortunately, have a job to do.”

… why?

“Because… well, because-” Megaera blushes… / love you, and… “-I wanted you to know that before the real troubles begin.”

“You think it’s going to be that bad?”

“No.” Her face is suddenly somber. “It will be worse.”

Creslin shivers despite the heat and reaches for his undergarments. They dress silently.

“My pallet is bigger,” Megaera says as Creslin pulls on his trousers. She blushes again. “That’s not…”

“I know.” He follows her into her room, and they lie down side by side.

“Hold my hand,” she says. “That way…”… if you need the help…

His eyes burn for a moment.

“Don’t get sentimental now,” she warns.

Creslin pushes away the thought and casts his mind toward the high winds of the far north, toward the nodes of those winds, toward the patterns that rule the world’s rains.

The high winds, the great winds, are like rivers of steel, throwing Creslin back toward the south, shaking his senses as a waterspout smashes a ship. He can scarcely sense where he is, tossed and tumbled as he is above the northern seas.

… little changes…

The warmth that comes with the thought is enough, and he no longer seeks to bend those high, steel torrents; instead, he looks inside, behind, with a nudge here-

-and there…

-and there.

The winds twist, howl silently, and lash at the changes and the makers of those changes. Winds the world over shiver and wail as the high winds shift.

At last Creslin returns to Reduce… and he lapses into a stupor that is half-sleep, half-coma. Twilight is almost night when he wakes, lifts his head, and puts it down with a gasp.

… Creslin…

He squeezes her hand silently, holding himself motionless lest he trigger another stab of pain.

Later yet, he turns.

Megaera’s eyes are open. “Are you all right?”

He rubs his forehead. “Yes, I think so.” His neck is sore.

“So is mine.”

After a moment, he adds, “Thank you. It wouldn’t… have worked… without you.”

Her hand reaches for his, and they lie together in the darkness, hearing the distant wail of the high winds, listening to the shifting storms… and dreading the deaths to come.

“HE’S DONE SOMETHING,” observes the young-faced White Wizard. “I felt it.”

“Who didn’t?” Hartor ponders for a moment. “It wasn’t just Creslin. There was a certain… delicacy… there. Not the kind of brute force-”

“There was plenty of force. Enough to shift the winds in their courses.”

Hartor rubs his square jaw with his thumb. “I don’t like the feel of it. There was more there than a wind shift.”

“You’re right. But it plays into your hands.”

“So tell me, good Gyretis.” Hartor glances at the blank mirror on the table.

“What’s Creslin’s biggest problem?”

Hartor waves at the young wizard. “Stop the guessing games. Just tell me and be done with it.”

Gyretis shrugs. “Food and water. He’s not wealthy. We shut off Korweil’s coins, and even Westwind isn’t sending a lot of either coin or supplies. Reduce is already too dry, and he just couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Great…”

“It is. You’ve already observed that the summer has been dry. What happens when there are no rains in Montgren? Or when the summer rains don’t reach the fields of Kyphros? Or the Westhorns, and Westwind, are no longer buried in snow rods deep for most of the year?”

“It’s going to change a lot of things.”

“Exactly. I think that now is the time to let all Candar know, quietly of course, that those renegade Blacks on Reduce are going to starve thousands.”

“We can’t exactly post signs or hire criers to shout the story on every comer,” snorts Hartor.

“Rumor is more effective, and more believable.” Hartor smiles. “So we tell a few people, carefully chosen, and insist that they keep it quiet?” Gyretis nods. “And then we make a few more plans…”

CRESLIN STANDS ON the hill crest, at the top of the narrow road he hopes someday will be a grand highway, looking northward beyond the harbor, looking out over the northern waters.

Megaera stands at his shoulder. Both still wear their exercise clothes: sleeveless tunic, trousers, and boots. Both sweat in the late-afternoon heat.

Behind them, the stonework continues on the small structure that will be a stable. Unlike the holding itself, Creslin has not touched a single stone for the stable, leaving that work to the Hamorians, most of whom no longer even regard themselves as prisoners.

Creslin wipes the perspiration off his forehead. But the dampness returns almost as quickly as it is removed, despite the dry air around them.

“I think I can feel it,” Megaera offers.

Creslin nods, his senses halfway out to the winds, out toward the dark clouds that roll toward Reduce from the northwest.

Directly beyond the harbor, the ocean is flat, a prairie of sullen green swells that barely move. Farther north, white-caps are forming under the wind that precedes the storms. The horizon is dark with clouds, low and roiling.

Barely audible, distant thunder whispers southward toward the couple on the hill’s crest.

… mighty storm… best-beloved…

“You were there. Nothing else worked.” He pauses. “If it’s too much, maybe we can work with Klerris to shift some of the winds.”

“Don’t do anything yet. The patterns have to sort themselves out first.”

“How long will it take?”

“Two or three eight-days.”

“Well,” he laughs. “We could probably use that much rain. It’s been dry for too long.”

“You might regret those words.”

“I might. Let’s walk back.”

Turning away, they stride through the heat toward the cooler walls of the Black Holding, past the unfinished walls of the stable, ignoring the sound of steel on stone and waiting for the promised coolness of the storms to come.

HE WAVES TO Narran. “Over here!” The rain seeps through Creslin’s hair and down his neck as he levers the heavy stone into place.

While the foundation of the wall has been replaced, doing so has required carrying rougher boulders from the hillside, since some of the original stones have been buried in mud and clay or carried so far downhill that finding them, let alone retrieving them, is an impossibility.

Narran staggers through the mud with another boulder. .

“There.” Creslin points.

Into the gap in the wall goes the stone, and the wiry trooper turns back uphill.

Heading toward the rocky hillside from which the water pours, Creslin steps over the diversion ditch that he, Narran, and Perrta have completed to keep the runoff from again undercutting the wall.

Carrying a stone on each hip, the stocky Perrta passes Creslin without speaking. A gust of wind whips the trooper’s oiled-leather parka half open, and he twists as if to keep the jacket from being blown off his back.

Following Narran, Creslin plods toward the rocky outcropping another fifty cubits uphill, his boots squelching through the red mud that had been unyielding clay less than an eight-day earlier.

Creslin retrieves two boulders, squarish but smaller than those lugged earlier by Perrta, and carries them through the mud to the wall, where he wedges them into place, adjusting one of the stones brought by Narran.

Another trip and the last gap in the upper field wall-and the cause of further field erosion-has been repaired.

“That’s it. Let’s head back.”

Narran glances from Creslin to the gray rain clouds and back. Creslin ignores the look and steps eastward toward the path that winds down to the keep. Rain continues to soak his short hair and to dribble inside his jacket and tunic. Too tired to redirect it away from himself, he methodically puts one foot in front of the other until he is within the keep.

“You look like something dragged from a swamp.” Hyel tosses a ragged towel at Creslin. “Did you have to handle the repairs personally?”

“Yes. I caused this mess, remember? If I just sent people out, how would they take it?”

“They’d do it.”

Creslin wipes his face and hands. “I’m heading back to the holding. There’s not much more that has to be done, and besides, I’m not up to stonework in both the rain and the dark.”

“No one asked you to do it in the rain.” Shierra steps into the room that she and Hyel have come to share as joint commanders of the small, would-be army of Reduce.

“You sound like Megaera.”

Shierra laughs. “At least you listen to her.”

“I didn’t want the fields we still have to be washed away in the rain. Why is that so hard to understand?”

Hyel and Shierra exchange glances. “Well…”begins the brown-haired man, “it’s just that you ask so much of yourself. If you occasionally asked, rather than led by grueling example… anyway, would you think about it?”

Shierra nods.

“Since you two seem to agree, I guess I do have to think about it.” He folds the towel and lays it on the clammy stone of the windowsill. “And I’m going home.”

Hyel and Shierra look at each other again. Shierra suppresses a smile.

With his muscles aching and his damp clothes cool on his body, Creslin sees no humor in the situation. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Vola is saddled and ready,” Shierra adds, stepping farther into the room and beside Hyel.

“Thank you.” Creslin nods and departs.

A young black-haired guard turns over the black’s reins to Creslin. “Good evening, Regent Creslin.”

“Good evening.”

Outside the stable, the rain pelts at him more heavily than earlier, although the water feels somewhat warmer. The road from the keep is firm as far as the upper end of
Land’s End, where he reaches the muddy way uphill to the holding and the drainage ditch that has become a fast-flowing stream.

Spewing toward the town below, the miniature torrent beside the road has deepened from a mere depression into a jagged cut two cubits wide and nearly as deep. Ignoring the water that now flows from his hair across his face and down his neck, Creslin nudges the mare toward the Black Holding.

Even his oiled jacket is sodden by the time he ducks under the still-green wooden beam framing the doorway. Although Klerris had order-strengthened the wood, some of the green timber will shrink and crack. But there is neither time nor coin for seasoned woods.

Outside, the water continues to cascade from the dark gray clouds. Dismounting, Creslin pulls off the oiled-leather jacket and hangs it over a stall wall. Vola shakes, and water sprays across him.

“… getting to you…” He loosens the saddle, removes and racks it, and reaches for the brush.

“Why?” he asks himself. Why does his meddling with the weather always yield such absolute results? Reduce scarcely needs all the rain it has had in the last eight-day. “… tried to be careful…”he mutters.

He brushes the mare, casting his senses beyond the stable. Megaera, Aldonya, and Lynnya are in the kitchen, as well as someone else: Lydya. For a moment, blackness wavers before him, and he reaches out and touches the wall to steady himself. Then he resumes his currying.

Finally he puts up the brush, adds some grain to the feed trough, and closes the stall door. After picking up his leather jacket, he walks out of the stable and along the slippery black stones of the walkway and into the front entryway. He stamps his feet, trying to remove excess water and mud.

The jacket goes on a peg in the open closet, next to Megaera’s jacket, also damp. A small puddle remains on the stone floor underneath. After looking at his sodden boots, he pulls them off, nearly crashing into the wall twice. Then, barefoot, he pads across the Great Room and into the warm kitchen. “Greetings.”

“Greetings, Creslin.” Standing at one side of the small but heavy stone oven that Aldonya has obtained from somewhere, Lydya holds a steaming cup in both hands. Megaera cradles Lynnya, while Aldonya is slicing long green roots.

“Quilla again?”

“It is good for you. Even great wizards need to eat all the right foods.” Aldonya gestures with the knife.

“You’d rather have the seaweed?” Megaera shifts Lynnya to her shoulder, patting the infant on the back as she does.

“If I have to choose between… between chewy roots and soggy…” Creslin shakes his head. “Anyway, I’m outnumbered.”

“You just noticed, best-beloved?”

Creslin looks past Megaera and through the window to the darkness from which the rain continues to pour. Then he searches for a cup. “Do you think this is in time to save the orchards?”

“Pearapples can stand a lot of dry weather.” Lydya takes a sip from her mug.“

“Why don’t you just sit down?” Megaera prods.

Creslin does, grateful for once for the warmth around him.