The Towers Of the Sunset (50 page)

“No ONE’S EVER seen a storm like that,” mumbles Ryedel, his thick lips barely moving.

“Tell me about it,” snaps Hartor. “Hundreds of kays away, yet it ripped out the breakwater at Tyrhavven and turned the piers into so much kindling. Half of the waterfront at Renklaar is gone. Even the waterfront buildings at Lydiar-and that’s inside the Great
North Bay-were flattened.”

“But none of it reached Recluce.”

“Of course not. Creslin caused it. And that idiot Gyretis said that he didn’t have that much power.”

Ryedel spread his hands, his eyes not leaving the High Wizard’s face. “Gyretis paid for it, didn’t he?”

“I should have sent him to Recluce. He wanted Creslin to win.”

There is no answer.

“How could anyone refuse to trade with Creslin now? Or attempt to cheat him?”

Ryedel looks toward the window.

“Can you honestly say that we’re stronger now?”

“It depends on what you mean,” ventures the younger wizard. “Hydlen has almost no ships left, nor do Certis and Austra. We’re in a better position than anyone except Sarronnyn.”

Hartor shakes his head. “So… now everyone will watch everything we do.”

“And Ryessa,” reminds Ryedel.

“Fine. At one stroke, Creslin turned Candar into a continent ruled in the west by the Legend, in the east by the Whites, and both have to bow to a damned island that perhaps has two thousand souls. Maybe he’ll die young.”

“It won’t do much good unless his White witch does too, and unless they don’t have a child. Even then, Gyretis… I mean, I wouldn’t be too sure.”

“What do you mean? Or what did our dear departed brother mean?”

“The rains stayed where Creslin put them, even after the great storm.”

“Oh…”

“What he’s done seems to stay done.”

The High Wizard fingers the amulet. “I suppose things could be worse.” He laughs harshly. “No one wants my job after all this.”

Ryedel looks toward the window, then down at the stone floor.

Hartor shakes his head slowly. In the west, the clouds are breaking and the sunlight is cold, but the drought has passed. In time, he releases the amulet, but he does not turn from the window.

CRESLIN STRUGGLES INTO awareness, though not out of darkness. He opens his eyes, but he cannot see. Blackness enfolds him like the air he breathes; while not physically restricting him, it never leaves him.

A dry, soundless croak that is an attempt at Megaera’s name emerges from his lips. He tries again. “… Megaera…”

A strong set of arms helps him into a half-sitting position, where he remains, propped up with pillows. “Drink this.” A cup touches his lips, and a warm scent of broth drifts into his nostrils.

“Megaera?”

“Just drink this. You need to recover as quickly as possible.”

Creslin swallows mechanically, knowing now from the still-throbbing wounds that are not his, and from the headache that is two in one, that she is the illest one. He swallows again, wondering what he can do.

“No!” Lydya commands.

He spills broth over his chest as he jumps at the steel in her voice. “Maybe later, when you’re stronger, but it might kill you both now,” she says.

“But…” he stutters “… if she…”

“Creslin,” insists Lydya, “right now she’s holding her own. If it gets desperate, I’ll tell you. But the best thing you can do for the moment is to heal yourself and stop being a drain on her. She’s been tied to you longer, and the flows still aren’t quite equal.” She pauses. His chest is blotted, and his chin. “You’re strong enough to hold this and feed yourself.”

He lifts his hands and finds the cup in them. “How did you know that was what I was thinking?”

“It didn’t take much guessing. Not when you ripped apart a good chunk of the sky and nearly killed yourself in distorting the order-chaos balance to try to save her. Now when, unconscious, all you did was moan and apologize to her. Not when your first conscious word was her name.”

“So stupid… again.”

“No. This time it was my fault. I was worried about Klerris, and you wanted to help me. You weren’t thinking. You don’t think when those you care about are threatened. None of us do. I didn’t either. Now drink some more. I promise you that if I need your help, I’ll tell you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

After finishing the broth, he lies back, but sleep does not find him, not immediately, not even in the darkness that could be full day. He can hear the distant surf beat upon the sand. That, and the small feelings he cannot place, tell him that he lies in his own room, but on a bed rather than on the pallet that he had used, and that the bed is not small.

He tries to lift his hand to feel the headboard behind him, but his arms tremble. The slightest effort to sense the room spins the darkness around him in waves. At least that is what it seems, although the blackness does not lift.

The dull, aching pains that are not his penetrate his arms, his leg, so much that his shoulder wound seems little more than a sting. He closes his eyes, but that fails to ease the burning in them.

Somehow he drifts back into sleep. When he wakes again, a cup is immediately pressed to his lips. “Drink this.”

“Uhhh… wait.”

He moistens his lips, then complies. The aching in his arms seems less painful… or is he more used to it? “Megaera?”

“She seems better,” Klerris says.

“But not much?”

“Not as much as I’d like. Drink some more of this.” Creslin again complies. After he downs the cup of warm liquid, he clears his throat.

“You’ll need more in a little while. You’re weak and dehydrated.”

“Dehydrated?”

“Not enough liquids. The body is mostly water, you may recall.”

“Why can’t I see?”

“I don’t know. I can only guess. It’s never happened before, and I’m really not prepared to speculate.”

“Guess,” commands Creslin.

“If you wish, your grace.”

“Skip the titles.”

“Then stop acting like a brass duke.”

“Sorry.”

“First, drink some more of this.”

Creslin sips from the second cup, his hands now steady enough to hold it.

“This is only theory.” Klerris pauses, coughs. “Somehow, you broke the order-chaos dichotomy. I don’t think that it has ever been done in quite that way before.”

“Order-chaos dichotomy?”

“You used a form of order to create destruction,” continues Klerris as though he has not heard Creslin’s question. “You may recall that I once pointed out to you that most Blacks found any physical destruction difficult as they grew older, even physical destruction that did not use magic. Well, you not only did the impossible, but you were slaying people with that deadly blade again when you did it.”

Only the distant sound of the surf whispers into the room.

“And?” finally prompts Creslin, the word half question, half croak.

“You have too much basic order in your bones, and your mind just shut down what it thought necessary for your preservation. Then the basic order forces recoiled against you and Megaera and shredded your remaining defenses.”

“What? You’re telling me that my thoughts aren’t my own?”

Klerris sighed. “I don’t have an answer. I can only guess.”

“How long will this blackness last?”

“I don’t know. If you were a normal order-master, you’d already be dead. It could be for the rest of your life. Then again, you might get your sight back in… I don’t know… a year, or it could be ten years. I just don’t know. I’m amazed that either one of you is still alive.”

“What about the raiders?”

“Shierra had more sense than we did. Your message was right. She just picked them off one by one until they gave up and surrendered. There are a few in the hills yet, but they’re not likely to be a problem. The Nordlans and Austrans want to ransom theirs back. Shierra and Hyel set the ransom at the maximum.” Klerris clears his throat again. “It appears as though the coinage problems, especially with what came off the grounded ships, have been more than solved. You and Megaera are rather wealthy now.”

“We are?”

“You two as regents get twenty percent. Plus that, Shierra and Hyel insisted that you be reimbursed for all the food you bought personally. After Shierra told the troops that and paid them their back pay, they wanted to vote you and Megaera thirty percent, but Shierra and Hyel insisted that you wouldn’t take it.”

“Twenty’s too much-”

“Don’t be a damned fool. You can’t afford to be poor. They’ll expect you to do the same during the next drought, shortage, or whatever.”

“Ummm…” Creslin’s eyes begin to droop as he slips back into sleep.

CRESLIN’S STEPS ARE even, if slow. His senses and his ears scan the hallway and as he opens the door and steps inside Megaera’s room.

Her breathing is soft, and she lies motionless on the bed, so still that he cannot tell at first whether she is sleeping or resting quietly-not until he hears the rustle of soft cotton sheets.

“How-” he begins.

“Better.” Her voice is a whisper, and the dull aches in her arms are echoed in his.

Creslin sits down on the stool beside her, and his right hand covers her while his left brushes back the damp hair he cannot see, resting on a forehead still too warm.

“Your hand… feels good…”

He swallows, feeling the dampness on his cheeks as for a moment he reflects, weighing the blackness within himself. Then he eases what strength he can to her, wishing that he were stronger but glad to spare some of the Black order, although not as much as she and their daughter may need. He realizes his hand is gripping hers so tightly that both are wet, and he relaxes his hold.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He squeezes her hand again, and the fingers of his left hand brush back her hair again and follow the line of her cheek. “Just holding too tight.”

He tries to picture her face-the freckles, the fire of her hair-and for an instant the image forms, and is gone.

“What new… happened?” she asks.

“Shierra insisted that we send an offer to the three-
Fairhaven, Nordla, and Hamor-suggesting that the wisest course was for them to recognize Reduce and our trading ships and for us to stop destroying their fleets.”

“Ummm…” A sound of rustling and a pressure on his forearm tell Creslin that she has shifted her weight, although she still remains on her back, propped up by pillows.

“Nordla couldn’t wait. They even sent their own proposed agreement. We haven’t heard from Hamor or
Fairhaven. Shierra, Hyel, and Lydya think they’ll agree. Byrem already has four ships back afloat, and the Hydlen and Analieran prisoners are busy expanding the breakwater. The Nordlans are adding another pier, but they’ll be gone in a few days. We agreed that they could have one ship back.” He swallows, licks his lips, and shifts his hand so that it loosely holds her arm just above the waist.

“. . : wise?”

“We’ll still be able to salvage more than a dozen vessels, and we can’t crew that many, can’t even find many sailors for the next season. Besides, our quarrel’s not really with Nordla.”

At the sound of a footstep, Creslin looks up, his senses extended. The blackness identifies the newcomer. “Lydya?”

“I thought I’d find you here. Let me see.”

Creslin’s fingers tighten around Megaera’s arm for an instant before releasing her. He stands and steps back toward the half-open window, letting the light but warm fall breeze flow around him while Lydya bends over Megaera, checking her arms and the deep slash in her thigh.

“You’ve had a little more help, I see.” She turns to Creslin. “I just hope you could afford it.”

“I gave only what you said I could.”

“Not any more?”

“A little. I know my own limits.”

Even Megaera laughs, but her hollow chuckle wrenches at his guts, and his eyes burn.

“Enough. You gave too much. There’s such a thing as emotional stability.” Lydya’s arm takes his above the elbow. “You need to rest in your own room. The last thing I need is for both of you to collapse.” The healer smoothly but firmly draws Creslin out of the room and down the hallway.

She nearly throws him onto the bed before she begins to speak. “You’re impossible! When you draw down your energies too low, you get overemotional, and that feeds right back to her. The last thing she needs to worry about is your worry for her.”

“But-”

“But nothing. I know you have more strength than you need physically. But you’re strung out emotionally and feel as guilty as light. Megaera will pull through, but it won’t help if she’s saddled with your guilt and sadness, or if she’s reminded that you blinded yourself by trying to save her.”

Creslin opens his mouth, but Lydya continues.

“Yes, I know it wasn’t just to save her, but to save Klerris and Hyel and yourself as well-but that’s the way she feels‘. And I can’t help feeling that you did it to save Klerris. Do you understand?”

He nods.

“I need to get back to Megaera. Make sure that you feel cheerful and loving when you see her… and even when you don’t. Do you understand?” she asks again.

“Yes, honored healer.”

“Good!”

She leaves the door ajar. Quick steps take her back down the hallway and into Megaera’s room. “Men!” The snort following the comment also carries.

Creslin slips off his boots and stretches out on the bed. Far sooner than he would have thought, his eyes close… although it is but early afternoon.

CRESLIN KNEELS CAREFULLY, touches the damp ground around the seedling, then eases his fingers to the stalk that will become a great black oak… someday. For an instant, the calm of order flows from him to the small tree, to the handful of leaves that have not dropped but soon will, bolstering the plant against the coming winter.

Then he stands and makes his way back up to the terrace, feeling the dampness of the morning sea breeze on his cheeks, listening for the sound of surf upon sand, for the clop of Kasma’s hooves on the road, or for the firm step of Megaera upon the stones leading from the stable. He will go to the keep later, but there is no need to hurry, not since his skills seem to be limited to thinking and deciding, and those can be practiced at the holding as well as at the keep.

The gentle hiss of the surf and the sounds of Aldonya in the kitchen surround him. No warmth falls upon his cheeks as he sits down on the terrace wall, for the clouds hide the sun, clouds that will bring the late fall rains.

A set of hooves echoes from the road, but the pattern is not that of Kasma, nor does he feel the closeness he would were the rider Megaera. He stands and walks toward the hitching rail outside the stable, where the rider will dismount.

“Regent Creslin?”

He struggles to identify the familiar-sounding voice of the man he cannot see; then, with a sigh, he uses his non-seeing senses to reach out on the air currents that dance around the holding. His head aches, for while his senses have returned, at least for those objects nearby, he remains sightless.

… must you…

Thoirkel waits for Creslin to speak. Creslin releases his tenuous hold on the air currents, and the aching stops. Though Megaera is at the keep, he can sense her relief.

“Yes, Thoirkel?”

“The guard commanders wanted you to know that two Sarronnese ships have docked at
Land’s End.”

“What do they want? The Sarronnese, I mean.”

“They would be honored if you or the co-regent would deign to see them. They did convey the goods promised last spring by the Tyrant… even more than that, and a chest of coins as a… belated marriage gift.”

Creslin snorts. “I take it that the sub-Tyrant was not amused.”

“Actually, your grace, she laughed. She said that it only took rearranging the known world to get Ryes-the Tyrant-to pay her debts.”

“I’ll see them, but not here. We’ll both see them at the keep.”

“But-”

“Her grace should certainly share in the bounty and gratitude of the Tyrant.” Creslin turns toward the door that leads into the stable. Unseeing or not, his steps are sure, and saddling Vola takes him only slightly longer than in the past, although the chore requires greater concentration and leaves his head faintly throbbing.

Thoirkel waits, mounted, on the road outside the Black Holding. Farther downhill, the latest Hamorian prisoners work on the paving stones, transforming the former rutted trail into a true highway between
Land’s End and the holding.

Clink…

The sound of the stonecutter’s hammer comes not from the road, but from farther south, where the first Hamorian stonemasons-no longer prisoners, but craftsmen of Reduce-work at constructing a smaller dwelling. It will house Hyel and Shierra. Hyel and Shierra? Creslin smiles.

Then again, who else does either one of them have? In their own way, they are as linked as he and Megaera are.

“How long since the Sarronnese docked?”

“Just a bit ago, ser. They haven’t even begun to off-load when I left. Her grace insisted that I find you immediately.”

“We’ll need to find her.”

Finding Megaera is not difficult, for she is standing inside the arched door to the keep.

“You were quick,” she says.

“Blind doesn’t mean slow. At least, not much slower. I can still sense where some things are, but it hurts to reach out more than a few cubits.”

“I know.”

“Sorry. Are we going onboard the Sarronnese ships? Or are your sister’s envoys coming here?” He shifts his feet and turns toward her, as if he could see her.

“I thought we could let them see the keep, and then let them escort us to the ships.”

As one, they turn back to Thoirkel. “Would you convey that invitation to the envoys?” Creslin asks.

“Yes, your graces. How… when?”

“Now is as good as any time.”

Thoirkel bows and departs.

“You can handle the ship? I mean-” Megaera asks hesitantly.

“I can sense enough, and you can certainly stay by my side, playing the dutiful clinging eastern mate.”

“I may stay by your side, but I will not cling.”

Creslin grins.

“You… you said that just… just… Oh, you’re still impossible.”

“Blindness doesn’t cure that,” adds a new voice. Lydya climbs the steps to the old entryway where they stand. “I overheard the last bit. Where do you intend to receive the envoys?”

“I had thought that the six of us would see them in the room we usually meet in,” Creslin tells her.

“Is it… suitable?”

“I don’t know, and I’m hardly the one to ask.”

“Oh, stop playing poor little blind, Creslin,” she says, smiling faintly.

“That wasn’t what I meant. I never thought about that room when I could see, and now I don’t remember it too clearly.”

“Oh…”

“It’s amazing what you take for granted.” Creslin’s voice is unintentionally wry.

“I’ll have the duty guards bring in several chairs and. some refreshments, such as we have,” Megaera offers.

“We’ve just fought a trade war. I’m sure that we won’t be faulted if our table is scarcely up to your sister’s standards. Besides, the burhka wasn’t that good.”

“Best-beloved…” Megaera sighs. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Creslin listens as her steps carry her across the hard stone floor.

“Why do I know that you two will always bicker?” Lydya asks.

“Because neither of us wants to admit how dependent we are on the other.”

There is silence. Then, “I’m sorry. I nodded, but you looked so attentive that I forgot you can’t see.”

“Thank you. It takes some getting used to. I doubt that I ever will. So often I feel awkward, and it’s hard to forget that I could even see when there was no light at all.” He licks his lips as the misty image of Megaera, beside him not so many nights earlier, flashes through his thoughts. “You never realize what you have.”

“You still have much more than most.” There is little sympathy in Lydya’s soft voice.

“I suppose we should head up the stairs.” Creslin’s fingers brush the stone wall before he moves, and he can hear Megaera’s voice when he is halfway up the stairs.

“Not those… the other set of chairs, from the other room. They are envoys, after all…” Creslin grins as he makes his way toward the conference room.

Before long, the Sarronnese have arrived. “Might I present Frewya L’Arminz, honored advisor to the Tyrant of Sarronnyn and envoy to Reduce, and Lexxa Valhelba, also envoy to Reduce?” The youth’s voice is clear.

The six from Reduce stand, and Creslin rises only fractionally after the others. Into the momentary silence, he speaks. “We are honored by your presence and wish you welcome, although-” he gestures around the room, “-our hospitality is by necessity far less impressive than that of Sarronnyn. Still, we welcome you in peace and friendship.” He forces a grin. “And since that exhausts my poor supply of formality, for darkness’ sake, let’s sit down.” He follows his own suggestion.

“We have some documents, your graces.”

Creslin responds. “The sub-Tyrant is far more familiar with such than I.”

“Perhaps before we continue,” interjects Megaera, “we could offer some small refreshment.” Even as she speaks, two guards enter, one bearing a tray with goblets and a decanter, and the other a larger tray with assorted cheeses and fruit.

The goblets are set out before those present and filled with a liquid that Creslin knows to be translucent green and to carry the taste of fire. His body does not rebel at handling trees or brandy-so those are the projects he has worked upon.

“A toast to our guests.” Creslin raises his goblet, holds it high, casting his senses to Megaera and waiting until her goblet is lifted with his.

“To our guests,” Megaera repeats.

The toast passes.

“This is… rather unique…” gasps Frewya after her first sip.

Creslin is glad that he is not sitting beside the woman. “Perhaps it would go better with burhka, but I regret that we cannot make that accommodation, although we would be more than happy to supply you with some of the green brandy to take back to Ryessa.”

“My sister the Tyrant might well appreciate the uniqueness.”

“If you could spare some…”

“We would be more than happy to.”

“About the documents?” Megaera’s voice is polite.

“Ah, yes, your grace. Her grace the Tyrant has entrusted us with a proposed agreement affirming the friendship of Saron-nynn and Reduce, including other trade guarantees…”

Creslin sips the brandy as the deep voice of Frewya drones on.

“… and, lastly, the cargoes of both the Aldron and the Miratror as a celebration to the union of your graces.”

“… since we’re still alive,” whispers Megaera.

“… and would hope that you would grant us the favor of a brief tour of our vessels…”

“… so everyone will know that we exist and are the devils of the
Eastern
Ocean
…” whispers Megaera again.

“Stop it,” Creslin admonishes. “Take what she has to offer with a smile.”

“Oh, we will…”

“I beg your pardon, your grace.”

“We were remarking upon the generosity of the Tyrant, Frewya.” Creslin’s voice is bland. “And we will take the agreements under consideration, though we certainly agree in principle, as you must know, with the need for free trade.” He stands, knowing that Megaera will stand with him, if only to cut short the proliferation of flowery nothings. “We appreciate your undertaking this long and arduous journey. Knowing that you must indeed be tired, we would not wish to impose on your generosity further.”

“Your grace, a last question. It has been rumored…”

Creslin cannot help but smile. “There have been so many rumors. Supposedly… but no matter. Let me dispel some of them. No, neither the sub-Tyrant nor I intend to claim Montgren, nor, as a matter of cold fact, could we, since it is held by the hard bronze-and-white magic of
Fairhaven. Nor do we expect that further use of the storms will be necessary now that the right of Reduce to exist and to trade freely has been recognized.” He shrugs in the direction of the two envoys. “Of course, we retain the right to do what we must should anyone move to-”

“Sarronnyn would certainly not infringe on those rights,” emphasizes the deeper-voiced woman, “but that was not exactly the rumor.”

Creslin reaches for the breezes-cooling the room is not against order, although later will pay for it with a headache-and wafts the winds through the room.

“Nor have I renounced the winds,” he tells them.

“Ah… you make your point. However, there is one-”

“I have renounced the use of the blade, but there are many here who are equally capable-” Creslin nods toward Shierra “-such as those who received the same training as I and who have had far greater practice. Our recent experiences indicate that arms must be left to those who are true professionals.”

“Do you have further questions?” Megaera’s voice is like ice, despite the recently all-too-familiar churning that grips both her stomach and Creslin’s.

“Ah… not about… rumors, your grace.”

“We were asked, by the Tyrant, you understand,” adds the second envoy, “to inquire about the possibility of obtaining an agreement for certain goods such as spices, and after our toast, I have come to believe that indeed she would be interested in your green brandy.”

Creslin swallows a laugh and says politely, “We wish you well.”

After the two envoys leave, Megaera turns to him. “You! You acted worse than Ryessa.”

“I didn’t notice you exactly shrinking away.”

“For whatever reason,” interjects Lydya, “your performance was successful in terrifying both of them.”

“When do we visit the ships?”

“I would suggest immediately… unless you want to wait for several days,” Hyel advises.

“Let’s get it out of the way. They won’t off-load unless we visit, and some of us are getting tired of cornmeal.”