The Towers Of the Sunset (20 page)

“THERE’S NOT MUCH to go on,” the military chief says.

“Enough. The Blacks helped him,” snaps the High Wizard. “Who else could have?”

“Well, Gyretis says the only direct input was White.”

“White? He is certain?”

“Is the noble Gyretis ever less than certain?”

“Hmmphh…” Jenred taps his fingers on the white oak of the desk. “White… of course. White. Get detachments out to cover every main approach to Montgren.”

“Montgren?”

“Don’t you understand? White magic. Not anyone we know. Who else is left? The Tyrant couldn’t do anything from Sarronnyn. Damn! She must be strong.”

The other snakes his head. “No. That was the other thing. Gyretis said that whoever the White was, he-or she- didn’t have the strength to break the barrier.” He shifts his weight as he stands on the hard white granite. Marble is too soft for the workings of chaos.

“That means that some Black helped then, but was too clever to be detected. Damn them! What about the healers?”

“We don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“There was only one, and she’s dead.”

“Dead?”

The other shrugs. “That’s what they say. The road wizard burned her body, as per your instructions.”

“Idiots!” The High Wizard shakes his head. “That wasn’t her body they burned. She got them to see something else. Demons only know where she is now, and this time they’ll get away with it, unless those detachments find Creslin alive! Do you understand me?”

Hartor nods. “I understand. I don’t know if it’s possible. Especially if he avoids the roads.”     ‘t

“Do what you can.” The High Wizard looks away, but his fingers continue tapping on the gold-sheened finish or the white oak. “Dead. Bah…”

CRESLIN SITS UNDER the yellowing leaves of the scrub oak, slowly eating the last redberry he has pulled from a nearby bush.

Overhead, another vulcrow circles, and the white-clad road guards below show little signs of departing any time soon; it is almost as if they know he is somewhere close. But how?

The young man takes a deep breath, ignoring the soreness around one rib, resulting from a dive out of the way of a Certan cavalry officer with a bias against beggars, or apparent beggars. Creslin remembers the man’s laugh, and his words: “Leave the roads for those who can use them!”

Through the yellow leaves, he watches as the vulcrow circles the end of the valley in a continuous slow spiral. Beyond the other end of the long valley, beyond the range of his vision, are the rolling hills that separate those gently climbing meadows from
Fairhaven.

Could he find another road into Montgren? Probably. Would it be guarded as well? Probably.

Creslin? The voice is faint, so faint that he can barely hear the word.

He squirms around under the scrub oak, trying to find the speaker, but all he can hear is the rustle of leaves in the hot breeze of autumn.

Traaa…

The horn echoes from the road guards below. Several of them point uphill in his direction.

Creslin? He can feel no speaker nor see one, and the voice is so faint that he cannot tell for sure whether it belongs to a man or a woman. If he had to guess, he would say a woman, if only for the feel of his name.

Traaa… traaa… More riders point to the hillside, and the vulcrow banks in his direction.

Creslin peers overhead in time to see a wide-winged white bird vanish in the midst of a patch of clear blue. Megaera!

“Darkness…”he mumbles. “Now what?”

An unseen mist of white is beginning to climb up the hillside, and a dozen of the road soldiers are turning their mounts toward his scrub oak. If it weren’t for the wizard…

Creslin shrugs. His legs ache; his stomach is filled with greenery and berries; and he has a walking stick and a belt knife that he scrounged in a town east of Jellico.

Ignoring the feeling that tells him he will pay dearly for the effort, he reaches for the winds, the upper winds that strike the Roof of the World. Under the trembling yellow oak leaves, his forehead breaks out in sweat.

… wwwhhhsss…

The winds sound as though they are hundreds of kays away, distant echoes in the skies.

“Find him! He’s trying to call some magic!”

Creslin ignores the squeaky voice from below.

“… more to your right! Toward those yellow leaves!”

The white mist surges uphill.

“… can’t see anything here.”

“… hope the frigger doesn’t have a bow.”

The roaring in Creslin’s ears increases as the skies turn from mixed clouds into ever-darkening black swirls.

“Find him! Under the yellow trees!”

… wwwhhstt…

“… which yellow trees? All the damned trees are yellow.”

“… that one! Over there!”

Darkness falls like night on the hillside with the screaming of the winter storms off the Roof of the World. Mixed ice and rain plummet from the towers of the sunset like frozen fire, and the winds…

… the winds lash the yellow leaves off the branches that shelter Creslin, off the scattered trees around the valley meadows. The winds scour the horsemen from their mounts with ice driven like arrows against armor and unprotected skin.

… whhheeeEEEhhh…

“… demons… demons.”

… wwwwhhhEEEEeee…

As the winds subside, the rains fall like the winter waves on the north coast of
Spidlar, smashing against the sodden land, against the stripped trees.

On the hillside, a man staggers upright, wiping his forehead, which burns even under the cold torrents. He takes one step downhill, then another. He vomits the meager contents of his guts across a battered crawling evergreen.

Straightening, he staggers around a heap of white that was once man and horse; he slides then stumbles and lands farther downhill. Doggedly he picks himself up, totters onward toward the road below and the open pass into Montgren.

After what seems like a century, he lurches past another pair of white heaps. His head spins, but he stops and paws through a set of saddlebags, taking a small bag of provisions and a leather jacket. The whiteness of a blade twists at his stomach, and he leaves the weapon with its dead owner.

In time, his feet touch the hard clay that is already turning to ooze under the pounding of the skies.

“Megaera… why did you let them know? Why?”

He staggers on, lifting feet that weigh stones as the ice-rain falls around him. Though he notices not, little of the torrent strikes him, and after several years, or so it seems, he stands on the hard stones of the road through the hills.

The rain is endless-before him and behind him. His breath comes in gasps. With determination, he puts one foot in front of the other, ignoring the burning and the shuddering within as he steps toward Montgren… and Megaera.

FROM HIS VANTAGE point on the narrow road that winds northeast toward
Sligo, Klerris turns in the saddle to study the dark clouds to the north. The storm is only now beginning to subside after two days of pounding the high hills between Certis and Montgren. He shakes his head, then settles his eyes back on the winding ribbon of clay.

“Are you worried about the road guards finding us?” asks the woman with him. In the early morning chill that will soon be replaced by the warmth of the harvest season, she wears a faded green cloak thrown back over her shoulders. Her mount is a light-gray mare.

“No.”

“Are you still worried about his escape?”

“It’s not his escape. It’s that.” He points toward the storm on the horizon. “Do you know how high that has to be for us to see it? Do you have any idea of how much power he has? There’s likely to be cold rain over most of Certis and^ Montgren for days yet.”

“I said he was bright.”

“Lydya, do you have any idea…” His tone is gentle.

“Klerris, you’re going to have to stop taking the weight of the world on your shoulders. I can tell you that Creslin doesn’t like playing with his abilities. If he created that storm, then he had a real need for it.”

“That’s only part of the worry. Not only could he destroy half of the world’s climate, but none of the Whites will believe an untrained and unknown Black wields that kind of power.”

“So?” She urges the horse forward alongside the Black Wizard.

“So Jenred will blame it on us, as well as blame us for Creslin’s escape.”

“That’s why you put the road guards to sleep and burned the house. You told me that already. Jenred wants to blame you for something anyway.”

“Too bad we had to use oil.” Klerris shrugs as he looks northward again. “Better they think it’s our doing than a Black conspiracy. Jenred would like nothing more than to have an excuse to turn on all the Blacks.”

“Isn’t that coming?”

“Sooner or later, but we really don’t have any good defenses.”

“Creslin does, clearly.”

Klerris snorts. “He doesn’t even know he’s a Black, and he’s tied to a Gray who thinks she’s a White.”

“Are you sure about that lifelink?”

“You told me.”

They ride silently for a time.

“What next?” the healer asks.

“I’ll have to do what I can with Creslin. You… Westwind, I think.”

She shivers. “I hate the cold.”

“I’m not exactly enthused about dealing with Creslin and Megaera. Do you want to try that?”

“I’ll take the
Marshall, thank you.” She adds, “Cold or no cold.”

CRESLIN SHOULD NOT be up, but he is tired of lying in the small cottage. Healing the sheep had been a mistake, with himself scarcely healed and certainly not knowing what he was doing. Slowly he swings his feet off the cot and sits up, looking toward the half-open window opposite the fireplace. The clear blue-green of the sky indicates that it is mid-afternoon, or later. He pulls on the shapeless trousers and heavy woolen shirt he has borrowed from the herder. Making his way outside, he heads to the fence that keeps the sheep out of the gardens.

He rests his right foot on the lower rail of the fence and crosses his arms on the topmost rail. His eyes take in the damp and heavy grass of the fall, grass with more than mere traces of brown, and the cream-colored, black-faced sheep that graze without noticing him.

To the west-beyond the rolling hills, beyond the fertile fields of Certis and the rivers that flood them before running to the Northern Ocean-lie the Easthorns, and the wizard’s road that will allow the High Wizard to rule all of Candar, or at least all of Candar that lies east of the Westhorns.

“Your honor…”

Creslin wishes that the herders would not accord him rank. Certainly he has never claimed it, and he has only done what he could to help out while recovering from his travels and travails. In his weakened state, that has been little enough: sensing a diseased sheep or two, and actually healing one. That had been a mistake, since he had collapsed on the spot and had awakened back in the cottage.

“Yes, Mathilde?”

“There is a lady here to see you.”

“What?” He turns from the fence to look past the barns, past the hilltop cottage with its heavy, gray-thatched roof, to where nearly a dozen armed soldiers sit astride chargers.

Overhead, he sees, briefly, a glittering white bird, which disappears as he watches. He walks downhill to the main path leading to both house and soldiers. With what Andre and his family have done for him, he cannot leave them to the soldiers. He gathers as much of the winds as he can, but his legs still shake and a stray breeze ruffles his hair.

“Wait for me, your honor.” He slows, looking at the small figure huddled inside the herder’s heavy coat, realizing belatedly that the day must seem chill to Mathilde, despite the clear sky and warm sun. “Sorry.” He channels some of the wind away from her, absently. “Did they say what they wanted?”

“Only the lady spoke. She asked for the master who had appeared from the west.” The girl, after catching up with him, looks at him with an accusing stare. “You never said you were a master.”

“I’m not.” The tightness in his stomach betrays him, and he adds, “I don’t like to think about it. Some people think lam.”

Her short legs scurry to keep up with him as he strides through the high, damp grass. Shortly they come to the gentle incline leading to the house.

“I think you are. So does Papa. Mama doesn’t know what the fuss is all about. She says that you’re too gentle to harm a fly and that any fool can see that.” An anxious glance crosses the thin face under the woolen cap. “Isn’t that right?”

“I couldn’t harm you or your family. Or anyone good,” he adds.

“You hurt some bad people.”

“Yes,” he admits.

“I know it! You’re a good master. That’s what I told the lady.”

Creslin does not sigh, torn between the child’s faith and her damning honesty.

From the north, heavy clouds roil toward the hillside like chargers bound for battle. With each instant, they seem darker. He shifts his eyes to the troopers waiting by the house. All of them are mounted, save two, for there are two riderless horses. A woman is standing before Andre, and her voice carries toward the silver-haired man and the child.

“… he walked out of the storm? And he was not wet?”

“Saving yer grace, that’s true. But wounded and bleeding, and as hot as a kettle boiling, spewing words that made no sense.”

The conversation stops as both the red-haired woman- her hair flows almost to her shoulders, though it is swept back with heavy combs-and Andre watch his approach.

“I found him, Papa,” announces Mathilde.

Andre does not look him in the eye but stares at the damp clay by the feet of the lead chestnut.

Creslin catches the woman’s deep green eyes for an instant, nods, then moves toward the shepherd. “Andre?” His voice is gentle. “Thank you for everything.”

The shepherd still does not look up.

“I mean it. What will be, will be. Without you, I doubt that I’d be alive.”

“Shepherd?” The voice of the redhead is commanding, although quiet.

Andre faces her.

“I mean him no harm,” she says, “but he cannot remain here.”

Creslin looks at the second empty saddle, wondering where the remaining soldier might be.

“Your honor?”

Creslin looks down at Mathilde.

“You won’t forget us, will you?”

No, he will not forget this respite, nor the family’s kindness. Nor the solemn, thin face and bright brown eyes. “I’ll remember, Mathilde.”

He straightens and turns toward the shepherd, who stiffens. Creslin ignores this and hugs the bearded man, briefly, but strongly enough to convey his thanks. “I meant it,” he whispers as he steps back.

“Better man than me…” mumbles Andre.

Creslin looks toward the woman, who has remounted, then inclines his head toward the empty saddle. “Where is the other soldier?”

“Oh, no,” she chuckles, and the sound is not quite music. “How else would you get to Vergren?”

“Lady-”

The flat voice of a man mounted on the far side of the woman grates on Creslin’s sensibilities, and he steps forward to look at the speaker, a man with short silver-and-black hair and an aquiline nose.

“Wizard, just stay where you are,” the man orders. “Look back.”

Creslin turns and sees the pair of crossbows aimed at him. “Not exactly friendly,” he observes.

“They’re somewhat… overprotective,” adds the woman.

Puzzlement shows on Creslin’s face. “But-”

She laughs gently and turns to the man. “You see,
Florin. I’m perfectly safe. Or I was until you decided to ‘protect’ me.”

“I’ll protect you as I see fit, as I have done at the Duke’s command.”

Creslin ignores the byplay. Instead, he looks at the horse, wondering which role to take, and finally he swings into the saddle. His legs protest, and he sways more than he would like, grasping the horse’s mane with one hand to steady himself while the whirling in his head subsides. His abilities are still there, but not the strength.

“Are you all right?” asks the redhead.

“As long as we don’t ride too far.” He looks down at the herder girl. “Good-bye, Mathilde.”

“Good-bye, your honor.”

Her face is still turned toward the narrow lane long after the horses descend toward the main road; that he knows.

As he becomes more comfortable on the charger, far larger than the mountain ponies on which he learned to ride, even larger than the trader’s gelding, he turns toward the redhead. She is the only woman in the troop, he has discovered. “Why did you come after me?”

The man glares at him, but Creslin watches the lady. She seems vaguely familiar, yet when he tries to dredge his memories, bright pin-lights flicker before his eyes.

“You really…” Her words drop off as she glances at
Florin’s dark countenance. “Perhaps you should tell us how you got here,” she suggests, and her horse edges fractionally closer to his.

Creslin would shrug, but he needs his energy, particularly if the ride is going to be long, as he thinks it will be. “If I began with the beginning, I would ran out of time before we reached the interesting parts.”

The rain begins to fall in cold drops, but Creslin lets it strike him where it will, not wanting to spend effort in keeping it from him. Besides, compared to the blizzards of Westwind, the rain is not cold.

“… too good a horseman for a wizard, if you ask me.”

“… riding without a jacket in this… doesn’t even look cold.”

Creslin ignores the whispers carried to him by the wind. “I left my homeland in the west-”

“Why?” Her question is direct but not cutting.

He shrugs, and his shoulder twinges. He purses his lips before he answers. “To avoid an arranged marriage.”

“Was the idea so distasteful that you crossed the East-horns?”

He does not correct her misperception of the distance he has traveled; instead, he concentrates on staying in the saddle, a problem he has not had since he first rode bareback. “Yes,” he finally answers. “Customs there… are rather different… from here. Male initiative is… discouraged.”

He has to concentrate on remaining in the saddle, using the chill of the rain on his face to contain the burning within. How many hills they climb and descend, he cannot say, nor whether he has said more than “yes” or “no” to the infrequent questions of the lady. All he knows is that the rain has begun to fall in heavy sheets and that the saddle is moving under him.

Then he knows not even that.

When he wakes for the first time, his eyes refuse to focus and the flames within him burn like the fires behind
Fairhaven, like the sun on Freyja, like the rocks of the low desert behind the southern rim of the Easthorns.

“Easy, easy…”A liquid is spooned into his mouth before his thoughts reel back into darkness.

The second time he awakens, his eyes focus, if dimly, and he sees that the room is pitch-dark except for a low lamp on the wall. Again the liquid is spooned into his mouth before he relapses into darkness.