The Towers Of the Sunset (42 page)

CRESLIN’S WHITE-OAK wand flashes, moving like the lightning that he has often called from the skies, and strikes.

“Oooff…” Shierra staggers back.

“Blackness,” mumbles Hyel. “Are you all right?”

“I will be.” She rubs her shoulder. “You’re fast, Creslin. And strong. I could see the opening, but I couldn’t get the wand there quick enough.”

“I was lucky.” Creslin sets his wand aside.

Shierra smiles, a smile that recalls Westwind and a kiss on the stones outside the
Black
Tower
from another guard. “No. Luck has nothing to do with it. Your technique is sloppy around the edges, but unless you run into someone a lot faster, it won’t matter. Or-”

“Unless I’m fighting more than one person,” finishes Creslin. “That’s what happened with the Hamorians.”

“There’s not much I can do about that, unless you want to try taking on two at once.”

Creslin laughs. “How about you and Hyel?”

“Not now.” She rubs her shoulder again. “I’m going to have the devil’s bruise there anyway. Besides, it’s starting to rain harder.”

“Has it ever stopped?” Hyel glances up, and then at Creslin.

“I’m working on it. We just have to be careful.” He grins ruefully. “Haven’t you noticed that it doesn’t pour any longer?”

“We only have endless mist.” Hyel’s tone is dour. “I think I liked the heat better.”

Shierra completes racking the wand. Her eyes flash from Hyel to Creslin, and she smiles broadly.

“You two,” complains Hyel. “You’re from the coldest spot in the world, and you’ve got no sympathy for anyone who likes heat.”

“It’s not that bad, dear man,” Shierra says with a smile.

Hyel blushes.

Creslin looks away, but he is pleased. “The
Griffin will be landing in a bit. Are you coming?”

“Is there any need to? Won’t Freigr be staying for a while?”

“This time… yes. He’s likely to be here for some time, in fact.”

“Is it that bad?” Shierra slips into the shoulder harness bearing her blade. “Already?”

“Sooner than I thought,” admits Creslin.

“It’s certain, then, about the Duke?”

“Nothing’s certain, but I think so.”

“Why didn’t he come here to Reduce?”

“Vergren was his life.” Creslin picks up his harness. The hilt of his short sword is cold to his touch, colder even than the mist that falls. “How could he give it up?”

“I don’t know.” Hyel looks down at the stones of the courtyard. “I used to think I understood things. Now-”

“It’s not that bad,” interrupts Shierra.

“I don’t know,” repeats Hyel, mechanically racking the practice wand and readjusting his sword-belt.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Creslin tells them, “after I see what shape Freigr and the
Griffin are in. Don’t forget to send a squad and some carts for off-loading.”

“They’ll be there.”

Leaving Vola in the keeps’ stable, Creslin stretches his legs toward the harbor and the expanded cot that has become Megaera’s glassworks.

His eyes study the harbor, but he does not see the white sails of the approaching
Griffin; only the Dawnstar and the sunken fishing boat are in view. He shakes his head. He had meant to discuss the relic with Shierra and Hyel. Sooner or later they will need the pier space.

Creslin stops outside the rough, clay-brick walls of the glassworks, then steps through the open doorway.

Her face smudged, Megaera does not look up from the stone-topped table where she studies a translucent blob. Beside the blob is a glass goblet, one of the products of her work with Avalari, an apprentice glassblower before his impression into the Hamorian fleet. Apprentice or not, the goblets are good, and in time their production will provide another trade item, assuming that Reduce lasts that long.

Megaera looks up at Creslin and smiles.

“You’re not coming, are you?” he asks.

“What good would it do? You can deal with Freigr, and I’ll see you both later.”

He steps around the table, hoping for at least a quick kiss.

“You…”… impossible… oversexed…

He gets both the kiss and a full-bodied hug that leave his heart racing.

“Creslin…”

“I know.” Another squeeze and a kiss and he is out into the gray afternoon. Before he has cleared the doorway, she is back at work with the mixtures of sand and chemicals that Klerris has laboriously provided.

As he reaches the foot of the pier, Creslin glances toward the point of white, still perhaps two kays seaward of the breakwater, barely visible through the haze that will again become drizzle.

He walks out on the pier, looking at the nearly refitted Dawnstar. Without Lydya’s ability to mend wood, or Klerris’s art of strengthening the timbers, rebuilding the Hamorian ship would not have been possible, not in just one summer. He smiles, though the smile fades quickly, for the Dawnstar still lacks adequate sails.

So they have waited for Freigr and the
Griffin… and waited. It has been only three days since Creslin rescued her from the
Fairhaven war schooner. Now he waits to confirm what he suspects but what the white mists have kept him from learning.

Montgren is quiet now, the whiteness subsided, but there are troops from Jellico, and even from Hydlen, camped throughout the gentle valleys that had once held little more than sheep. And Vergren alone still seethes with white.

In time, the sloop wallows up to the pier, half of her sails already furled by the time she passes the breakwater. By then, a group of guards and troopers has arrived and reported to Creslin. They stand a pace or so behind the silent regent.

As the lines are made firm and the gangway eased into place, Freigr finally looks out at the guards on the pier, then at Creslin. The captain’s hair that had been sandy and silver is now mostly silver, and the clean-shaven chin is covered with a short and scruffy beard.

The
Griffin, up close, bears its own scars: gouges in the once-smooth railings, patches on the single sail still unfurled, and an unseen and lingering sense of chaos.

As soon as lines are secured and the gangway settled, Creslin is across and onto the deck, where Freigr meets him, garbed in the green-and-gold surcoat worn over a graying black sweater. The crew, almost as scruffy as the captain, looks away from Creslin.

“That was your doing? To the war schooner, I mean?”

Creslin nods.

The flint-gray eyes are bloodshot. “I can’t say that I want to be here, Creslin. Or should I say, Duke Creslin? Or will your co-regent wear the coronet?”

“I would claim no title, Freigr.”

“No, you wouldn’t. That I know. But can you afford not to?”

“How did it happen?”

Freigr shakes his head. “Who knows? Was it the plague? Or an assassin? All I know is that people were dying, mobs running through the streets threatening to stone anyone who was connected with the Black Wizards, and the messengers said that the keep had fallen to the mob.”

“I take it that the White Wizards sent in the troops to restore order?”

“How-”

“I could see the troops after the magic cleared, but not how they got there. The keep itself is still clouded in White magic.”

“It was magic?”

“Chaos magic of some sort. You can’t use order-mastery for that.”

“But they said that it was all your fault, changing the weather.”

“The weather, yes.” Creslin sighs. He glances again at the battered
Griffin. “And I suppose the disasters that followed are my fault, although I didn’t cause them.”

“Cause… who can say?” Freigr looks at Creslin, the bloodshot eyes still flint-hard. “What do we do now?”

“You’re welcome to become the flagship of Reduce.”

“Do we have much choice?”

“No. You could command the Dawnstar.” Creslin points to the nearly bare-masted ship across the pier.

“You’ve done a lot with her. We’ve got the sails. Plus some extra canvas. And as many provisions as we could bring.” The seaman gestures at the barrels lashed across the forecastle, then pauses. “I’ll have to think about it. Might be better to have Gossel as her master.”

“It’s your choice. Gossel could replace you here.”

Freigr looks at the keep on the hill. “I don’t know. I knew it was a bad omen, bringing three friggin‘ wizards here. Just didn’t know how bad.”

Creslin sees a woman peering from the hatchway leading to the mess.

Freigr’s eyes follow his. “Synder’s sister. Couldn’t have more bad luck, so I let those who wanted to bring their women, sisters, whatever, do so. I figured you wouldn’t mind, and I couldn’t have done less.”

“We’re a bit crowded, but that’s the best news you’ve brought.” Creslin looks to the northern skies and the patches of blue between the puffy clouds. “That and the weather.”

“I was glad for the rain.”

“We’ve had a bit much, but I hope we’ve fixed that.”

THE SILVER-HAIRED woman looks from the singer back to the guard commander on her right. She ignores Krynalleen, the thin-faced arms-master who sits on her left.

“I don’t like it, your grace,” Aemris says.»“The Tyrant didn’t rebuild Nonotrer… before. Now there’s even less of a threat.”

“We should attack them? After losing two squads in Suthya?” Llyse sips from the black goblet. “And nearly another to the Analerian bandits? We’re being bled dry.”

“I never said that. But it bothers me.”

“It bothers me, too. And that business of the footprints. There’s at least a squad of invisible warriors somewhere above the high road.”

“It bothers us all,” puts in Krynalleen. “White devils.”

“Wizards’ business,” snaps Aemris. “I’ve doubled the outriders. They can’t spend the winter up here, not once the snows are deep. Then we’ll get them.”

“We don’t have that much here to get anyone,” Llyse comments, “not with the Sarronnese commitment. Not with the losses we took to Southwind. I’m not renewing-”

“You don’t trust the Tyrant?”

“Trusting a woman who would abandon her own sister to the White devils isn’t exactly the smartest thing to do. If we weren’t so short of hard coin…”

“You did send supplies to the consort,” Aemris reminds her.

Llyse’s eyes flare, but her voice remains level. “Those were things we couldn’t turn into coin and couldn’t use.” She pauses. “Anyway, see me in the morning.”

Aemris looks toward the singer at the cleared end of the dais.

“The man song… the man song…” cries a guard from the middle tables.

With a shrug toward the high table, the minstrel slips off the stool, sets down the guitar, and opens the pack behind him. After a moment, he withdraws an object that he unfolds into a long fan shaped as a sword. With a bow, he begins.

Ask not what a man is, that he scramble after flattery as he can…

… after all, he is but a man…

As he sings, the minstrel, dressed in shimmering, skintight tan trousers and a green silksheen shirt, prances toward the high table, thrusting the fan suggestively.

“… and, after all, he is but a man!”

The minstrel bows, accepting the applause, before setting aside the comic fan and recovering his guitar. A single whistle lingers after the clapping dies away. He sits down on the stool, adjusts the tuning pegs, and lets his fingers caress the strings. Finally he clears his throat softly.

… and in the summer, and under the trees, my love will lift you across the farthest seas…

The applause is scattered, and he smiles wryly before adjusting the guitar again and beginning a march. Immediately the younger guards pick up the rhythm with their clapping.

… honor bright, honor bright…

… from the mountain’s height…

After two more similar songs, the minstrel slides off the stool, holds up his hands, and bows. While the clapping fades, he sets aside his guitar and rummages in his pack for a moment before retrieving a package-almost a half a cubit on a side-that he carries toward the high table and the new
Marshall.

Llyse stands for the minstrel. “It is good to see you again, Rokelle of Hydlen.”

“I am honored, your grace.” The figure is still slender, the voice still youthful, though the brown hair has thinned and the gray at his temples is more pronounced. The once-fine lines radiating from the flat brown eyes are heavier and deeper. “Especially that you would recall a mere traveling singer.”

“Those who sing are always welcome.” Her eyes narrow, but she steps forward.

“A token for you, Marshall of Westwind.” The minstrel’s voice is curiously dull behind the mellow tones as he holds the cloth-covered object as if to extend it to her.

“A rather large token.” Llyse raises her eyebrows.

The minstrel inclines his head. “I thought you might find it of interest.” Easing his burden onto the table, he lifts the cloth.

“Oh…”

Aemris leans forward. On the table is a model of Westwind itself, its heavy walls and towers captured in metal, except that in the central courtyard there is a large candle.

“If you will permit me…” The minstrel uses a sliver of wood to transfer the flame from the table lamp to the candle.

In the glow from the taper, the small castle seems to glitter, though the walls are clearly solid, if somewhat sketchily etched in the hammered metal.

“Tin?” asks Aemris.

“Alas, Guard Commander, I do not know. The space between the metal is filled with a plaster, I think.” He laughs, an empty sound. “I could not have carried this were it solid metal.” He coughs and looks toward the pitcher on the table.

“Your pardon, Rokelle. You entertain us and bring a gift, and we keep you standing and thirsty.” Llyse nods, and the serving boy pours a goblet and sets it before the empty chair between the guard commander and the arms-master. “Please join us.”

“I would indeed be honored.” He eases himself into the chair and reaches for the goblet. “Singing’s a thirsty business even when you’re appreciated.”

Llyse frowns again, and her eyes flicker from the minstrel to the candle-lit model of Westwind and back to the minstrel. “What news might you bring?”

“There is always news, your grace. Where might I begin? Perhaps with the Black Wizards…”

… sssss…

Llyse’s eyes turn to the candle within the miniature castle; it flares brighter and hisses before subsiding.

“… say the fires that are sweeping Montgren come from the renegade Blacks of Reduce, though that I would not know… and the orchards of Kyphros are dying, Weindre’s daughter has pledged fealty to the Tyrant.”

“We’d heard that.”

Rokelle takes a deep pull from the goblet before continuing. “The Whites have pledged to aid both Hydlen and Kyphros.”

“I wonder how much it will cost us all,” murmurs Krynalleen into her goblet.

Llyse’s brow remains knotted, although her eyes stay on the minstrel. Her lips purse, and she clears her throat, as if to speak.

CrracccKKK!

A flare of fire, like the impact of lightning, shatters the table and throws instantly charred bodies across the hall, flattening the guards at the lower tables.

Even before the echo has died, another gout of white fire flares across the Great Hall, turning the two tables holding the senior guards into another instant bonfire. In the wavering heat, a hooded figure is outlined momentarily before beginning to fade.

A single blond guard sees the fire that issues from the near-invisible hooded figure, and almost faster than thought, she draws and throws her cold iron blade.

“Ooofff…”

Another smaller fire flares.

Overhead, the roof creaks as two beams smolder, and from the distance, the sound of blade against blade echoes in the late-summer evening.

The blond guard retrieves a blade from an unmoving figure. “Quarters! Quarters, damn you!”

Tra-tra!

The watch trumpet echoes from the
Black
Tower
, even as a healer’s face turns white over the four crumpled and blackened figures on the dais, even as the blond warrior rallies the remaining guards.