"You feel everything I feel or think?"

   She turns toward the leaded panes of the window. "No. Only . . . when you're near and you feel strongly. When you were working on the road . . . just the worst ..." She looks away, although her hands and scarred wrists remain on the tabletop.

   Creslin waits, trying not to gnaw his lips, trying to keep his hands still. Megaera is silent, not quite looking at him, but not overtly avoiding his glance.

   "You said we still have to work together," he finally ventures.

   "What do you think we should do?"

   "Do?" Creslin wants to bite his tongue for the stupidity of his words. "I'm not sure. I'd hoped to learn something in Fairhaven-"

   "I trust you did learn something." Megaera's voice is dry.

   "A great deal." He forces a laugh. "But not exactly what I had intended." He paused. "I can't return to Westwind. So ... where can we go?"

   "It's not where we can go. It's where you can go."

   "That's not quite true. I suspect we could return to Sarronnyn. Or we could stay here. The Duke needs all the support he can find, whether he'll admit it or not."

   "Do you honestly think we would be safe for long in either place?"

   "Why not here?" asks Creslin.

   "The Duke has no heirs. As a young man, he had the spotted fever," Megaera says flatly. "The Duchess died four years ago. She had no siblings."

   Creslin nods. "So the wizards will wait for his death, but if you stayed, with a claim on the Duchy ..."

   "I'm glad I don't have to explain everything."

   Creslin tries not to clench his jaw, merely tightening his lips. Finally he speaks to break the silence. "That leaves nowhere in Candar."

   "You have moments of brilliance, best-betrothed. Especially when you note the obvious."

   "Are we looking for a solution, or are you more interested in insulting me?" Even as he says the words, Creslin wishes he had not.

   "Truth is not an insult, not unless you are looking for deception."

   He wonders why he bothers. Then again, Megaera scarcely chose to be tied to him. "I know very little of human nature, of the intrigues of rulers, and . . . probably . . . little of women, at least of those not raised in Westwind. I know that, and you know that. I admit it. What good does it do to keep pointing it out to me? Does it make you feel superior?"

   "Perhaps I am. In some ways," she adds almost hastily, a strained look on her face. "Damn you ..." she whispers, refusing to look at him, her head bowed and her eyes fixed on the polished wood of the table.

   Creslin shakes his head. In one moment Megaera is almost approachable, yet in the next . . . She is like two different people. Then he swallows, understanding finally. His eyes burn, and he tries to wall off his feelings, knowing that it is already too late, knowing that she feels what he feels almost as soon as he does.

   "Stop it! I don't need your damned pity! Just go on being dense and stupid. It's easier that way." She has left the chair and turned her back to him, standing with her face toward the open leaded-glass windows.

   The room is close, the air still, and Creslin touches the winds, bringing a breeze in through the narrow opening, watching as the air lifts strands of Megaera's red hair. She does not acknowledge his actions or his presence.

   Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, he pushes back his chair and stands. He walks over to the couch, away from Megaera.

   "How much longer can we stay here?" he asks.

   Megaera does not answer him at first, keeping her eyes fixed on the hills beyond the outer wall and to the south-a better view than that in Creslin's room, which merely faces a corner tower of the outer wall.

   "Korweil cannot force us to leave."

   "Do you want to stay?"

   "Where could you-we-go?"

   "What about Reduce?" Creslin asks.

   "That desolate island waste? Better that I stayed behind iron walls with sister dear."

   Creslin shrugs. "Hamor?"

   He senses that Hamor is no answer.

   "Nordla?".

   "That's as cold as Westwind, and they don't honor the Legend there."

   "I don't think they do in Hamor, either. Not since the empire was founded."

   "Damn you all . . ."

   "Then I guess it has to be Reduce, at least for a while. Unless you want to risk staying here."

   Megaera does not turn, nor does she speak.

   "We should talk to the Duke after dinner." Creslin waits. "I will see you then." He moves toward the door, but Megaera still says nothing.

   He closes the door and turns down the corridor toward his quarters, followed by another pair of armed guards.

 

 

LIV

 

DESPITE THE ELEVATED boots he wears, Korweil is considerably shorter than Creslin. The Duke's thin face appears pinched, and his deep-set eyes are bloodshot. "So you're the one who may bring the wizards down on me?" He stands by the massive desk designed for a far larger predecessor.

   "I may be a convenient excuse. They will do what they will and give the most plausible reason available at the time."

   "Excuses, excuses. At least Dylyss has taught you logic in addition to some reputedly fancy blade-work."

   Creslin senses a tightness in Megaera, a mounting anger. The Duke is trying to push them. "You know, Megaera, I believe your cousin is attempting to get a reaction from us." His eyes flicker from her to the Duke. "Considering that you have few allies indeed, is a moment's satisfaction worth the trouble that provoking us might cause?"

   "You're rather cool, Consort Creslin. And not terribly appreciative of one who has provided sanctuary for your recovery."

   "I am deeply appreciative, my lord." Creslin's bow is not quite sardonic. "And I have come to discuss how best we might serve you in departing this sanctuary."

   Megaera's eyes flash from one man to the other. "Might we be seated around the table, cousin?"

   "Certainly, certainly." The Duke moves toward the nearest chair as if to offer it to Megaera. He stops short as Creslin's fingers curl around the high back.

   Megaera steps around both of them and takes the Duke's chair. "If you two are ready ..."

   Creslin sits down in the chair he had thought to offer to Megaera and pulls it up to the circular table. Korweil steps behind one of the two remaining chairs and pours a glass of red wine from a green crystal decanter into a goblet.

   "Would you like any?" He nods first to Megaera, then to Creslin.

   "I think not, cousin."

   "No, thank you."

   "I see." The Duke sips from the goblet, then sets it before him and eases himself into a chair. "What do you have in mind, Megaera?"

   "I'd be interested in your ideas, cousin."

   The Duke shrugs. "Anywhere outside of Montgren that suits your fancy. Back to Sarronnyn, perhaps?"

   "An amusing idea, but do you really think sister dear would like to see me back . . . unfettered?"

   "Ah, yes. Ryessa might have some concerns about that." His fingers steeple. "Perhaps Suthya?"

   Megaera's eyes fix upon the Duke.

   "Ah. I see that might have some problems." His forehead shimmers in the lamplight. Korweil takes his handkerchief and wipes the dampness away. "Do you have any suggestions, oh vaunted Storm Wizard?"

   "Just one. It might solve everyone's problem. Why don't you name Megaera regent of Reduce?"

   "I ... what?" the Duke sputters, choking on the wine.

   "Name Megaera as viceroy of Reduce, as your regent of the isle."

   Korweil wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, ignoring the napkin on the table and the handkerchief in his wide white belt. "It's more than ten times the size of Montgren, and I'm supposed to name her regent?"

   Even Megaera's mouth is open.

   "Yes."

   "But . . . ?"

   "She's your cousin. She is the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn. You cannot afford to hold the island, not with every man you have needed against the wizards, and I doubt that either Sarronnyn or Westwind would mind sending a small detachment to support your interests on Reduce, given Megaera as regent."

   Korweil shakes his head. "No."

   "Why not?" Creslin's tone is almost absentminded, as if Korweil's comments are irrelevant.

   "Reduce is Montgren."

   "They why isn't your keep there?"

   "I prefer Montgren for its ... more convenient : . . location."

   "Practically next door to Fairhaven?"

   Korweil wipes his forehead again.

   "I think my dear cousin has forgotten how desolate most of Reduce is," Megaera observes.

   The Duke continues mopping his forehead.

   "Or how difficult it might be."

   "Enough . . ." sighs Korweil. "Enough. Ryessa would like nothing better than for me to name you regent. Then when we're both out of the way, she can claim Montgren. Wouldn't that give the wizards fits?"

   "Sister dear is smarter than that. She really hopes that, since my best-betrothed and I have nowhere to go, we might just ensure such a succession immediately. She has no interest in risking her troops this far from Sarronnyn." The corners of her mouth twitch halfway through her statement.

   Creslin recognizes the gesture and wonders where Mega-era is not telling the full truth.

   Korweil looks back toward the entrance to the dining room, toward the pair of guards standing more than a dozen cubits away.

   "Cousin," continues Megaera, "if we had any intention of doing away with you, you would already be dead."

   "I still say 'No.' Your . . . friend's suggestion would create another land for the Legend-holders."

   "That barren waste?" The words drop like cold hailstones on ice. "Who would want it?"

   "My sire went to great lengths-"

   "Korweil," interrupts Creslin, "if you want us out of Montgren, you have to come up with a place for us to go. Otherwise ..."

   The Duke wipes his forehead again. "So what can you do? Really do?"

   Creslin grasps the breezes circling the courtyard outside and funnels them through the drawing room. A heavy parchment sheet starts to lift off the desk in the corner.

   Creslin drops the winds.

   "Good for cooling things off, I suppose," the Duke mutters.

   "Cousin, don't be a fool. He has already killed a good score of the White Wizards' guards. And he did it when half out of his mind and with a split skull. He also, if you recall, disarmed the best duelist in Sarronnyn with three strokes."

   "Megaera, your cousin clearly does not want you named as his regent. Nor does he offer any alternative. So I suggest that we return to our rooms and get a good night's sleep. Tonight, and every other night until the wizards come after us. Our being here gives them every excuse. And, of course, should anything happen to us, I'm certain that both the Marshall and the Tyrant would be more than a little displeased." He stands up.

   Megaera looks at the Duke, then nods. Fires flare at her fingertips, then extinguish themselves.

   The Duke's face appears even paler in the lamplight. Then suddenly he smiles. "All right. I'll name your child regent of Reduce."

   This time Megaera pales. "You presume too much." The fires reappear.

   The Duke swallows, looks from Megaera-standing with fire in her eyes and upon her hands-to Creslin. Finally he croaks out his response: "I don't trust you, Megaera. If I could, I'd make Creslin regent first, even if his mother is the iron bitch of all Candar."

   Megaera lets the fires in her hands die, but not those in her eyes.

   "The best I dare is to make you co-regents, contingent upon your marriage." The Duke tightens his lips and stands, looking straight at Megaera as if to dare her to do her worst.

   This time Megaera looks away. Finally she speaks. "A formal marriage only, in your Temple, with only your household as witnesses."

   Creslin opens his mouth, then shuts it. Marriage? That had never entered his mind. And to the one woman he fled the Roof of the World to avoid? Even, he is forced to add to himself, if he didn't realize who she was.

   "Join the discomfort, young Creslin," rumbles the Duke. "The darkness help you both."

   "Very humorous, cousin."

   Creslin says nothing.

   "When?" asks the Duke.

   "Tonight is as good a time as any." The redhead's words are measured and drop like lead coins. "We'll leave tomorrow, or the day after, with the declaration of co-regency. We'll take your sloop, the one at Tyrhavven. We'll return it immediately after we land safely at Land's End, of course."

   The Duke sighs, nodding slowly. "The documents will take a short while."

   "Then I will change into something suitable for a formal wedding." Her eyes flicker to Creslin. "If you could find something suitable for Creslin?"

   "No," Creslin protests.

   "You will not marry my cousin?" asks the Duke lazily.

   "I'll marry her-in name only-but I'll wear what I am. Leathers and nothing more."

   Korweil nods again. "I leave that to you and your bride. If this marriage is to take place, I need to find Shiffurth and several scribes. If you will excuse me . . ."He stands, bows, and turns.

   Creslin looks at Megaera as Korweil leaves the study. "You and your regency," she says. The flames in her eyes have not died as she speaks.

   "Do you have a better idea? I like the idea as little as you. Less perhaps."

   "After those thoughts of yours? After you dragged me through the sewer of your mind? Deep inside, you're like every other man, protesting while hoping to get a woman into bed. This union is in name only, and for survival. I suggest that you do not forget it."

   "How could I?" How indeed, thinks Creslin as he stares at the air currents that play around the lamp on the Duke's vacant desk. "How could I?"

 

 

LV

 

THE DUKE'S TEMPLE is little more than a long, narrow room under the Great Hall, although the walls are of light-paneled red oak and the floor of polished gray granite. Less than a score of men and women stand in a half-circle roughly ten steps back from the black wood of the Table. They stand, for there are no benches in the Temple of Order, just as there are no images. Outside the open double door, Creslin shifts from one foot to the other, wondering if his stubbornness in insisting on wearing the green leathers were wise.

   Megaera is nowhere to be seen, although Aldonya has assured him that she will be arriving shortly. The serving girl's eyes had not met Creslin's, and an aura of sadness surrounds her as she repairs to the rear of the Temple.

   "Nervous?" asks the Duke.

   "In more ways than one." Creslin envies the serving girl. Megaera is at least kind to someone. He shifts from one booted foot to the other again.

   "I offer you congratulations and condolences, Ser Storm Wizard. My cousin is a far greater storm than any you have called."

   "I've begun to realize that."

   "Realize what?" asks another voice throaty and feminine.

   Creslin turns. "Oh ..."

   In blue and gold, Megaera stands there. The silver-haired man swallows once, twice, then nods.

   "Thank you . . . best-betrothed." She smiles faintly but warmly. The smile is like sun after a storm, but it fades as Creslin watches.

   "Do you have the documents?" Her voice is matter-of-fact.

   "They're on the table, ready except for my signature and seal," affirms Korweil. "I will be more than happy to sign them before or after the ceremony."

   "After will be soon enough," she tells him.

   Creslin's lips tighten at the chill in her voice. How could he ever have considered this? He thinks again. What alternatives do they have? His eyes stray back to her, taking in the creamy, if lightly freckled, skin, the green eyes that can sparkle or storm, the strong, clean nose, the slender frame.

   "Stop it ... not a prize ewe ..." Her voice is inaudible except to Creslin, and the words are as cold as ice.

   SK': He turns his eyes to the open double doors and to the black Table.

   "Shall we begin?" asks the Duke.

   Creslin turns to Megaera, who has stepped up beside him. "Best to get it over with," she says.

   "You don't have to do this."

   "I do if I want to survive." Her voice is barely more than a whisper. "Go on, cousin dear," she continues in a louder tone.

   The Duke squares his shoulders and steps toward the black Table:

   Megaera touches Creslin's arm. He extends his arm, but she does not take it as they move forward, past the men and women who have stood aside for them.

   The Duke turns as he reaches the Table. Creslin and Megaera stop a pace or so before the Duke.

   "In the name of order and under that ever-present chaos, which can only be postponed but never denied, we are gathered together to witness two souls who wish to strive to place a greater order on their unity." The Duke reads from the parchment easily, his voice deeper than when he talks privately with Megaera and Creslin.

   "... and will you strive to place understanding and order within your heart?"

   "I will," answers Creslin.

   "As I can," answers Megaera.

   "Do you affirm your dedication to each other and to a higher order?"

   Creslin swallows before responding, "I do."

   Megaera's voice is so low as to be nearly indistinguishable. "If possible, darkness willing."

   The Duke smothers a frown. "Then, in the presence of the order that must be created and recreated daily, and under the light of ever-present chaos, I affirm the bonds of this higher unity and the dedication of two souls unto order and unto each other." Creslin realizes that he must make some gesture and that Megaera has not moved toward him.

   "At least kiss her cheek," whispers the Duke.

   That Creslin can do, and he does, gently, leaning toward her. But his lips come away damp from the tears that stream from her eyes.

   ". . .so beautiful"

   "... even his silver hair seems right."

   Creslin ignores the whispers and offers his arm. This time Megaera takes it, and her head remains high as they walk back toward the doors, past those few individuals comprising the Duke's private household. Past the stocky serving maid in blue and cream, who weeps unrestrainedly, and not from happiness.

   He presses his lips and keeps walking, ignoring the burning in his eyes.

 

 

LVI

 

"YOU SHOULD HAVE at least one maid, your grace," ventures the black-haired girl. "You are a sub-Tyrant and a regent."

   "On my wedding trip?" The laugh that follows breaks between harshness and sorrow. "Do you think that best-betrothed would wish you looking on?"

   The girl's eyes stray toward the saddlebags on the floor.

   Megaera takes a last sip from the cup. "Why . . . why did I ever ..." She pauses. "Aldonya ..."

   "Yes?"

   "I have arranged it with Korweil and Helisse. You may remain in their service as long as you wish. It's not an indenture. You may leave at any time."

   "Your grace is kind, but I would rather go with you."

   "To Reduce? To that desert island?" Megaera's eyes rest upon the gentle swelling of the girl's belly. "Reduce is no place to have a child."

   "Your grace-"

   "Aldonya, if you still feel this way, and if you and the child are healthy, and if I am still . . . able to help, then you may follow me to Reduce. Korweil will make the arrangements."

   The faintest of smiles flits across the young woman's face. "You are kind. If only Creslin could see that."

   "I'm not kind. He knows that. Sometimes I wish I were." Megaera raises her arms and lets the sleeves fall away from the white scars. "These don't let me forget. Being a woman and without power ..."

   The young woman smiles again. "I think he is good at heart. And he could love you."

   "Probably, but good at heart isn't always good in word or deed." The redhead looks out the window into the early morning shadows cast by the castle's eastern walls. "Sister dear . . . she taught me that long ago." . Aldonya's smile fades as she notes the sadness in the redhead's eyes.

 

 

LVII

 

"HE'S IN THE Duke's keep at Vergren," Hartor tells the High Wizard.

   "How do you know? Your usual sources?"

   The heavy man grins across the table. "Gold sometimes works better than chaos or order. Korweil is as nervous as an unfledged vulcrow."

   The High Wizard nods knowingly. "I assume that you're doing what you can to make the Duke even more nervous."

   "We did make sure that he knows about the Marshall's recall of her troops in Suthya. Pointing out that Westwind comes first, always."

   "What about Creslin himself?"

   "We've let it be known that he killed an entire bandit troop."

   "Don't exaggerate, Hartor."

   "Well ..." temporizes the heavy man. "Only one of the seven escaped, and Creslin apparently killed Frosee personally and took his horse."

   "You didn't ever mention that."

   "We didn't know it until after he escaped."

   "That brings up another question." The High Wizard frowns. "What about the troop on the way into Montgren?"

   "Was that his doing?"

   "Probably not. I doubt that he's mastered that level of work. It has to have been Klerris and that healer, Lydya. They got him out of the road camp. Both of them are gone, and Klerris fired his home-using oil, so there were some traces. Nothing useful, unfortunately, except some indications that they're headed west, back to the land of the precious Legend."

   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 Reduce? To Hamor?"

   "Reduce 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 guards preceding the wizard reach for their blades.

   "Here he comes!"

   "Idiot!"

   Creslin concentrates upon melding wind and water and the chill of a thunderstorm, trying to replicate the conditions he had created outside Perndor, although his sword finds its way to his hand as he bears down upon the White guards.

   The blinding chill of a wall of ice-bolts lashes the three front riders, and his sword finds no resistance.

   Essttt . . .

   Fires flare around Creslin as he drives toward the fourth rider, but the winds carry him through the flames. His blade strikes once, and again.

   "No . . . demon ..."

   Another flare of white sheets around him, around the shield of the winds he has woven, even while his sword sweeps under the fifth guard's arm and strikes.

   "Uggmm ..."

   And the winds whip toward the White Wizard, where winds, fires, and cold iron meet. The iron triumphs.

   Creslin reins up just in time to see the last guard spur his horse back toward Fairhaven . . . and to lean over himself.

   "Uuugghhh ..." His guts turn themselves inside out.

   Wheee . . . eeee . . . The chestnut skitters, but Creslin ignores the mount as the tears stream from his eyes and he continues to puke from the saddle. Hammers pound through his skull, and he ignores the six bodies on the ground, three of them shrouded in slowly melting ice and three of them bearing dull red incisions. Overhead, the dark clouds mount.

   Finally he straightens and turns the chestnut toward the pass from which the Certan cavalry is emerging. He still shivers by the time he nears the bouldered hillock where the mercenaries and Megaera wait.

   Megaera glares at him. She is pale, he notes absently, and a few dunnish streaks dot the forelegs of the gray she rides.

   "Sorry. I didn't expect that," he says.

   Megaera makes no answer.

   "Ser?" asks the head Spidlarian.

   "You don't have to worry about the wizard. Or his troops."

   The Spidlarian blanches.

   The mounted troop, under the red-and-green banner of Certis, has reached the base of the hill on which the six wait.

   "I think we need a storm," Creslin observes.

   "You'll destroy the weather for months!" Megaera protests.

   "Fine. Do you want to die right here? I can't take on twenty armed men."

   "I count fifty."

   "Shit . . ." murmurs the youngest mercenary under his breath.

   "No battles," reminds the Spidlarian senior, his voice a shade more tense than before.

   "Shut up." Creslin checks his blade to see if he has cleaned it before sheathing it. He does not remember doing so, but the steel is cold and blue and clean. He replaces the blade even as his eyes, and the feelings behind them, seek the winds again, although winds of a different pattern of twisted air and moisture than those before.

   A trumpet echoes in the mid-morning air, rings in Creslin's ears, and vibrates copper-silver above the road less than a kay downhill, just before the squad leading the Certan horsemen.

   Creslin swallows and grabs for the winds.

   Whhssttt . . . weeehhsss . . .

   His tunic threatens to tear away from his body.

   "... shit . . . shit!" Creslin wonders if all mercenaries have such limited vocabularies as he wrestles with his soul and the lashes of the sky. Thick gray and swirling white clouds begin to build around them, and around the horsemen.

   "... wizardry ..."

   "... didn't say an air wizard ..."

   Creslin touches Megaera's arm before their vision becomes nearly useless. "Rope. Twine."

   "Hold hands, reins, something-"

   "No! I can't!"

   Creslin jerks back as one of the Spidlarians screams, claws at the cottony fog and spurs his mount toward the south, back toward the Vergren road.

   Megaera reaches out, touches the wrist of the lead mercenary, tugs at his sleeve, and draws him and his mount closer. The other two mercenaries shiver in their saddles but follow Creslin, the redhead, and their leader.

   "There's one! They're headed back!" a Certan horseman shouts.

   The sound of hooves echo through the cottony fog.

   "Watch it! Might be a trap!" another warns.

   "... damned wizards!"

   Creslin leads the way downhill and to the north, farther away from the road, wondering why the one Spidlarian panicked. The fog is certainly no worse than many blizzards he has weathered, and far less cold.

   "... where are they?"

   "... can you hear them?"

   "... they're north ..."

   "... I heard something over there ..."

   Slowly, slowly, his path guided by the winds and not by his eyes, Creslin picks his way around the fringe of the Cretan troop and toward the pass that cuts across the corner of Certis to the west before again twisting northward. He takes a deep breath, then reaches a bit farther, twisting and yanking even colder air into the clouds above, wincing as ice forms.

   Threp . . . threp . . . threp . . . threp . . .

   Most of the hailstones fall near the road.

   "... demons ..."

   "... frigging captain. Ought to be here."

   Through the gloom and fog, Creslin can sense Megaera's twisted smile even as he feels his legs shake, his eyes burn. He takes a deep breath, for they have not yet gone far enough.

   A hand touches his wrist, and a sense of warmth flows into his body. It is Megaera, her mount's flank nearly touching the chestnut's. The weakness in his knees retreats, but they must continue to move onward. He releases the hail and takes another deep breath as he senses the walls of the pass begin to close on them.

   "Where-" begins a mercenary.

   "Shut up." The iron-edged whisper is the redhead's, not Creslin's, but it has no less power because of the sex of the speaker.

   Another kay passes slowly, and Creslin releases more winds as they climb upward and out of the fog. He looks back. The pass, and the valley onto which it opens, remains swathed in white, almost as white as the faces of the three mercenaries.

   "Oh ..."

   Creslin's body is nearly too tired to catch the redhead as she collapses across the neck of her mount. The two heavy packs behind her saddle hamper him as he tries to keep the horses together.

   He swallows-realizing the cost of the warmth he had received-as he leans to support her partial weight, still attempting to keep the horses together for the moment and wishing that he knew how to return her favor.

   She breathes, and he can only hope that her swoon is simple exhaustion. The Spidlarians help him move her in front of him, where he can hold her as they start downhill. His knees tremble, but he will not let her go, not when this may be one of the few times he can hold her.

   He looks up and toward the lead mercenary. None of the three men meet his eyes, not even the one who takes the reins of Megaera's mount. The now-riderless horse looks like a packhorse, with clothes and other items stacked behind the saddle.

   As the five horses head down toward the Sligo road, Creslin frowns. Why could he twist the winds the second time without the agony he felt after his first effort?

   He looks up at the storm clouds marching in from the north, promising rain, cold rain, and takes a deep breath.

 

 

LIX

 

"HE BESTED BORTREN," Hartor says with disbelief.

   "Bortren was a fool. He should have just helped the Certans. Still, it's hard to see how Creslin avoided two full troops on the Sligo road."

   "Why don't you ask the guard who came back? This was your idea, and now we've got two monsters on the loose." He turns toward the doorway.

   "Hartor."

   The other stops. "Yes, Jenred?"

   "It was my idea. We also lost only five men and one wizard, not an entire army. If Bortren had listened, we would have had no losses and a far less obstreperous viscount in Jellico. You will also note that the Duke did not provide Creslin and Megaera with his own guards."

   Hartor's face remains impassive.

   "Get the guard," Jenred orders. "Perhaps you should join the pursuit yourself to give greater importance to the effort."

   "I might . . . after you hear the guard."

   Hartor leaves, and Jenred waits as a young road guard trembles his way toward the table. The youth stops but does not look at the High Wizard.

   "What happened?" Jenred demands.

   "He ... I don't know, but somehow ... I mean . . . Jekko and Beran and the new guy, they turned to ice ... and the wind near threw us right off our mounts." His voice is thin, stammering.

   "What about the two others? And Bortren?"

   "He killed them, with his sword. The wizard-our wizard, the one you called Bortren-he threw fire at the Storm Wizard, but it never even came close."

   The thin wizard frowns. "Real fire?"

   "I could feel the heat."

   "Why did you . . . depart?"

   "Because I was scared, Ser Wizard. Anything that kills five men and a wizard ... I can't stop it."

   "What happened after that?"

   "The whole valley filled with fog. Then there was ice rain. They said it was there days later. I didn't stay."

   "Well, you're honest. You've at least seen this . . . Storm Wizard. Tell Hartor you're going with the ship."

   "Hartor, ser?"

   "The big wizard who called you here. You'll be on the ship that sinks the Duke's schooner. You'll take a ship from Lydiar. That way we solve two problems."

   "Yes, ser." The guard's voice is flat, resigned.

   The thin man in white ignores the tone.

 

 

LX

 

THE THREE SPIDLARIAN mercenaries rein in at the seawall. Creslin follows their example, as does Megaera. Up the muddy road that leads to the rolling hills and the site of the attack by the Certan light horse, there are no horsemen, but there will be.

   The cold rain beats around them, but not upon them. While the Spidlarians mumble, they do not protest the protection Creslin has afforded them. His senses expand to the cold sea breeze that flows in off the whitecaps beyond the too-short breakwater; it is almost a winter wind, carrying moisture barely warm enough to be rain and not ice.

   Megaera shivers under a thin cloak, and her face is pale as she follows Creslin's eyes toward the pier.

   Tyrhavven is a poor excuse for a harbor, large enough for only a few coasters and an occasional Hamorian trader, and nearly useless in the winters. While ice chokes the Spidlarian ports, Tyrhavven is south of the ice line, not far enough south for clear water, yet far enough that the ice floes and bergs could be avoided-if not for the combination of winds, tides, and waves.

   Poor harbor or not, it is Montgren's sole outlet to the sea, and that only because of the treaty negotiated through the Tyrant of Sarronnyn.

   Of the two ships moored at the pier, one is a sloop flying the Montgren banner, smaller than a coaster, her sails furled. The other is a two-masted war schooner bearing a white triangle within a black circle. A pair of guards in white-enameled copper breastplates flanks the gangway.

   "Wonderful." Creslin's hand strays toward the sword in his shoulder harness, then drops. "Now what?"

   "They won't do a thing here," observes Megaera.

   "We just walk on board?"

   "Why not?" She laughs. "It's better than sitting here and freezing."

   "I don't think it's that simple."

   "Of course it's not. Once we're on board, they'll send at least one assassin. If we clear the harbor, they'll follow, and when we're out of sight of witnesses, our ship will catch fire and sink. That's why cousin dear insisted on sending a messenger separately, and slightly later."

   "If we don't make it, almost no one will know. Is that it?" Megaera nods.

   "We will make it."

   "There are at least twenty White warriors on the ship, and another ship waits somewhere. They're expecting us."

   "You took that-" he points to the Montgren sloop "-from Sarronnyn?"

   "No. I bounced here on a Suthyan coaster. It was bigger, heavier, and slower. The Duke didn't want to risk one of his two ships. And of course sister dear did not press him."

   "Let's go and visit."

   Megaera shrugs. "I don't think it's a good idea."

   "Do you have a better one?"

   "After the way you treated the wizard's road guards and the Certan light-horse squad?"

   "What was I supposed to do? The last time I visited Fairhaven wasn't especially healthful for me."

   "You think it was much better for me?"

   "You weren't out of your mind and hauling rocks with an infected foot and everyone hoping you'd die." -

   "No. I was just out of my mind, feeling every agony and wishing you'd get it over with."

   "Ahem . . ." interrupts the thin-faced mercenary, lifting a document case bearing their warrants and right - of - passage.

   Creslin looks back through the rain toward the hills. There is still no sign of the eventual pursuit. He gestures toward the document case. "Once you've delivered that and we're assured passage, your job is done."

   "The lady is . . . our charge."

   Creslin turns to Megaera. "Then let them go. They're your guards."

   "Me? A mere woman? Compared to the great Storm Wizard?"

   "You're the sub-Tyrant," Creslin reminds her.

   A cough breaks the silence.

   "Lady?"

   "Go." Megaera's sigh has an edge to it.

   Creslin ponders what he did wrong . . . again.

   "Everything," she replies.

   "Let's go talk to the captain."

   "In a moment. Let the man do his work." Megaera dismounts and ties the horse to the railing. She glances up at Creslin, still on the chestnut he has ridden nearly three hundred kays over the past eight-day. Then she takes a comb and begins to repair the wind damage to her hair.

   "What do we do with the horses?" Creslin slips off his mount, his eyes flicking to the rain-swept pier, where the mercenary has begun to board the sloop.

   "They come. It won't be comfortable for them, but cousin has a set of stalls on the ship. On every trip, a pan-is sent. He had hoped in time, to build up a full cavalry troop on Montgren." She laughs harshly. "It is rather difficult when you have only two small ships." The comb disappears.

   "So why did he agree to naming us regents?"

   "Why not? If we're powerful enough to survive and to hold Reduce, he couldn't stop us. And he needs the support of Sarronnyn." A ragged smile crosses her lips. "And he knows we're strong enough to cause the wizards more than a little trouble. It might cost him one ship. Already, he's doing well. How many troops and wizards have you destroyed?" She pauses. "For a Black Wizard, you're awfully creative at getting around the chaos limits."

   "Chaos limits?"

   "If you want to stay a Black, you can't use fire or anything else that breaks things apart. That's calling on chaos."

   "Can't a great wizard do both?"

   "Doing both calls for a Gray Wizard-part White, part Black. They say there have been only one or two Gray Wizards ever. And not in years. One of the books I smuggled past sister dear said that trying to handle both order and chaos is the most dangerous of all because the guidelines change from situation to situation." She looks toward the pier. "We need to walk the horses down there."

   Creslin follows her lead, his eyes taking in the mercenary and the man in green and gold standing on the deck and gesturing toward the Spidlarian. The captain's gestures are hardly encouraging.

   The Spidlarian tenders the dispatch case, points toward Creslin and Megaera and bows, backing away politely.

   The pier is short, and they arrive by the unguarded gangway as the mercenary steps back onto the pier.

   "Our charge is done, ser, lady." He bows again.

   Creslin returns the bow, then hands the man a gold. "I wish it could be more, but-"

   With a lopsided smile, the mercenary takes the coin. "You've gotten us through, ser, when few could have. My life is worth a bit more than the gold, but I appreciate the thoughtfulness. Have a good voyage." He bows again, then strides back down the pier toward the horse being held by one of the other two Spidlarians.

   "Synder!"

   Creslin ignores the captain's bellow and looks at Megaera. "What about the horses?"

   As he speaks, a youngster scuttles to the top of the gangway.

   "Synder! Get the horses!"

   "Yes, Captain."

   The captain looks at the two on the pier. Creslin smiles, sensing the man's discomfort. "Let's go." Megaera shrugs but follows him up the unrailed gangplank.

   "Name's Freigr. I'm the captain of the Griffin, subject to the Duke's orders, of course." The clean-shaven captain wears a green-and-gold surcoat, and flint-gray eyes inspect his passengers.

   "Creslin, and this is Megaera, the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn."

   "You claim no title, ser?" asks the captain with a half-smile.

   "He's the consort of Westwind," explains Megaera, "but he claims that doesn't count as a title."

   The captain nods. "According to this-" he raises the dispatch case "-you have been appointed the Duke's co-regents in Reduce, and I am requested to provide your transportation." His eyes wander toward the first horse being led on board. "You have other baggage?"

   "Only what is packed on the horses."

   "For regents, you travel light."

   Creslin shrugs. "Most of my belongings either remained in Westwind or found their way into the hands of the White Wizards."

   Megaera smiles brightly but adds nothing.

   "The Duke's cabin is, of course, yours," Freigr says blandly, his right hand smoothing down his short-cut and thinning sandy hair. "But our fare will be rather simple."

   Creslin grins. "I'm not used to rich food."

   "At Westwind, I'd guess not. And your lady?"

   Megaera's eyes flash and her lips tighten, but she says only, "I rather doubt that I will find it any problem. But ... I am not exactly his lady, since he is from Westwind and I am from Sarronnyn."

   The captain's eyebrows lift.

   Creslin explains. "She is far more important than I, Captain. The Tyrant of Sarronnyn is her sister, and my sister will be the one to hold Westwind."

   "Ah, I see, I think." Freigr turns momentarily. "Synder! Put the gray in the port stall. It's smaller."

   Creslin tries to sense what Megaera is feeling, but she appears walled off behind a shield of gray-a whiteness shot through with black lines-that he can sense but not see.

   "Yet the Duke named you co-regents."

   "The Duke is an eastern male ruler." Megaera's voice is chill.

   Freigr scratches the back of his head.

   "Perhaps we could move our bags to the cabin," suggests Creslin.

   "Ah, yes. That might be best." Freigr starts toward the single raised deck at the stern.

   Creslin halts Synder and the gray horse in order to reclaim Megaera's belongings.

   "Go ahead, ser. We'll bring them down," suggests Synder.

   "Thank you." Creslin nods and rejoins the captain and Megaera. He has to lower his head as they enter the narrow passageway.

   "The Duke's cabin is on this side, opposite mine. This is the mess room, and the galley's opposite."

   The captain cannot stand upright, and Creslin's head touches the bracing beams of the ceiling as the three edge into the low-ceilinged space.

   The Duke's cabin-less than eight cubits square- contains two bunks, one over the other, set against the forward bulkhead. The bunk frames are carved from red oak, and each bears an ornate green-and-gold coverlet. A built-in, shoulder-high chest is on the right-hand side of the bunks, and a narrow wardrobe is crowded between the bunks and the sloop's hull.

   Creslin rubs his nose to stop the itching from the faint mustiness that pervades the cabin. A heavy circular table bolted to the deck and three wooden armchairs upholstered in green and gold fill most of the space. The carving on the chairs matches that on the bunks. An ornate chamber pot rests in one corner.

   Two portholes offer the only light, although there is one unlit brass oil lamp hanging from the beam above the table.

   "Not exactly the most suitable for a newly wed couple," apologizes the captain, "what with the separate bunks . . . but a sight better than accommodations on most coasters."

   "It's very nice," insists Megaera with an amused smile.

   "Appreciate the hospitality," adds Creslin.

   Heavy steps on the planks presage the arrival of two sailors bearing Creslin's pack and Megaera's baggage.

   "Just set them down," Megaera says.

   "Set them there," echoes Freigr. The captain waits until the two men depart. "Tide's not really a problem here, and the wind's right. We've got what we need; been waiting for the Duke's orders. So, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to-"

   "That's fine. When do you expect we'll leave?"

   "This afternoon, if I can drag three of the boys out of town. In the meantime, you might enjoy yourselves." Freigr smiles broadly at Creslin and closes the door.

   "Enjoy ourselves! That . . . you . . . men!" Megaera unfastens her travel cloak with deliberation.

   "I think he was assuming that we are ... the usual . . . newly married-" Creslin finds that he is blushing.

   "Stop it! It's bad enough that we had to get married to save your wretched neck."

   "My wretched neck?"

   "It was the only way to save mine, thanks to sister dear and your darling mother the Marshall. But it is your neck."

   "You weren't exactly beloved in Sarronnyn."

   Megaera begins to rummage through the topmost of her bags. Creslin reclaims his pack and places it on the top bunk.

   "You could have asked," she says dourly.

   Creslin picks up the pack. "Which one do you want?"

   "The bottom is fine."

   He grins.

   "I don't need your crass comments." Fire glows at Megaera's fingertips.

   "Never mind." Creslin places his pack back on the top bunk. "I'm going out on deck."

 

 

LXI

 

As THE SAILORS loosen the hawsers, Creslin watches the activities. Megaera has appeared, still gray but without the cloak now that the rain has lifted. Her face and hands are freshly clear of the grime of travel.

   "Now what?" he asks.

   "Next, I think ..."

   Creslin's attention drops away from Megaera's words as his eyes center on a wavering of the light; it resembles a snow mirage, or the summer heat mirages from the black stone roads leading to the Roof of the World. Although his eyes insist that nothing is there, the winds tell him that a man stands behind the twisted light, a man who has walked up the gangway just before it was hauled aboard. Creslin, short sword leaping into his hand, walks slowly toward the figure behind the light shield.

   "Creslin?" Megaera's voice turns from conversational to sharp as she sees the sword, and her eyes widen as she senses what he senses.

   The distortion vanishes, and a thin, black-haired man in black-black shirt, tunic, trousers, and faded black traveling cloak-stands on the deck, his empty hands palms up. On his back is a bulging pack of leather and canvas.

   Creslin does not sheath the sword, but waits.

   "My name is Klerris. I thought you might need some assistance, and you're going in a direction that might be beneficial."

   Klerris? The name is vaguely familiar, but Creslin cannot place it.

   "I'm generally thought of as a Black healer, and often I have helped with injuries to the road crews."

   The healer who had helped restore Creslin's memory had mentioned the name. "Where is she?" Slowly, he replaces the sword.

   "Lydya? On her way to Westwind. The White Wizards are not exactly pleased with either of us at the moment."

   Megaera glances from Klerris to Creslin and back again. "Would one of you mind explaining?"

   As she speaks, the last of the lines is cast free; the Griffin swings away from the pier and, under partial sail, glides past the Fairhaven schooner and toward the open sea. On the war schooner, white-clad sailors are busily moving about, as if preparing to follow the Griffin.

   "There was a healer at the road camp," answers Creslin slowly, studying the schooner; it bears the name Lightning on a plate above the stern. "She helped me get my memory back. She mentioned the name of Klerris."

   "Does that make this man the same Klerris?" asks Megaera.

   "Not necessarily," admits Creslin. "But I can't see any benefit to impersonating a Black Wizard, and he certainly isn't a White Wizard."

   "Perhaps this would help," suggests Klerris, extending his hand. In it rests a heavy linked-gold chain. "Yours, I believe."

   Creslin takes the chain, studies, it, notes the twist to the links. "Thank you."

   "Lydya recovered it when you were brought into the camp. She thought you might need it."

   "That's worth a fortune," Megaera notes coolly, "assuming it's real."

   "Touch it. It's real." Creslin sways as the deck lurches.

   Megaera's fingers brush the gold.

   Outside the breakwater, the seas are heavier, but the sailors breaking out the full rigging of the sloop have no trouble with either footing or coordination.

   "The first part of the trip is the roughest," offers Klerris.

   "Oh?" Megaera's eyebrows rise. "You've made this voyage before?"

   "Darkness, no. But the winds are higher north and west of the gulfs, and the northern seas harbor the storms."

   Creslin steps to the rail and grasps the worn wood. His senses go out to the Fairhaven schooner, which glows with the whiteness he has come to associate with the White Wizards. Megaera is also correct in her estimations, for more than a score of the white-clad warriors ready their weapons.

   Abruptly a white, shining mist envelops the schooner, invisible but seeming to bar Creslin from seeing anything beyond what his eyes could see from outside the Lightning.

   "He's shielded their ship," Megaera notes.

   "I discovered that."

   "Could you enlighten me as to your companion?" The captain stands behind Klerris.

   "Oh, this is Klerris," Creslin says.

   Freigr inclines his head. "The passages didn't mention you."

   "The Duke did not expect me."

   Freigr shakes his head, then turns to Creslin. "The Lightning will be on our tail before long."

   "Is she that fast?" asks Klerris.

   "Not so fast as the Griffin."

   Creslin looks at the captain. "You look like you have a question."

   "Yes," Freigr says. "How do you propose to save us? The Duke's orders indicated that you would provide protection for the ship."

   "You just said that your ship is faster than the schooner." It is clear to the silver-haired man that Freigr is considering his options.

   Freigr smiles but only with his mouth. "I'm not worried about that schooner. I'm worried about the one that left the Great North Bay and will meet us in the gulf."

   "Why?"

   Freigr gestures toward the stern and the diminishing white triangle that is all they can see of the Fairhaven schooner. "That's the way they always do it. We all know about it." He shrugs. "But what can you do? The wizards talk. That schooner would be hard-pressed to take us, even if they caught us. The one in the bay will bear a full wizard, and generally a White one, in this sort of thing, is worth two Black ones." He nods to Klerris. "They must have guessed that you would be here, or they know."

   "I'm a healer," Klerris admits. "Most uses of order aren't helpful in war. The lady will be of more use."

   Freigr looks toward the bow, where Megaera's hair whips back over her shoulders. Spray sheets past the redhead as the Griffin's bow digs into a swell. Megaera regards the southeastern horizon without turning.

   "I've got three of you on board?"

   "Happily, yes," responds Klerris.

   "Three?" mutters the captain. "If I ever get back to see Korweil . . . Three frigging wizards. There'll be at least two ships out of the Great North Bay, and me on a lousy sloop."

   "How long?" asks Creslin tiredly.

   "What?"

   "How long before they arrive?"

   "Not until the day after tomorrow at the earliest, perhaps even late the following day. It all depends on the winds in the gulf, and whether they have their own Air Wizard."

   The ship lurches again, and Creslin finds that his stomach is not exactly where he thinks it is. His guts intend to turn themselves inside out. He refuses to give in to nausea and swallows, but the leaden feeling weighs at him. He can ride ill-mannered horses and ski ice-covered slopes . . . why should a simple ship leave him feeling sick?

   Finally he hangs on to the railing, letting the cool wind bathe his flushed face.

   "You all right?" asks the Black Wizard, stepping up beside him, carefully upwind.

   "No."

   "Can you listen to me?" Another sheet of spray flies past. "I guess so."

   "Then listen ..." Klerris edges slightly farther toward the bow.

   Creslin burps, hoping that will help. It does not. The bow dips into another swell, and his stomach tightens even more.

   "Urrrppp ..."

   "That won't help. Are you sure that you can listen?"

   "I'll try."

   "The clouds, the winds, the rain ... all of them are related. Every time you grasp for the high, cold winds, you change something. The storm you created to get to Montgren deprived the farmers of Kyphros of rain for more than two eight-days. The fog and thunderstorm you used to fight your way into Tyrhavven will probably bring a hard and early winter onto most of Sligo. The rain that kept falling while we left was your doing."

   "My doing?"

   "Don't you listen? When you pull the winds from one place, air from someplace else has to move."

   "Ohhh?"

   "Think of it this way," Klerris persists, his voice hard. "The air we breathe is just like the ocean. It's an ocean of air. Can you take a bucket of water out of the ocean without water pouring into the space you took it from?"

   Creslin doesn't like thinking about an ocean of air. The ocean of water is giving him enough difficulty. "No," he finally admits.

   "When you shift the winds, you shift the ocean of air. The more you change it, the more you stir things up."

   "I was supposed to let them kill us?" Creslin forgets that his stomach is twisting.

   "I never said that. That's your guilt, not mine."

   "What do you want?"

   "Your understanding, and to teach you how to use what you have."

   "I'll think about it."

   Klerris smiles softly, sadly. "As you wish." He turns and leaves Creslin at the railing.

   Creslin, watching the swells, lets the cold salt air wash over him as the day begins to fade.

 

 

LXII

 

"KORWEIL DID THAT?" muses the Marshall, her voice calm as she looks up from the supply ledgers she is reviewing.

   Llyse nods. "That's what the message said. It was a private ceremony, but the co-regency arrangement surprised me."

   "What co-regency?"

   "He named Creslin and Megaera co-regents of Reduce."

   "He's a stubborn bastard, but not that devious." The Marshall marks the ledger page before closing the book. "Megaera, with those bracelets off, isn't about to submit to any man. At least that's what Ryessa indicated. But she never said why she felt Megaera was safe to unbind."

   "Do you trust the Tyrant?" asks Llyse tentatively.

   "No. But that kind of lie wouldn't benefit her. I suspect that somehow she linked her sister to Creslin, used some sort of magic tie. That forces the sub-tyrant to follow and preserve . . . Creslin." She shakes her head. "Creslin's gotten help from somewhere, probably from the eastern Blacks. But the co-regency thing-that has to be Creslin's doing. I only hope he knows the stakes he's playing for."

   Llyse says nothing but waits. Outside the Black Tower windows, the winds howl and the snows fall.

   The Marshall raises her eyebrows. "You have questions?"

   "Creslin was never meant to go to Sarronnyn."

   Dylyss turns and looks out through the frosted glass.

   "Was he?" asks the Marshalle.

   "No."

   "I thought not. He was taught everything I was, but he was never told that, was he?"

   The Marshall continues to regard the falling snow outside the Black Tower.

   Llyse finally drops her eyes, bows, and leaves the room.

 

 

LXIII

 

CRESLIN IGNORES THE sniggers from the helmsman as he weaves his way aft. The passageway is dark, but even in his weakened condition, his senses guide him to the cabin doorway, where he fumbles before entering an even darker space. Megaera is breathing rhythmically in the lower bunk.

   "Creslin?" Her voice is thick.

   "Yes," he rasps.

   "Go to sleep. Let your mind take care of your body.

   Good night ..."

   Creslin struggles out of his sword harness, then slumps into one of the chairs and pulls off his boots. He stands and shrugs off his tunic, shirt, and trousers. He folds them and lays them in the chair, then makes his way slowly to his bunk. Megaera has turned back the coverlet.

   "Thank you," he mumbles.

   "Easier that way. Go to sleep."

   He puts one leg up and tries to lever himself over the high edge.

   "Please. I'm not a ladder."

   "Sorry."

   Despite the faint mustiness of the cabin, the high-sided bunk is welcome. Creslin does not recall falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes, light is streaming through the portholes. Megaera still sleeps, her breathing regular.

   Creslin sits up. Clunk. Rubbing his head, he reflects that the clearance is not much greater than that of a road-crew bunk, although the accoutrements at hand are far better. Easing himself to the deck, he avoids touching or waking the sleeping redhead.

   Just as quietly, he begins to dress.

   "You do have a nice body, I must admit."

   Creslin blushes, pulls on his trousers, and sits down to retrieve his boots. "I tried not to wake you up."

   Clunk. Creslin grins.

   Megaera rubs her head with one hand while the other clutches the quilted coverlet over her shoulders. "It's not funny. That hurt."

   "I know. I did the same thing."

   "Oh."

   Creslin, noting how fresh she looks despite the straying locks of red hair, fingers the stubble on his cheeks, wondering if he dares shaving on the moving deck. He swallows.

   "Please ..."

   He looks away, concentrates on pulling on his boots.

   "Thank you." She remains cocooned within the coverlet.

   He picks up the razor, grabs at a thin green towel that is folded on the chest. "I'm going to find somewhere to shave and clean up."

   Out in the passageway, wearing only trousers and boots, he lurches toward the deck, emerging into a clear and windy day.

   Klerris stands at the bow, looking into the southeast.

   Creslin finally sees what he seeks on the port side near the fantail. After taking care of the necessities, he looks for a way to shave. There is no fresh water, but two buckets hang from lanyards lashed to the railing. He lowers one of the buckets, raises it to the deck, and wets his face thoroughly. At least twice he cuts himself while shaving, and his face stings all over as he rinses away skin and whiskers.

   Frowning, he lowers the bucket again, brings it up and sets it on the rail. Then he concentrates. A small pile of white appears on the railing. He dips his finger into the bucket, tastes it, and grins. Then he strips off trousers and boots and uses the fresh water liberally to wash away as much of the travel grime as he can. The wind raises goose bumps on his damp skin, but they disappear as he dries himself and dresses.

   Then he procures the other bucket and again obtains fresh water, letting the wind take the dried salt away before heading back to the cabin with the bucket in hand.

   When he steps inside, pleased with his success in separating the salt from the water and displeased with the cuts on his chin, he finds Megaera dressed in faded-blue travel clothes and combing her hair.

   Creslin searches for a place to put the bucket. "Fresh water," he points out. "Thank you."

   As he sets the bucket on the narrow chest, his eyes stray to the chamber pot, which has been moved slightly. "Do we ... I need to empty . . ."

   Megaera grins. "I can still manage some destruction. It's more convenient That way."

   Creslin blushes again, then replaces his razor and finishes dressing. He looks at his sword but leaves it hanging in the harness on the hook by the chest. Then he adjusts his shirt and tunic.

   "I removed the dirt and grime."

   "Thank you."

   At times she seems to be so warm, so friendly. He smoothes his clothes in place. "Biscuits and dried fruit for breakfast."

   "Dried?" "If you'd like some of it fresh, I might manage."

   "Oh?"

   "That's what landed me on the wizards' road." A soft laugh greets his rueful statement. "Seems stupid, with everything else I've done." She nods toward the cabin door.

   Creslin opens it, and they take the three or so steps to bring them into the mess room. Freigr is not there, but a man with an air of authority half rises from one of the two tables. At the other table sit three sailors.

   "Gossel, first mate. Pleased to have you join us."

   They sit down side by side, across from the brown-haired man with bushy hair caught in a pony tail. On the table are dried fruits, some hard yellow-cheese wedges, and even harder white biscuits. Two heavy brown pitchers sit in built-in holders in the middle of the table.

   Gossel leans back and grabs two mugs from a railed shelf. "Here you be."

   "Thank you." They speak together, then look at each other.

   Creslin shakes his head. Megaera smiles faintly.

   "Your pleasure ..." Creslin gestures to the wooden platter of dried fruits.

   "Could you actually ... a fresh peach, I mean?"

   "I can try."

   Gossel's eyebrows knit as Creslin picks up a dried peach. The silver-haired man tried to recall the wondering sense he had felt about the cider. Suddenly a golden orb replaces the dried husk.

   "Oh . . ."

   He hands the peach to her, then wipes his forehead.

   Gossel gulps. "Uh . . . never saw that before. The captain said that all of you are wizards ..."

   "I'm afraid so." Creslin fills the two mugs with whatever is in the pitcher and offers one to Megaera.

   Two of the sailors rise quietly and slip past the table. One makes a protective gesture as he leaves the mess room. The third sailor shakes his head, grins, and helps himself to another round of cheese and biscuits.

   "That's why the captain's got so much sail on, then," muses the mate. "The other wizard, guess he got the spare bunk in the captain's cabin. That doesn't happen often." Creslin slowly chews the heavy biscuit, recalling the state of his stomach the day before. "You ever run into the White Wizards' ships before?"

   The mate grimaces. "Once. That was when I first ran off to sea, crew on a Nordlan brig. The captain wouldn't pay their tax. They burned off the foremast, and the captain. The mate paid, but the owners had him hung. Claimed he supported piracy. Left Nordlan service soon as I could."

   "How close did the wizards have to get?" Creslin sips the bitter and lukewarm tea.

   "They came in right close, less than a cable-"

   "Cable?"

   "Cable's a little more than four hundred cubits. Anyways, we could see the White Wizard. He stood right up on the poop, next to the captain, and where he pointed, there was a fireball, the kind that burns."

   "Did water stop the fire?"

   "It would have, except that anyone who tried got fried with the next fireball."

   Creslin nods.

   "Need to be on deck," explains the mate as he rises. "Hoping you can help us through. Be nice to see those Whites get a dose of their own." He nods and ducks under the low doorway.

   Creslin takes another biscuit. "I wish there were another way."

   Megaera finishes the peach before answering. "Maybe there is."

   "Such as?"

   "Why can't we just avoid them? Use your power over the winds to speed us past them."

   "I suppose we could ..."

   "You want to fight? Given your reactions, I don't think you enjoy destroying, do you?"

   "No. But I'm missing something."

   "Are you, or do you just . . . Never mind." She takes a sip from the heavy tumbler.

   Creslin watches the remaining sailor finish off the cheese and fruit on the other table. Everyone just assumes that he will fight off the White Wizards as if it is the easiest thing in the world-except for Megaera, who insists that he doesn't have to fight at all. But Megaera believes in the Legend, claiming that all men want to do is to destroy. Is that what he really wants?

   What is it that Heldra said so long ago during exercises? "If you lift a blade, you must kill or be killed. Kill cleanly and without regret."

   Are the winds like blades?

   Megaera looks up from the half-eaten peach. "Could you think about something else for a while?"

   "Sorry. It's hard to always remember that ..."

   For a time there is silence as Creslin swallows another mouthful of tea, wondering what he can think about. He cannot think about how lovely she looked with her shoulders bare . . .

   "Do you have to spoil a perfectly good morning?"

   "What did I do?"

   Megaera rises suddenly and is through the doorway before he has finished his question.

   "That one's as hot as her hair." The remaining sailor grins at Creslin.

   "Hotter, I think," Creslin mutters as he finishes his second biscuit. "And we're just beginning."

 

 

LXIV

 

How WILL HE protect the Griffin?

   A good strong rain, with lightning and thunder, will reduce the effectiveness of the wizards on board the three oncoming Fairhaven ships, but it will not stop the nearly five-score white-clad soldiers from boarding the Griffin. And a more violent storm could be nearly as dangerous for the Griffin as for the wizards.

   The green water streams below Creslin's feet, unseen.

   Megaera can counter some chaos with destruction of her own. Creslin shivers, recalling how Megaera's being is now mixed with Black and White; then he shivers again at her reactions at breakfast on the first morning aboard the Griffin, and her refusal to even come close to him during the past two days. What does she want? A bloodless solution? When everyone is out for his and her blood?

   The ship plows into a long swell, and Creslin's stomach lurches. Unlike the first day, his guts settle, albeit uneasily.

   Ice? Enough ice to make a difference brings the same problem as a violent storm.

   "Sail ahoy!"

   The lookout's call reminds Creslin that he has but little time.

   For the past two days, Klerris has been poking through the ship, mumbling to himself while strengthening the timbers-their joints and the masts-and even the cables and sails with an infusion of order. That infusion is strong enough that even the crew have comments on how much more solid the ship now seems to be.

   "Figured it out yet, young fellow?" The wizard's voice is tired.

   Creslin turns his eyes from the bow, where Megaera watches the faint dot of white on the horizon, to the black-clad man. Klerris's jet-black hair shows streaks of white, streaks that seem to have appeared overnight.

   "You work this hard, and you show your age," the wizard responds to Creslin's appraisal.

   "What would happen if we just avoided them?"

   "The Whites, you mean?" Klerris pulls at his smooth-shaven chin. "Don't see how that's possible. We get around them and they'll head for Land's End. They have enough strength to take the town, even with the Duke's keep. Or they might simply wait and sink the Griffin if Captain Freigr tries to leave. They won't just let it drop, you know."

   , "Then the only way we can be safe is to sink all three of their ships. The High Wizard won't let that drop. How do we ever get out of this?"

   Klerris grins. "You don't. Once you're a wizard, you're stuck with decisions like this for the rest of your life." His face sobers. "Of course, if you don't want to make decisions, you dither around until you or people around you get killed. That's been the problem with most of us Blacks. We don't like violence and killing. We really need a land based on order, somehow separate from the Whites and the conflicts over the Legend."

   "That's fine," snorts Creslin, "but the lookouts have sighted the first of the wizard ships' sails, and I'm still trying to figure out how to get us out of this."

   "You're a warrior. You'll find a way. You have an ocean of air and an ocean of water to work with."

   "Thanks."

   "My pleasure." Klerris turns and heads toward the bow.

   Water? Creslin has never tried to deal with water, except to remove the salt from it. He sends down his senses, then recoils. The water is heavy, far too heavy and cold. But the air carries water, and that water has to come from somewhere. The winds pick it up from the rivers and lakes and oceans. He walks to the fantail, where he lowers a bucket, ignoring the curious looks from Gossel, who stands by the helmsman.

   Setting the bucket on the railing, Creslin concentrates again. A small vortex appears over the bucket, and the water begins to swirl like a whirlpool. Creslin frowns, loses his concentration, and the vortex collapses. Still, something nags at his memory. He empties the bucket.

   "Sail ahoy!" The second White schooner has appeared to the lookouts, and Creslin strides over to the mate.

   "Aye, Ser Wizard?"

   "What's the worst thing that could happen to a ship?"

   "Fire."

   "I mean something natural, like a storm, or ice, or. . ."

   Gossel pauses. "I've heard tell, in southern seas, about waterspouts that could lift a whole ship high enough that she'd fall and break in two."

   "Are there thunderstorms around when that happens?"

   "Aye. Never happens without a thunderstorm."

   Creslin nods absently and walks away.

   "... darkness help us if he calls a waterspout."

   "... light help us if he don't do something."

   Freigr appears from below and heads toward Creslin, who stops the man's question with a cold glance and walks past him toward Klerris, who is conversing with Megaera.

   Megaera starts to leave. "Just stay," Creslin says and feels for the winds. She raises her eyebrows. Klerris nods, and she waits.

   "Do you see any way to save this ship and crew without destroying all three White ships?" Creslin asks Klerris.

   "I do not know of a way. I do not know of a way to destroy them, either." His words are as formal as Creslin's.

   "As a Black Wizard, would you judge those on board this ship of greater value than those on the White ships?"

   "Wizards closing!" a lookout cries.

   "Creslin, I can't answer that question. That involves the whole lifetimes of scores of people."

   "I'll put it simply. Is this crew's survival worth the deaths of those on the White ships?"

   "You can't balance lives that way," protests the older wizard.

   "That's all I have to go on." Creslin takes a deep breath and calls forth to the cold upper winds, then begins to tease the warm currents above the water into a rising dance.

   Rhhhssttt!

   Megaera concentrates, and a small fireball swerves past the foresail. A second fireball follows.

   Less than ten cables away, a White ship appears.

   "Veiled approach ..." mutters Klerris.

   "Hard port! Sails!" bellows Freigr.

   Creslin grabs the railing as the sloop heels.

   Rhhssttt!

   Sweat beads on Megaera's forehead.

   Off the starboard bow, a darkness comprised of mist and swirling winds begins to solidify.

   The Griffin shudders as the winds build.

   Rhhhsttt! Rhhstt! Rhsssttt!

   Fire clings to the foresail for a moment, but Klerris, sweating, murmurs something and the flame winks out.

   "Dead ahead!"

   Megaera looks up to see a black-green tower whirling, slowly and ponderously, toward the nearest White schooner.

   The schooner turns toward the waterspout, as if to knife through it, or past it, but the water engulfs it in a tower now more than three times as broad as the schooner is long.

   The second schooner turns south to take advantage of the wind. But the towering black-green spout swings south even more quickly.

   Another fireball blazes through a corner of the sloop's sail. The loose canvas flails, but none of the crew moves, too intent on watching as the spout bears down on the fleeing schooner.

   Klerris's forehead beads with sweat, and the flames on the canvas flicker out, leaving only a charred semicircle.

   The schooner rises into the swirling darkness, then falls.

   "Mother of darkness ..." murmurs Klerris as he sees the white timbers, canvas, and debris strewn across the swells.

   Creslin's eyes remain absent, unfocused, as the sloop eases back onto a southeasterly course.

   In time, Klerris and Megaera watch as a distant darkness again turns, this time northwest and toward a fleeing dot of white, a dot that vanishes into that swirling darkness.

   Creslin's eyes focus again. He grips the railing convulsively and pukes over the railing. Then his knees buckle. Klerris manages to catch him before his head cracks against the deck planks.

   "Still overdoing it," says Megaera wearily.

   "Did we give him any alternative?" Klerris asks softly as he lifts Creslin over his shoulder.

   The crew looks away as the Black Wizard carries his burden to the Duke's cabin, Megaera following a step behind.

   Freigr glances back at the debris, human and otherwise, that litters the swells behind the Griffin. Then he looks toward the Duke's cabin. The captain swallows once, twice.

 

 

LXV

 

CRESLIN WAKES WITH a start. "No. Nooooo . . ."

   In the darkness, he jerks upright.

   Clunk.

   "Ooohh ..."

   "Idiot," observes Magaera unsympathetically from the lower bunk. She rises and pours a tumbler of juice, her movements in the darkness are sure as Creslin's.

   "Idiot?" protests Creslin. "For what?"

   "Nothing. Just for being you." Her voice is tired rather than harsh. She hands him the tumbler, careful not to touch his hands as she does.

   He sips slowly for a time. "Thank you."

   "For what? For calling you an idiot?"

   "For the redberry. How late is it?"

   "After midnight sometime. Klerris carried you in like a sack of grain."

   Creslin takes another sip of the juice. He hears the sound of heavy rain on the planks overhead.

   "How long has it been raining?"

   "Ever since you tore those three ships apart."

   Creslin rubs his forehead with his free hand. "You'd better take this."

   "I'm not-" She reaches for the tumbler as she sees him sway, takes it from his limp hand and sets it on the table.

   Then she touches his brow lightly, drawing her fingers away at the heat and dampness, wincing at the pain that lances at her as his barriers again dissolve.

   Tears streak her cheeks. "Why? Damn you . . . sister dear. Damn you ..." She rubs her forehead and pulls on a cloak before leaving the cabin and crossing the narrow space to the captain's cabin to get Klerris again.

 

 

LXVI

 

WHEN CRESLIN NEXT wakes, the interior of the cabin is light, as light as it can be with rain pounding outside on the planks. Hearing voices, he neither opens his eyes nor moves.

   "He has no idea?" Megaera's whisper is strained. Klerris says nothing, though Creslin gains the sense of a head shake.

   "And I thought sister dear was cruel."

   "Men are considered dispensable on the Roof of the World." Klerris pauses. "I do believe that our sleeping friend is about to rejoin us."

   "How long?" croaks Creslin, realizing that his throat requires some lubrication. He eases himself into as much of a sitting position as he can, given the low ceiling above the top bunk.

   "Just a full day," the Black Wizard answers.

   "Thirsty ..." Creslin tries to swallow.

   Klerris supplies a tumbler of redberry, but the juice contains something else; it is not bitter, not sweet, just an extra something.

   "What's . . . in. this?"

   "Extra nourishment. Something healers use. You've asked too much of your body lately." The Black Wizard then adds, "And your mind. Now just keep drinking that."

   Creslin sips slowly, feeling a trace less unsteady after the liquid eases down his throat. "How long before we reach Land's End?"

   "Early tomorrow, according to Friegr."

   "Friegr's a bit grouchy right now," adds Megaera with a trace of a smile.

   "Why? The rain?" asks Creslin.

   "That's part of it, but he's scared to death that you will die, and sort of hopes that you will. And he's angry because he feels that way," Klerris explains.

   Creslin takes another sip. "I feel better," he announces. He stretches, as far as the confines of the bunk will permit. "And I'm stiff."

   "No one's insisting that you stay in that bunk," replies Megaera.

   Gingerly, Creslin extricates himself. He feels grimy all over. "I'm going to wash up."

   "Are you up to it?"

   "Probably not, but I'm not up to smelling like I do." He pulls off his shirt, boots, and trousers and stands there momentarily in his underdrawers before grabbing his razor and opening the door.

   "I'm not-" The door closes before Megaera can finish her statement. "He's impossible."

   "Just young," temporizes Klerris.

   "He'll be impossible when he's older, too."

   Klerris says nothing. Instead, he takes a sip from his tumbler and listens thoughtfully to the rain pelt on the planks overhead.

 

 

LXVII

 

THE GRIFFIN SAILS through long, even swells, gentle enough that Creslin's stomach has no protests, smooth enough that he actually has enjoyed a breakfast of pearapples and bread, washed down with redberry. Overhead and behind the ship, clouds linger, nearly black to the west, yet no longer following the sloop.

   Creslin stands at the railing. A smudge of darkness lies off the starboard bow. Despite the clouds, the air is crisp, and a hint of green emerges from the dark waters below. In time, Klerris joins him.

   Megaera stands a few cubits away, one hand lightly resting on the bartered wood of the rail, the other on a cable that braces the foremast. She wears her faded gray travel clothes, worn though they are, that bring out the fire of her hair and the glint of her eyes.

   Creslin avoids looking at her, knowing that if he looks too long, she will sense what he feels. His eyes drift astern to the western horizon. "The clouds aren't really following any longer, like they did for an eight-day in Sligo, and in Montgren. Why not?"

   "Why don't you try to find out?" Klerris asks with an amused smile.

   "You don't make it easy, do you?"

   "Does life?" Megaera's voice crosses the distance between them.

   Creslin ignores her words and sends his senses out upon the winds, aware of himself both on the gently pitching deck of the Griffin and in the skies behind the ship. For the first time, he looks at the winds themselves, not at the ground or at distant scenes; looks not with his eyes, but with his feelings, catching the snags and swirls, the heat and the chill, the rushes upward and downward, and-far overhead- the cold torrents that almost touch the Roof of the World day in and day out.

   How long he is gone, how long he is suspended between two places, he does not know, only that when he stands fully on the deck again, there are small patches of blue in the overhead clouds.

   "They're blocked," he announces before he realizes that Klerris and Megaera no longer stand beside him but have moved almost to the bowsprit, where they watch a dolphin pacing the sloop.

   With a sigh, the silver-haired man walks stiffly toward them.

   "Isn't she beautiful?" Megaera smiles as she watches the dolphin give a last leap and dive beneath the dark green water.

   "Was it a female?"

   "Who can tell?" Klerris says.

   "It was a woman, " Megaera insists. "I could feel her spirit."

   "Then it was," Creslin agrees.

   The redhead's smile lingers for a moment, but she says nothing.

   "What did you find out?" Klerris looks at Creslin.

   "The southern winds are stronger. The low ones. Nothing is stronger than the high torrents. Somehow, the way the low winds come across the gulf ... it has something to do with the deserts on Reduce, especially the southern part and the northern hills."

   "Mountains and deserts always have a big impact on winds and weather. So do the seas. It has to do with how they affect the heat and the cold." Klerris looks toward the south, where the smudge on the horizon that Creslin had studied earlier has become the profile of a rocky coastline. Creslin wishes that Klerris would say more, but the Black Wizard has the habit of saying only what he wishes to say and no more. It is probably a good habit to adopt, Creslin thinks even as he wonders how the wizard can call the rocky peaks on the isle "mountains." Not when they are scarcely foothills to the Westhorns, or even to the Easthorns.

   "You might remember that hot air rises and that cold air is heavier and stronger." Klerris heads back to the helm, where Freigr stands beside the helmsman.

   Creslin is still shaking his head when Megaera speaks.

   "You're not yet used to complexity."

   Creslin opens his mouth, then shuts it. After a moment, he speaks. "You're right. But it seems too many people make things more complicated than they need to be."

   "That's because most people aren't simple. Not once they have had to grow up."

   Creslin takes a deep breath.

   "You can be as stubborn as the mountains themselves, best-betrothed," Megaera tells him.

   "We're married, according to the documents."

   "Should I refer to you as 'husband-dearest' then?"

   "If you must use a name, 'best-betrothed' is probably more accurate. For many reasons."

   Megaera looks down at the dark water.

   Creslin studies the coastline again, noting the barren rockiness. After a while he follows Megaera to the mess cabin, where they join half of the crew, seven men, in eating a highly-peppered stew accompanied by biscuits harder than any Creslin has ever gnawed.

   "Won't be long now," affirms Freigr. "By midafternoon we should see Land's End."

   "What is there to see?" asks Megaera.

   A white-bearded sailor laughs harshly.

   "A few fishing cots, a pier, and a breakwater too big for a fishing village, and the keep of the Duke's garrison. That's about it." Freigr crunches through a biscuit and slurps up another spoonful of stew. "But when I told that to the Duke, he sort of swallowed and turned red all over."

   Megaera and Creslin smile, thinking of Korweil. Megaera purses her lips. "That doesn't sound like much, not after all the fuss he has made about it."

   Creslin winces, but continues to eat silently.

   "Well, there is the stable ..."

   Several of the sailors are grinning.

   Megaera shakes her head, and her red hair brushes the shoulders of the gray travel tunic she wears.

   Creslin gnaws on his third hard biscuit.

   Klerris is grinning with the sailors.

   "Now, the Duke has a map with lots of buildings on it . . ."

 

 

LXVIII

 

FROM BEYOND THE breakwater, Freigr's description of Land's End seems generous. No buildings can be seen on the rocky cliffs flanking the narrow inlet. The breakwater that comprises the eastern side of the harbor is little more than a pile of stones perhaps ten cubits wide and extending three to four cubits above the ocean's level. Even as Creslin and Megaera watch, some of the water's low swells slide over the rough-heaped stones.

   From the flat ground behind the harbor, a pier protrudes. At the shore end of the pier there squats a small black-stone building. Behind that building, a gentle slope, surfaced in sand and stone, rises until it reaches an ever-steeper slope. The lower slope, showing a few bushes and trees at random, contains a scattering of perhaps a dozen small cots, or hovels. Tall grasses wave in the light breeze.

   "Desolate indeed," murmurs Klerris.

   A single road angles from the pier westward to the top of a rise. There the gray-black stones of a two-story building bear the gold-and-green banner of Montgren.

   "Where will we stay? All I see is that second-rate keep on the hill and some tumbledown fishing cots." Megaera continues to study Land's End as the sailors scurry across the deck and begin to work the sails.

   "We'll have to build our own palace, " Creslin quips.

   "You're serious, aren't you?"

   "What else can we do?"

   "I can help with the beams," offers Klerris. "The pines in the canyons will have to do, though. There's nothing like oak here. Not yet, anyway."

   Creslin and Megaera turn.

   "Blacks learn useful trades in addition to their wizardly skills, " the black-haired man explains, "I do carpentry now and again."

   "Regents building their own palace . . . ridiculous," mumbles Megaera.

   "Perhaps," offers Klerris, "But are there any alternatives?"

   Once the Griffin is tied up in the deep water near the end of the pier, out beyond a fishing boat so battered and waterlogged that it looks ready to sink at any moment, Freigr appears on deck in the gold-and-green coat that he has not worn since leaving Tyrhavven. "Might as well get this over." He lifts the leather dispatch case. "While we're gone, Snyder will see that the horses are saddled and off-loaded. He's done it often enough, darkness knows."

   "What about our packs?" asks Creslin, checking his shoulder harness and his replacement Westwind blade, secured from the depths of the Duke's armory and sharpened.

   "He'll take care of them also. Plus a few other supplies we can spare, as suggested by . . ." The captain nods toward the Black Wizard. "Shall we go? It's a steep walk."

   "Ummm . . ." Megaera closes her mouth.

   Creslin smothers a grin.

   "Ah, here come some of the garrison."

   On the end of the pier stand two soldiers, wearing leathers and swords.

   "They haven't learned that we never bring anything interesting." Freigr glances at Megaera. "This time, though-"

   "I doubt that they will find me that interesting," suggests the redhead.

   "Let's go," repeats Freigr.

   On the open pier, the wind whips through Creslin's short hair and tosses Megaera's shoulder-length flames in every direction.

   "Captain?" A black-haired soldier with a scraggly beard steps toward the group, lank locks falling across his forehead.

   "Nothing new, except for this group, who are likely to be very interesting," Freigr tells the soldiers.

   "Very interesting ..." murmurs the blond, gray-eyed man at the edge of the pier, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

   Freigr grins at him. "I'd be careful, Zarlen. All three of them are wizards, and Creslin, here, is reputed to know a little bit about blades."

   Megaera lifts one hand, and a small flame dances on her fingertips. The dark-haired soldier steps back; the blond man smiles faintly. Creslin takes a deep breath but says nothing as the two soldiers turn to follow them.

   "How many men are there in the keep?" Creslin asks as he and the captain lead the way up the sandy road.

   "Not many more than a score. There were more, but the Duke took them back to Montgren." The sandy-haired captain glances back over his shoulder, then adds in a lower voice, "Mostly troublemakers left."

   Creslin nods, glad of the sword across his back.

   "Are you as good as they say with that blade?" Freigr asks.

   Creslin debates an answer; then feeling the twisting in his guts as he thinks about a diplomatic reply, he responds as truthfully as he knows. "I'm probably not as good as the very best at Westwind."

   "Good. That should be adequate. Find an excuse to display that skill. It will save you a lot of trouble later." Freigr lengthens his stride toward the bleak, black-stone structure ahead.

   The white-fir doors are plain, and stand open. Inside wait a lanky, brown-haired man in a gold-and-green surcoat, much like Freigr's, and a swarthy, short man. Each sports a well-trimmed beard; the tall man's beard is shot with threads of white, unlike his hair.

   The Griffir's captain tenders the document case to the lanky man in the gold surcoat. "The Duke's latest proclamation, Hyel. It concerns . . . us all."

   "Must be important, Captain, since you have brought it yourself."

   "A second messenger will bring information."

   "Very important, then." The narrow-faced, swarthy man to the right leans over to read the parchments held by the guard captain.

   The two men behind Hyel and his assistant-the same two who had met the travelers at the pier-shuffle their feet while Hyel slowly puzzles through the documents.

   As he waits, Creslin studies the long room that comprises the entire main floor of the building. The outside walls are of a native stone, almost black. The narrow windows are uncovered except for outside shutters, which are fastened open. The ceiling beams are rough-cut, and several of them still ooze sap.

   Megaera looks at the four Duke's men, her eyes moving from Hyel and the narrow-faced man to the black-haired and short, bearded youngster on his left, and then to the blond, well-muscled giant on the right. Klerris appears to look nowhere, while Freigr shifts his weight from foot to foot.

   "Fine documents they are," affirms Hyel, "and the Duke's seal is clear enough."

   "Why would he even name a regency?" asks the narrow-faced man as he raises his eyes from the ornate script. "There's just us and a bunch of fisherfolk."

   "That's simple, Joris." Hyel grins. "This here young wizard is the son of the Marshall of Westwind . . . you know, those women guards who chewed up the wizard's allies. And this young lady is the younger sister of the Tyrant of Sarronnyn. That makes her the Duke's cousin. I figure that the Duke needs more help, and a regency doesn't give away the isle. It's a sort of loan." He laughs.

   "I don't like it much." Joris's dark-brown eyes flick from Creslin to Megaera.

   "Welcome to the holding of Reduce. I am Hyel, guard captain and, until you arrived, the Duke's representative." Hyel bows so low, arm extended, that his long fingers almost touch the dusty planks. His smile shows strong, white, and uneven teeth. "I have mentioned Joris, and the other two are Thoirkel and Zarlen."

   Creslin inclines his head. "Creslin. This is Megaera, sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn and regent of Reduce."

   Hyel merely nods without speaking.

   "You claim no title?" Joris asks of Creslin.

   "There are no titles in Westwind. I would not claim any if there were."

   Hyel turns toward Klerris's black-robed figure, raising his eyebrows.

   "Klerris, formerly of Fairhaven and still of the Black order."

   "Damned wizard . . ." This time Zarlen speaks.

   "That may be, but I am mostly a healer."

   "Wouldn't hurt to have one," offers Thoirkel, speaking for the first time since greeting Freigr in the harbor.

   "The real question is, where will you stay?" muses Hyel. "We are not suited . . . and little building is done . . . has been done-"

   Creslin smiles. "I suspect that we may be able to adapt one of the empty fisher cots until we can build something."

   "No masons or carpenters here . . . not now," observes Joris.

   "We'll manage." A look passes between Zarlen and Joris.

   Creslin catches the look, and his guts tighten, but he smiles pleasantly. "It's been a long voyage. Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to spar a bit with me." He ignores Megaera's indrawn breath.

   This time, Hyel and Zarlen exchange glances.

   "Well, ummm . . . begging your pardon, ser, but that could cause-" Hyel begins.

   "Nonsense," insists Creslin heartily. "This is such a small community that if I stand on position, I shall have no exercise at all, except for lifting stones and hewing timbers."

   "But . . . blades?"

   "Creslin ..." Megaera's voice is low.

   "This is really uncalled for, " Joris interjects.

   Creslin shrugs. "Then perhaps a friendly wrestling match-"

   "Still ..." Joris shakes his head. "What earthly reason-"

   "Because, if you will, I stand for the Duke." Creslin's voice turns as cold as the winter storms, and coldness radiates from him.

   Even Klerris steps back.

   Zarlen grins as he looks at the redhead, ignoring the byplay between the officers and Creslin.

   "Surely, we have a few wooden blades," interposes Hyel, sweat beading his forehead as he compares Zarlen's height and muscles to Creslin's and notes the head's difference between the two.

   "A pair, I think," adds Joris with a resigned shrug. "I'll get them."

   Creslin almost grins as Megaera's body relaxes fractionally. But her eyes flare as they rest on Creslin. He tries not to swallow, knowing what he must do and knowing that Megaera will scarcely be pleased.

   "You think this . . . exercise is necessary?" temporizes Hyel.

   "Unfortunately, yes," says Creslin.

   Zarlen looks down at Creslin, then at Megaera, and smiles faintly. Thoirkel looks from Zarlen to Creslin, not quite shaking his head. Hyel looks over the parchments still in his hand, as if to extract some meaning from between the scripted lines.

   Klerris lays a hand on Megaera's sleeve, which she starts to shake off, then stops as she looks into the wizard's eyes.

   "Here we are," announces Joris jovially, returning with two white-oak wands with sword grips and hilts. He offers them to Creslin, who takes the slightly shorter one. Zarlen nods as he receives the other.

   Without speaking, Hyel, Joris, and Thoirkel step back to the eastern wall of the keep. Megaera and Klerris remain by the doorway.

   Zarlen smiles at Megaera, then leads with the white-oak wand.

   Creslin waits. Zarlen's wand weaves toward him.

   Creslin moves his own blade and deflects the bigger man's attack once, twice, and again. His blade is seemingly independent of his eyes. He has scarcely moved as Zarlen has brought bone-crushing force against him, yet none of the man's strokes even graze him.

   "A dancer, are you?"

   Zarlen's oak wand moves faster, yet Creslin remains untouched. Then, like lightning, Creslin's wand slashes.

   Cluunk.

   Zarlen shakes his wrist, where a red welt already rises, looks at his empty hand, and at the white-oak wand on the stones. His eyes flame as he glares at Creslin.

   "Berserker ..."

   The whisper comes from Klerris, but Creslin's short blade is already out even as Zarlen drives his blued steel toward him with impossible speed. Impossible speed or not, Creslin is not where the blade is when it strikes, and the short sword flashes twice.

   Zarlen's eyes glaze as he looks down at his blade on the stones, just before his knees buckle. Creslin waits only long enough to ensure that the man is dead before cleaning his blade on Zarlen's tunic.

   Hyel's mouth is wide open. Joris is pale, as is Megaera.

   Creslin looks at Hyel, then at the body. Tin sorry that was necessary, but ... " He shrugs. "He'd already planned to kill me and have his way with my wife."

   Hyel closes his mouth and looks toward Thoirkel.

   The dark-haired young soldier looks from Creslin to Hyel and back again. Finally he moistens his lips. "Ah . . ."

   Creslin waits, as does Hyel.

   "Ah ... Zarlen said ... no wizard could stand 'gainst cold steel. No woman, witch or not, neither."

   "He was wrong in both cases, apparently," Creslin observes mildly.

   Hyel nods to Thoirkel and to the body. The young soldier begins to drag the heavy corpse toward the back doorway of the long room. - "What are you?" asks Joris.

   Creslin looks from Klerris to Megaera. Klerris shrugs. Megaera looks away, but Creslin nearly winces at the flames in her eyes before her head turns. He looks back to Joris and Hyel.

   "I'm one of your regents." He pauses. "I was the consort-assign of Westwind. I'm the only man ever trained by the Westwind arms-master, and I walked the Westhorns in the dead of winter to escape marrying the woman I married. I'm told that I'm also a Storm Wizard, and the Duke named both of us regents of Reduce, to hold and strengthen the land for him as we can." He bows slightly. "Does that help?"

   "Shit ..." Only Creslin hears the inaudible murmur from Thoirkel.

   Joris looks at Klerris. "How good a Storm Wizard is he?"

   "Better than any I've ever known; he was born to it."

   Creslin looks at Klerris. Even Megaera looks up. "Does the Duke know all this?" asks Hyel tiredly.

   "Why do you think we're here?" Megaera says with near-equal fatigue in her voice. "Do you really think the Duke liked the idea of having two wizards from Westwind and Sarronnyn under his roof?"

   "I think you'd better take the cot I've been using, at least until we can get something . . . more suitable," suggests the guard captain.

   Joris nods. "I'll show you to it, since I am certain that the captain and Hyel have some cargo to discuss."

   "The horses?" Creslin asks, looking at Freigr.

   "I'll find you later, and you can walk back with me to get them, if that's all right."

   Creslin nods, and the three wizards follow the swarthy man through the still-open doorway.

 

 

LXIX

 

"THE STORMS WERE unusually severe, Jenred, even for winter in the gulf."

   "Severe enough to sink three schooners and leave the Duke's sloop untouched?" asks the High Wizard sardonically.

   "Klerris was on board the sloop," offers another voice.

   "What about the other healer?"

   "And I suppose a pair of master healers could suddenly learn to build storms that severe?" Jenred's voice has become louder. "Don't give me another excuse, like 'the White bitch helped him.' She's there only because she has no choice."

   The chamber becomes silent.

   Finally a voice from the last row speaks, tiredly. "You've disagreed with everyone. What do you suggest?"

   Jenred smiles, a cold, white smile. "Nothing."

   "What-"

   "Let the Duke get away with this?"

   "The Legend-holders will ..."

   The High Wizard Waits quietly until the tumult subsides. "Let us consider the situation. After a generation of hard work, subterfuge, and treachery, the Blacks within Fairhaven and Candar have raised a worthy champion. That champion has fled to a huge and worthless isle off Candar. He is tied to a White witch, and he wants little to do with the continent. He also owes something to the Duke of Montgren.

   "From his isle, Creslin could clearly destroy any fleet sent against him. He can also protect the Duke's two ships and a few others, but no more. He has no gold, or not much, and few allegiances.

   "We leave the Duke's ships alone, and any few ships that Creslin might purchase or build. We sink any others from Candar that approach Reduce. In the meantime, we can always encourage the eastern continents to attack. It would cost us very little, and it would keep Reduce busy. At the same time, we will finish the great highway and consolidate White rule. After a while, Creslin will die, and Reduce will wither away."

   "But the Blacks will flock to Reduce," protests another member of the White Council.

   "What about Nordla and Hamor?"

   "So? How will the Blacks get there? It will take years, and they will be weaker, and we will be the stronger." Jenred snorts. "As for the Nordlans and Hamorians, the only reason they would help Creslin would be for gold or goods, and he has no gold, and the isle produces no goods of note . . . even assuming that he had enough people to gather them."

   "What about the western kingdoms?"

   "Have they helped their supposed ally, the Duke? Will they send troops to Reduce?"

   "The Marshall will have to send some."

   "Fine. She cannot afford more than a small detachment.

   Nor can the Tyrant. That just makes them weaker, since we have no interest in taking that wasteland anyway." Jenred smiles. "Think about it, friends. Think long about it."

 

 

LXX

 

ALONE IN THE single-room cot, after Joris's quick apology for its inadequacy and equally quick departure with Klerris, who is insisting on looking at another nearby empty cot, Creslin turns toward Megaera.

   "You're nothing but a demon-driven killer," she says.

   Creslin steps back.

   "Don't worry, Creslin. I dare not hurt you, not unless I want to die, and that's the last thing I want. I wouldn't give sister dear the pleasure. Nor my dear cousin. And I certainly wouldn't wish to disgrace my best-betrothed husband."

   "What-"

   "Of course you don't understand. You were born in the Legend, and you don't understand. That's because you're a man. Give a man great power and he does great wrong. Sword and storm. So you killed that poor man. He couldn't have touched you."

   "You're wrong."

   "You provoked him so that you could kill him. Do you deny that?"