"It was easier for both of us."

   She is not telling the whole truth, as shown from her shift in position and her obviously suppressed feeling of discomfort.

   "Why do you lie about it?"

   "Damn you! You think you know everything! A kind word, some consideration, and you think I'm ready to jump into your bed."

   "I didn't even think that, and you know it." Creslin is tired, physically tired from farm work and from trying to regain his former conditioning, and mentally tired from being on edge each and every day, from not knowing when Megaera's words will turn acid.

   "You're ignoring what I said about pushing me and everyone else around. Just like always. Just like every man. When it's convenient, you feel sympathy and understanding, and when it's not-oh, I'm sorry about that, you say, and you're not." Megaera raises her hand until her fingers touch the hilt of the blade she has taken to wearing.

   Creslin stiffens as he notes that she has no difficulty in holding the cold steel and that the aura of white that has suffused her is now almost entirely gone . . . and that she radiates mostly the blackness of a Lydya, though thin, white flames flicker around her occasionally.

   "You're not even listening, like always ..."

   "I was listening, but I was thinking of how much you've changed."

   "Of how much you have changed me, you mean."

   "That's not what I said."

   "That's what you meant." The redhead's hand slides away from the blade.

   Creslin looks up into the east, where a line of clouds dots the horizon out over the dark green sea.

   "Until you listen, really listen, nothing will change." Megaera's steps scuff the stones.

   Creslin takes another deep breath, watching as the slender redhead turns toward the new practice yard of the guards.

   To the east, the clouds mount as the sun crosses into the western sky.

 

 

LXXXIX

 

AFTER BREAKING THE plain wax seal, Megaera reads the lines: "As written by Helisse, for Aldonya, faithful retainer of Megaera, sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn, and Regent of Reduce ..."

   The redhead wonders whose idea the titles were- Helisse's through irony, or Aldonya's through devotion?

   . . . though the birth was not easy, we have a daughter, and I have named her Lynnya, in your honor, and would beseech you, should anything happen to me, for unexpected things can happen to new mothers, that you would make sure that she does not have to submit her future to those she does not know.

   In less than five more eight-days, according to the midwives, we will be able to travel, and there will be a ship leaving near that time. Helisse says that we can take it. That is, if we are both well.

   Lynnya is a beautiful girl, and she will have red hair. I think it will be darker than yours.

   We look forward to seeing you and serving you.

   At the bottom, another line is appended: "They are both doing well. -Helisse."

   Megaera Lynnya purses her lips, then walks toward the darkening window, blinking back the wetness in her eyes.

   For a long time she listens to the surf, clutching the folded parchment to her breast.

 

 

XC

 

The way is the way,

as the west mountains are.

The way is the way,

as solid as the sunset towers,

and the southern seas.

 

The way is the way,

as all life is sorrow.

The way is the way,

as all sorrow is joy.

 

THE WAY is the way. The silver-haired man ponders the words, stepping into the shadows that had not existed until he had thought of sorrow. As he walks from the shadows into the sunlight, his eyes narrow against the glare, and dust puffs from under his feet.

   He lifts another stone, setting it on the cutting bench with a delicacy one would not guess at from the muscles in his arms and the calluses on his hands.

   The stonework for the terrace walls is completed, and now he works on the unfinished portions of the guest houses. All of what he has done has been completed between dawns and breakfasts, or between dinners and restless sleeps. Then, what else can he do? Since that night on the terrace, Megaera has become even less approachable.

   She will be returning to the Black Holding shortly from her morning run, which now exceeds his in length. He has watched her practice against Shierra, and her blade-work will soon surpass that of most of the senior guards.

   The hammer strikes the stone perfectly, and the rock shears away. He sings softly-the words are for his ears alone-and his hands are gentle upon the stone, using only the precise amount of force necessary with the order-hardened chisel and mallet.

   "The way is the way . . ."he hums under his breath.

   He finally puts down the tools and walks toward the cistern and outdoor washroom. The echoes of his feet are lost against the faint roar of the sea below the terrace.

   As he shaves, he asks himself if what he plans is fair.

   No, it is not fair. Have they any other options? None that he can see, and those suggested by Lydya and Klerris have failed. For he will not be merely Megaera's friend for life, not when her soul is burned upon his. Nor will he spend the rest of his life forever on guard against her tongue and his emotions.

   The cold water cools his thoughts. By the time he is dressed, he is calm enough that he will not radiate unrest until Megaera is within cubits of him. He walks across the terrace to watch the summer sun sparkle on the morning sea and waits for her. Shortly thereafter, Klerris will arrive. Even Klerris does not know exactly why Creslin has requested his presence.

   ". . .All sorrow is joy . . ."He hopes so. But he shivers, thinking about what must be done. Can he do otherwise?

   Perhaps, but what? He has listened to Lydya; he has listened to Megaera. Klerris has offered no answers, saying that answers have no meaning unless they are found by whoever asks the questions.

   The faint sound of running boots alerts Creslin that Megaera is nearing the holding. He remains by the seaward wall of the terrace, even after she has gone to the wash-house.

   Only after she appears on the edge of the terrace, as if to ask whether he intends to walk back to the keep, does he turn. Though his tanned skin is smooth and unlined, a darkness dwells behind his eyes, as if he were older, far older, than he looks.

   "You're worried," she announces, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade.

   He still prefers the shoulder harness but wears no blade much of the time, unlike Megaera, who wears hers everywhere, except when she sleeps or runs.

   "You're right," he agrees. "This can't go on."

   She frowns. "Things are going well. The spices are ready for harvest, the traders have finished their warehouse-"

   "I meant you and me."

   "You're pushing again."

   "I've made some decisions." He turns, steps forward, takes her arm as if to escort her.

   "I don't need help."

   He says nothing, catching her chin with his right hand and turning her face toward his.

   She tries to step back, but suddenly his muscles are like iron bands holding her in place. "You can't force ..." One hand starts to draw the West wind short sword.

   His free hand clamps over hers. "I know." Inexorably he forces her head back to meet his eyes.

   Her booted foot slams against his.

   Creslin staggers but holds the pain and concentrates on reaching her soul.

   "No . . . no!"

   But it is too late, and she slumps hi his arms.

   Creslin holds her for a moment, tears streaming from his own eyes as he watches her chest rise and fall. Her body feels so light with her spirit sleeping, but he carries her into her room and lays her on the bed.

   Then he paces by the window until Klerris arrives. Lydya, although she was not invited, follows the Black Wizard in.

   "Don't do it. Another life-link will kill her, and yourself," she pleads.

   Creslin looks at her and opens his soul as much as he can. "I have not touched her, ever, except once in mind when I knew nothing. I have tried to be a friend. I have tried to court her, to sing to her, and to be gentle. The situation is no better, and perhaps worse, than in the beginning. My death will kill her ... and continuing in this way will only lead to both of us hating each other. Tell me that things will be better."

   Lydya finally looks away. Klerris waits for them to finish their argument.

   Creslin tries again. "Can you tell me that things will get better?"

   "No, I cannot promise you that."

   "Can you tell me that letting me know her as she knows me will make things worse?"

   "What you plan will either kill you both within days or ..."

   "Or?"

   "I don't know. No one has ever tried a double link."

   "Tell me I'm wrong."

   Lydya looks at Creslin, and her eyes are clear and deep. "You're using violence to equalize violence. Because the evil done first was so great, this may be the only answer. That does not make it right."

   "I've been a tool of the Blacks, of my father, of the Marshall. Don't I have the right to try for happiness and love?" His voice is ragged.

   "Patience does not always work for the young." Klerris's voice is slow and calm.

   "Or for men," adds Lydya wryly.

   The silence in the room draws out. Lydya and Klerris look from Creslin to each other. Finally Lydya shrugs. "It will be quicker this way."

   "Quicker?"

   "You're already starting to develop a link to Megaera. Doing what you want to do will hasten and deepen the process, but it may not change anything. Do you still want to?" Why hadn't he considered the feelings, the occasional strong thoughts that had not been his?

   "Are you sure that you want to do this?" the man in black asks Creslin. "As you know from her reactions, the results can be rather severe."

   "No, I can't say that I want to do it," answers the silver-haired man. "It's just that things will get worse if I don't."

   Klerris shakes his head. "You're young. There are worse things than having someone forced to watch out for you."

   "Not many," answers Creslin, baring his arm. "Not when that someone is Megaera."

   Lydya smiles sadly. "You don't know what's in store for you. But the shock just might lead to some understanding."

   Klerris shakes his head, but opens the small case he has brought with him. "I do not envy you, Creslin. She is extraordinarily strong-willed."

   Creslin can say nothing, nor can he speak through the tears that flow.

 

 

XCI

 

"YOU ARE A demon-damned fool! You've probably just killed us both." Megaera is flushed. While the afternoon is hot and cloudless, the sweat upon her forehead is not from the sun's rays.

   . . . damned oversexed, thin-brained lusting animal . . .

   "You couldn't wait! You couldn't be patient! You couldn't learn more about me! No, like all men, just when you think they might have some understanding, they start thinking with their glands." She takes a quick breath, ignoring the breeze with which Creslin cools the terrace. "What I don't understand is why Lydya even considered this idiocy."

   "Because . . ." Creslin stumbles ". . . she said that it was already happening one way or another, and . . ." He has to change what he was about to say. "... and I think she felt that if the process was too drawn out, neither one of us could possibly survive it."

   "Happening already?"

   "Yes. Sometimes I can hear what you think, at least when you're really angry."

   "What?"

   "You just thought that I was an oversexed, underbrained, lusting animal."

   "Thin-brained!" she snaps.

   "Fine. Thin-brained. It's the same thing."

   "I'm leaving."

   "Where are you going?"

   "For now, I'll stay with Shierra." She steps back toward the room that has been hers. "No, you don't have to worry about my leaving Reduce. Not yet, at least."

   . . . not until the next time . . .

   Creslin shrugs, although the words and thoughts go through him like a short sword, and he has to swallow. Again she is giving him no chance at all.

   "I've given you more than enough chances, and you twist each one around to suit yourself."

   "That's not true. Not quite true," he amends.

   "True enough."

   He feels the discomfort, although it is not his, and shakes his head.

   "You . . . you don't understand at all!" Megaera shouts. "Now even my feelings are yours!"

   "Mine have been yours, and you've certainly been kind enough to use them against me when it suits your purpose."

   . . . damn you! Can't keep anything . . . how could he have stood it for so long?

   "Damn you . . ." The words are more sob than curse. Her hand touches the blade hilt. "You come after me ... now ..."

   . . . and . . . kill us both . . .

   Creslin stands helplessly as she backs away, her hand still on the blade, before she disappears into her room.

   There on the terrace, caught between the sun and the surf, between the past he did not create and the future he cannot foresee, he waits and watches until a flame-haired woman in blue marches north and westward, back to the keep, back to another outpost of Westwind.

 

 

XCII

 

WITHIN THE WHITE mist of the mirror on the table rears a forest of masts upon the dark green swells of the Eastern Ocean.

   The High Wizard nods. "Soon ..."

   "Soon what?" Hartor watches the images in the glass.

   "Soon we will cloak their fleet from both eyes and magic."

   "Jenred, do you really think that Creslin could not penetrate the cloak?"

   The thin wizard smiles, only with his mouth. His reddish-brown eyes glitter. "Of course he could ... if he bothered to look. But he's not in the habit, and those who would look for him do not have the ability."

   "What about the Westwind detachment? Why did you let it land?"

   "If we had attacked it, he would have been alerted."

   "I don't know. I don't like the idea of a Westwind detachment on Recluce. And how would he have known?"

   "From Klerris. His Black bitch was on the coaster."

   Hartor asks, "Won't the Westwind group make a difference if ... when the Hamorians storm Land's End?"

   "So? We can't lose. Either the Marshall loses troops or the Hamorians do. Creslin is destroyed, or the Hamorians discover that they have another enemy among the western continents."

   "Fine. What if Creslin wins? What about Montgren?"

   Jenred snorts. "What about it? Neither Creslin nor that bitch Megaera will ever claim it, and Sarronnyn can't. The Duke has no heirs. We've seen to that. It will be ours, without even a battle. Korweil can't live that much longer."

   "I wish I were as certain as you."

   Jenred shifts his eyes to the mirror, and to the ships that fill the glass. More than enough to take Land's End. More than enough.

 

 

XCIII

 

"ARE YOU SURE you don't want to try to break your blood-link to her?"

   The two men look out over the dark gray cliffs onto the low, sweeping swells of the black-green northern sea. Only an occasional wash of white breaks across the crests of the slow-moving waves. Despite the high clouds, no rain has fallen, and the powdery red dust has drifted from the road onto the black stones of the terrace and over the uncut stones stacked beside the terrace where Creslin still works in the early mornings.

   Now the guards are beginning the mortar work on the second guest house, using the stones he has cut, and Klerris has brought up enough timbers for the guest-house roof.

   "What good would that do? Lydya said that the linkage would develop anyway." Creslin leans down and picks up the short-handled stone sledge. Even though the essentials of the Black Holding proper are finished, the windows need glass and the kitchen is only a shell. In the interim, Creslin still putters with the stones for the walkways for the second and third guest houses. Someone will use them, he hopes.

   "It might buy you some time."

   "Has that done us any good?" He cannot just stand and wait. Despite Megaera's insistence on patience, the more he senses of her feelings, the clearer it is that patience is only an excuse for her not to face her feelings about him, and his feelings for her.

   He lusts after her. He cannot lie about that, either to her or to himself. He also loves her, independent of lust, because of the other things that she is: determined, intelligent, incisive, and when she is not threatened, kind and considerate.

   "I still doubt the wisdom of the whole double linkage,"

   Klerris adds.

   "There wasn't a choice."

   Klerris frowns.

   "Lydya was right. I was already sensing Megaera's feelings and thoughts. For better or worse, we're linked. Right now, if she stays in the keep and I stay here, we have only the strongest of thoughts and feelings, but before long it won't matter."

   "What are you going to do?"

   "Wait until the link gets stronger." Creslin pauses. "In the meantime, we might think about a good stream and a waterwheel."

   "A waterwheel?" The Black Wizard shakes his head. "I don't think you understand. In a few days, if she has a mind to, Megaera could kill you both. That could be exactly what she's waiting for."

   The silver-haired man listens, but his hands wield the hammer and order-sharpened wedge, trimming the black stone before him. For an instant, he can sense salt spray and hear the raucous call of a sea gull. Is that an illusion? He thinks not.

   "Would she be that desperate?" Klerris shrugs. "What woman wants her feelings known?"

   "Do you think I have exactly enjoyed her knowing every strong emotion I feel?"

   The Black Wizard laughs. "Women have always known what men feel, even without magic."

   "You're talking about eastern women, about those who no longer follow the Legend."

   "Creslin, all women-except the warrior guards of Westwind, and I suspect that they just do not find it convenient to mention their abilities-all women can read men better than most men can read women."

   Clung . . . clung . . .

   "Why should that make a difference? It's probably due as much to practice as to an inborn talent."

   The older man shakes his head. "What will you do?"

   "Wait until the link is stronger. Then we'll see."

   "Lydya's worried."

   "So am I. So am I." His hands trim the stones automatically, only his senses pointing the weaknesses and sheer lines in the hard black stone.

 

 

XCIV

 

"Now WHAT?" ASKS Thoirkel, placing another rock on the field wall.

   Locked into the soil and the order lines within and around the small section of field, Creslin does not hear him. The not-quite-stifling heat has begun to create wavering heat lines above the walls and the clay road.

   "Now what?" repeats the dark-haired man, who is now as clean-shaven as Creslin.

   Creslin returns to himself and wipes his forehead. The plateau gets hot earlier in the day than the town and stays hot longer, but Klerris has noted that the soil is far more fertile here. Creslin doesn't need the Black Wizard to tell him that, since the town is built on rock, sand, and red clay so hard that even few weeds appear on the hillside or the flat behind the pier.

   Creslin has been merely repeating the painstaking process that Klerris has taught him, strengthening the right worms, grubs, and beetles, ignoring those that are not helpful, and infusing order into the shoots that will become dry maize. Between the liberal application of order and the not-so-liberal application of spring water and limited rain, the maize-destined, if it survives the hazards of Reduce, to become flour for bread and pasta-shows healthy growth, far healthier than that in more temperate lands. Creslin wipes, his sweating forehead again.

   "Ser! Ser!" A figure sprints from the northern edge of the field.

   Creslin straightens at the urgency behind the voice and moves toward the running man. "What is it?"

   "Raiders! Pirates! Sails, lots of them!"

   "Damn . . . damn . . . damn ..." Creslin sends his senses to the winds, reaching toward the northern sea, where a forest of masts sweeps shoreward. No White-pulsed energies lurk beneath the sails or within the hulls, but the masses of archers and armed men speak loudly enough.

   The co-regent of Reduce scoops up his shoulder harness and adjusts it as he strides eastward, already searching the skies, grasping for the winds. His feet carry him toward the road leading to Land's End. Thoirkel trots beside him.

   From the keep, a horn calls-a Westwind trumpet.

   Creslin attempts to twist the high winds lower, to call for the cold torrents that sweep toward the Roof of the World.

   Warships . . . Creslin? . . .

   He pauses at the edge of the plateau. A dozen ships creep on partly furled sails toward the harbor. The lead ship has already slipped past the breakwater, out of the sullen, dark green swells and into more sheltered water, and two boats are being lowered.

   "Darkness . . ."he mutters, still working to channel the winds toward Land's end, realizing the truth of Klerris's example all too well. Yes, he will have winds, but already he can tell that they will not arrive before the first two ships reach the pier. Perhaps not even then. His feet bear him downhill as his mind struggles with the elements and the winds.

   A squad of Westwind guards races for the pier, and Creslin rums cold as he sees a flash of flame-red hair near the lead.

   . . . show you, best-beloved . . .

   His soul twists the skies, and he rips winds by their roots from their icy heights. Yet, as fast as the high winds speed, as quickly as the darkness builds to the west, the lead ships, and the boats filled with armed men, move more quickly, now nearly touching the pier.

   As he hurries downhill, Creslin does not run, for even he knows that arriving at a dead sprint and exhausted will do no one any good, especially himself. But his heart pounds as he thinks of Megaera. He forces his thoughts elsewhere, coldly studying the scene unfolding below.

   A second squad of Westwind guards and the duty detachment of the Montgren troopers have started downhill from the keep.

   The third and fourth ships are sailing past the harbor and to the east, toward the flat beaches where boats may also land. Even if the guards can hold the harbor, they will soon face attack from behind, although it will not be instantly, since it will take some time for the beach-landing troops to cross the soft sand and climb the low but rocky hill that shelters the town.

   Arrows have begun to fly from the inshore vessels, vessels that fly the orange sunburst of Hamor.

   Creslin pushes and twists the great winds, those on which he had never called. They strike back, and he sprawls onto the dust of the road.

   Thoirkel lifts him to his feet, the dark-haired man looking back toward the west. At least one Westwind guard lies flat on the pier stones, an arrow through her neck.

   A gray haze covers the sun, and the darkness towers in the western skies as Creslin unsheathes his blade. He holds it loosely as he steps toward the storm of steel and shafts boiling up around the pier.

   He continues downhill, his eyes on the harbor, his sense in the skies. Thoirkel is still there, with a blade that has appeared from somewhere.

   . . . now . . . thrust . . .

   By the time they are halfway to the fighting, boats are carrying troops onto the eastern beaches, and the end of the pier is held by the attackers.

   "Aeeeiii ..."

   "Bitches ..."

   The sounds of swords and voices echo off the cots and rocks, and Creslin looks for the redness that is Megaera and sees none, but neither has he felt the pain he knows he will feel if she is injured.

   Lightning forks from the sky and toward the seas, narrowly missing the tall ship that stands farthest seaward.

   Arrows continue to arch into the air and sleet down upon those who struggle on the stones of the pier, but some now fly from the shoreward end of the pier onto the two Hamorian ships within the harbor.

   RRhhhssttt ...

   . . . aeeeiiieeee . . .

   Creslin staggers at the white flame that sears him as Megaera releases the firebolt. Fire sheets from the pier, and the foresails of the lead schooner burst into flames.

   Creslin strides forward onto the pier, wrenching winds, wrenching at all he can grasp in the skies above.

   Thurrummm . . . thrum . . . crackkk!

   The tall ship shudders as lightnings flash upon it and the winds howl, and as the mist and swirling tempests solidify into a funnel of blackness.

   "Ooofff ..." Thoirkel pushes Creslin aside as a bronze-faced man appearing from nowhere swings an ax toward the regent. A pair of swords stops the Hamorian.

   Though Megaera has said nothing, the white agony of her use of chaos burns Creslin as though he had stood in the flame himself. He staggers before he remembers that he has a blade and lets his body react, even as his thoughts twist the black tower of water toward the next Hamorian ship.

   The lead schooner at the pier is shrouded in fire, and her masts and timbers begin to burn.

   Double lightning forks from the swirling darkness to the north and west, shivering another Hamorian vessel, which one Creslin is not quite sure as he struggles with blade and winds.

   The two ships flanking the debris that had been a tall ship try to turn from the waterspout, but the waters swallow them in a tower that rears like a wall between the harbor and the north.

   ". . . light!"

   "... get the redhead and the silver-head!"

   Creslin's blade snakes out and drops another Hamorian as his thoughts twist the darkness upon the ships beyond the breakwater, knowing that he dare not bring that much water within the small harbor. '

   "Around the regents . . . now!"

   Creslin finds himself side to side with another fighter, one with red hair, and he almost lowers his blade in relief. "Get the other ships!" Megaera hisses.

   . . . idiot . . .

   Creslin swallows as he recalls those off the eastern beaches, as he pulls the waterspout around the point and toward the three ships. Only those three and the two schooners within the harbor remain afloat.

   "Hit the center. That's where they are!"

   "Ooo ..." Creslin winces. Flame seems to sheet through his right shoulder, but he continues to concentrate on the winds, bringing them and the entire wall of water down upon the Hamorian vessels off the beach.

   Ruuu . . . swwussshhhHHH!

   Creslin's teeth grind under the impact of Megaera's pain and his own. Yet, off the eastern beaches, only debris and bodies float. The sands are scoured clean by the mast-high wave that has ripped men, weapons, and vegetation alike off the low hill that protects Land's End from the stones and the waves-and that has driven one nearly mastless hull hard upon the sand.

   Creslin's guts are in his throat, and he pukes over the man felled before him by Megaera's blade before she follows his example.

   "Damn your weak guts ..."

   . . . puking . . . weak-kneed . . . bastard . . .

   "Shut up . . ." he mumbles, lifting his blade.

   There is no further use for the blade, for all of the Hamorians on the pier are fallen. Perhaps a score have dived into the debris-laden waters to swim out toward the second ship, which has slipped her cables and turns toward the seas.

   The lead schooner flares brightly, burning so hot that steam rises where the waters from the sky pelt her. The few Hamorians remaining in the water try to swim beyond the heat.

   Hard rain swirls around Creslin, and his right arm lies leaden at his side. He swallows, knowing that he is not finished. Taking a deep breath, he regathers the winds, waiting only until the last Hamorian ship clears the rocks of the breakwater. Then he calls, ignoring the white stars before his eyes. Willing away the agony in his arm and shoulders, he summons the high winds and the cold.

   He watches until he is certain that only timbers and debris dot the heavy swells; then he turns to Megaera, who looks at him white-faced, blood smeared across her gray tunic and leathers.

   He cannot hold the image, cannot speak, and finds himself sinking to the slippery and bloody stones underfoot, knowing that Megaera is sinking with him.

 

 

XCV

 

CRESLIN'S ARM AND shoulder bum, not with the flame of suns, but with the heat of well-banked coals. When he tries to open his eyes, miniature fires flicker across the dark ceiling. A cool cloth is pressed over his forehead, and the fires retreat.

   He dozes, and sees that the room is darker when he again awakes.

   A shadowy Figure steps toward him. "Ser?"

   "... think I'm here ..."

   "The healer said you should drink this."

   A cup is placed before his lips, and he sips. Lifting his head sends a wave of heat through his right shoulder and down his arm. He forces himself to keep on sipping until some of the liquid spills out of his mouth and the cup is withdrawn.

   He sinks back on the pillow, trying to puzzle out where he is. The room is small, and the guard who presented the cup is female. So he must be in the newer keep section of the Westwind guards.

   A small lamp, its wick low, hangs from a bracket on the stone wall just beside the open door, where a pair of guards stand. Outside, the sky is the purple of twilight, and the dampness of rain fills the air. The thunder is distant, as if coming in over the northern sea.

   He dozes, but not for long. When he wakes, Lydya has returned, and the sound of the rain continues.

   "Megaera?"

   "Better than you, but she's at the Black Holding. The distance helps some, although the link is too strong for her to escape it, no matter where you are."

   Creslin lies motionless for a time on the narrow bed. Lydya offers him the cup.

   "Uggghh. That's bitter ..."

   "You need it."

   "... drinking it. Don't have to like it."

   When she withdraws the cup, he sinks back, but not into sleep.

   "I didn't handle this one very well," he mutters, low enough that the guards by the doorway cannot hear.

   Her lips quirk. "Since you're both considered great heroes, I doubt that anyone will question your judgment at this point. They just look at the sky."

   "What happened?"

   "You saw it all. After you destroyed the Hamorian ships, and the guards and troopers mopped up the stragglers, there wasn't much left."

   "How many guards, troopers, did we lose?"

   "Despite all the blood and arrows, less than a score."

   Creslin shakes his head, and bright stars flash in front of his eyes. A score is far too many to have lost. If only he had been watching the seas, many of those deaths could have been avoided.

   "You cannot redo the past."

   "... hard not to think about that." Creslin tries to moisten too-dry lips. He wants to shake his head again but remembers the dizziness, and the stars in his eyes. "Stupid ... so stupid ..."

   "What? Being human? Or trying to do everything yourself?" For the first time, the healer's voice is tart. "You can't do it all. Neither of you can, even together. Megaera's almost as bad as you are. But you can think about that later. In the meantime, take another sip of this."

   He complies, then lets his head fall back on the pillows. "How is she?" Lydya never really answered his question.

   "She took several gashes, but no arrows. She also had to fight the shock of your wound."

   "Damning my weak guts . . . the whole way . . ."he murmurs as he drifts back into the darkness of sleep.

   He wakes with the light, and Westwind guards still remain posted outside his doorway. He no longer sees stars or fires when he moves his head, and his shoulder is only fevered rather than fired. The dressing has been changed.

   He tries to moisten dry and cracked lips. Finally he croaks, "Anything to drink around here?"

   "Yes, sir. The healer left something for you." The slender guard, no more than just past junior training, carries the mug to the narrow bed. The contents are not quite as vile as swamp water or as salty as the sea, but the bitterness makes raw ale taste like fine wine by comparison.

   "Uggghhh . . ." He swallows it all, slowly, holding the mug as the dark-haired young guard retreats, an opaque expression on her face.

   Whatever the potion is, it helps, for in time he can sit up. The rain continues, although the skies are not so dark as before. After a while he leans back and dozes once more.

   When he wakes, before he can speak, another guard, gray-haired, is offering him more of Lydya's concoction. He drinks. It still tastes worse than sour swamp water. "How long has it been?"

   "Since the battle? Four days, more or less."

   Creslin wonders how Megaera is faring and if the Black Holding is even habitable in the continual rain. Gingerly, he moves the fingers of his right hand. The motion sends a twinge to his shoulder, and he purses his lips. If only he had thought ahead; one more Westwind blade hadn't really been needed on the pier. If anything, he had probably just been in the way. Yet how could he have stood back and let others fight for him?

   "How are you doing?"

   Creslin's eyes focus on Hyel as the tall man slouches into the room.

   "About as well as ..." He breaks off the confession. There is no sense in publicly confessing stupidity. Lydya has hinted as much. ". . .as anyone who takes an arrow in the shoulder deserves, I guess. Sorry to leave you and Shierra to clean up the mess."

   Hyel grins ruefully. "It has been interesting. I didn't really believe you until I saw those guards fight." He shakes his head. "The men who are left think you're an angel returned-"

   "That's a bit much."

   Hyel shakes his head. "No, it's not. They watched you kill half a dozen men and call in storms that destroyed eleven ships, and the storms still rage. And the co-regent . . . she fired one ship and a score of Hamorian marines. She even killed some with her own blade."

   Creslin wants to change the subject. "What about the survivors? Were there any?"

   "Shierra and I decided, subject to your approval, ser, to use them on stonework and farming until they can be ransomed, at least once the rain stops. There aren't many- perhaps a score and a half, most of them from the ship you drove onto the beach. But splitting them up into smaller groups makes sense. Klerris managed to get enough glass made to put windows in your rooms in the Black Holding. Once the weather clears, we want to finish the rest of the building and all of the guest houses. Then the inn." Hyel grins shyly. "I think we will have a few visitors from here on in."

   "I suppose so. You'd better see if you can get Shierra or one of the senior guards to offer blade-training to your troopers."

   "Well . . . with the rain ... I mean . . . it's something we can do in the main room ... a little. We've already started . . . after they saw-"

   The silver-haired man represses a grin. "Shierra's probably much better at instruction."

   "She says that you're one of the few Westwind master- blades, but no one was ever allowed to tell you so." The lanky man's voice drops almost to a whisper. "Ser, is it true that you escaped a White Wizard's road camp?"

   Creslin is beginning to feel tired again and leans back into the pillows. "Yes, but I had help."

   "Still . . . no wonder they wanted you prisoner."

   Creslin looks out the narrow window. Is the sky lighter? He hopes so.

   Hyel straightens. "I think it's time to go."

   Creslin turns his head at the other's tone, understanding the meaning in it as he sees the flash of red in the doorway. "We'll talk more later."

   Hyel grins, then lets his face become respectful as he turns. "Good evening, Regent Megaera." He inclines his head.

   "Good evening, Hyel. You can certainly stay."

   Creslin savors the sound of her slightly husky voice, glad for the moment that she is there.

   "Thanking you, Regent, but there are duty rosters to be checked."

   "Well, go ahead and check them." Megaera perches carefully on the stool near the foot of the bed. Her eyes are unreadable in the dimness of the twilight. "It's about time you woke up."

   "Guess I overdid everything."

   . . . overdid? . . .

   Her eyes flicker toward the window. "Including the storms. No one has ever seen so much rain, and Klerris says that it's likely to go on for a few more days."

   Creslin shrugs. "Oooo . . ." His shoulder indicates that the gesture was unwise. "I wasn't thinking about having to stop them at the time. I was more worried about not letting any of the Hamorians escape."

   She smiles. "Most of them don't want to go back."

   Creslin wills himself not to move, realizing that she will feel the pain as well as he. "Why not?"

   "Do you know what the emperor does to failed soldiers?"

   "Oh.'

   "And besides, they figure they're safe here."

   Creslin snorts. "Until the White Wizards dream up something else. Or Hamor does."

   "They won't. Not so long as you live, great Storm Wizard. Who wants to lose a whole fleet or an army for a mostly worthless giant desert isle?"

   "It won't be worthless before long."

   "It's not now, best-betrothed." She sits silently on the stool as the night descends.

   The two guards have stepped out into the corridor, and the door has been closed, although Creslin cannot say exactly when. The rain continues to fall, but not in the pelting fury that he sensed earlier.

   "What are we going to do?" she finally asks.

   "Can't we learn to ... live . . . with each other?"

   "You? Me?" She laughs, hard and cold. "When I must preserve you, when I cannot stop knowing how you feel ..."

   . . . still changes nothing . . .

   "Do we have any choice?" he asks.

   Megaera does not answer, although she sits across from him on the stool until he can no longer remain awake.

 

 

XCVI

 

THE SMALL ROOM on the top floor is brightly lit by four mirror-backed, white-brass lamps. Outside the narrow casement windows, the rain continues to fall, as it has for the past eight-days.

   "If this keeps up much longer, there won't be a crop left to save anywhere in East Candar, Jenred," complains the heavy White Wizard. "And the Hamorian envoy has protested that you used wizardry to trick him into reporting Creslin's theft of the Westwind treasures."

   "They don't really believe that, do they?" "I don't think the emperor of Hamor is exactly pleased with the total loss of twelve ships." Hartor shifts uneasily in the chair, and his eyes flicker toward the half-ajar doorway. "Oh, well. It was worth a try," notes the thin man in white, lifting his head as if to sense something in the air. He frowns, looking again at the rain outside. "Creslin is strong. I have to grant him that."

   "Strong! That's like saying the winters in Westwind are cold."

   "So ..." rejoins Jenred, still puzzled, still looking for something-for an odor or for a whispered word he cannot make out. "It doesn't affect us. He's not leaving Reduce, and he certainly gives Hamor something else to worry about."

   "Jenred," Hartor says slowly, "why couldn't you just have left Creslin alone? Let him wander through Fairhaven untouched? He would have wandered off somewhere and settled down, perhaps taught as a Black."

   "It wasn't possible."

   "I thought it was. So did the council."

   "Thought what?" The thin wizard's eyes swivel from the rain to the doorway and back again.

   'That you were still after Werlynn, the only man who ever escaped you. Hatred makes for bad policy, Jenred. We can't keep on making decisions based on hatred."

   Jenred struggles to his feet but topples as the black sleep closes around him.

   Hartor takes a deep breath and bends over the sleeping form, removing the amulet and chain of office. He looks from the former High Wizard to the dark clouds and the rain. Then he eases the amulet and the golden links into place around his own neck as the White guards enter with the chains of cold iron.

 

 

XCVII

 

CRESLIN STANDS ON the hillside east of Land's End, overlooking the Eastern Ocean. Below, the waves ebb and foam around the beached hull of the Hamorian ship.

   Megaera is somewhere away from the shore. He has a sense of walls surrounding her-possibly the keep's. His eyes drift back to the hull, the sole remnant of the Hamorian raiders. Then he shakes his head ruefully, and with a soft laugh, he turns, walking briskly toward Klerris and Lydya's cot.

   Lydya is there. Klerris is not. Lydya escorts him to the newly built covered porch and motions to a wooden chair. She perches on the half-wall, her face solemn. "How are you?"

   "All right so far. Megaera's still spending nights at the keep."

   "Did you expect anything less?"

   "I could hope."

   Lydya's eyes are level with his. "That's not why you're here."

   "No. I want Klerris to build a ship. Rebuild one, actually."

   "He might like that. He's enjoyed the building projects a great deal more than he's enjoyed the plants. What are you planning on rebuilding? Fishing boats?"

   "The Hamorian war schooner on the eastern beach."

   "Can it be done?"

   Creslin shrugs. "I certainly hope so. We need our own ships. When you think about the markup on goods-"

   "That's a big job."

   "We could use the prisoners for it. Some of them might even want to crew it."

   "Crew what?" interrupts another voice. Klerris stands in the recently created doorway leading from the main room of the cot.

   Creslin repeats his idea. As he does so, Lydya slips back into the cot, leaving the two men alone on the porch.

   "I don't know," muses Klerris.

   "We have to," insists Creslin. "I'll talk to Hyel and Shierra about using the prisoners for it. Besides, the boat is sitting on sand, not on rock. I think that we could dig around it enough to right it." His eyes flicker over the mage's shoulder as he sees Lydya leave the cot and turn downhill, toward the inn and a cot where Megaera and a small crew labors over the glassmaking.

   Klerris smiles. "Someday . . . someday you may undertake something that absolutely cannot be done."

   "I already have." Creslin pauses. "Megaera. But I have to keep on as if things will work out."

   "Did you tell Lydya that?"

   "No."

   "You should have."

   "Why?"

   Klerris shakes his head. "Never mind. Are you going to talk to Hyel now?"

   "Why not?"

   "I'll come with you. That way, he'll believe we're both crazy."

 

 

XCVIII

 

THE WOMAN IN black leathers stands in the late-afternoon sun, watching as the peak that is Freyja turns into a glistening sword raised against the towers of the sunset. Her black hair is uncovered in the chill wind that passes for a summer breeze on the Roof of the World.

   Beside her stands another woman, younger, in green leathers, still holding a dispatch case.

   "They've already begun to change the world ..." muses the black-haired woman.

   "Begun?" asks the silver-haired Marshalle.

   "Begun," confirms the Marshall. "No one else could do it besides those two. In that, Ryessa was right." She shrugs. "But they're still fighting each other."

   "The dispatch doesn't-"

   "Unless Creslin is more understanding than I was, he'll destroy both of them."

   "I can't believe that."

   "Believe it or not. He has that much power." The Marshall remains studying the ice needle until it is cloaked in the early moonlight.

 

 

XCIX

 

SAND AND SEA and birds, and a black boulder rising above the surf-how many hundreds of places are there with such a combination? Creslin does not know exactly, but one of them is where Megaera is.

   With the briefest of head shakes, he places the hammer and chisel in the chest, which he stores in the third guest house. He has waited and waited, and knows that further waiting will solve nothing. He pauses, reflecting that he has felt that way before and it has always led to pain.

   This time he shrugs-with sadness-and heads for the washroom.

   "You have to be clean?"

   How else? He laughs bitterly as the cold water flows over him and as he uses the harsh soap to scrub away stone grit, sweat, and dirt. Little enough governing or wizardry has he done while he has recovered, and only a trace of stonework, and too much thinking. Still, the captives from Hamor have completed the walls along the walkways, as well as the interior walls and roofs of all three guest houses. The Black Holding is coming to resemble the plans that Klerris had once laid out on the keep table. The only problem is that the two people for whom it has been built are unable to live anywhere close to each other.

   Creslin steps away from the cold water and snaps the tap closed. As he dries himself with the worn and frayed towel he has carted across Candar and beyond, his lips twist into a wry smile. He has a title he never wanted, a land to build that he never asked for, and he loves a woman for whom he walked the winter snows of Westhorns to escape marrying. Yet he married her for convenience.

   And for lust, he reminds himself. He cannot deny how much he wants Megaera. He rips his thoughts away from images of the red-haired lady before too-graphic fantasies appear in his mind.

   Lust or not, the time has come for the two of them to resolve their destiny. "Resolve our destiny?" he thinks. "How pretentious!" He snorts as he pulls on his trousers.

   After donning the short-sleeved shirt and his boots, his hair still damp, he begins to walk down the dusty road. He hopes that one day the road will be a highway stretching from one end of Reduce to the other. For the wizards are right about one thing. Good highways knit people and trade together. But that will come later, assuming that Megaera will accept him. If Megaera will ever accept him.

   He continues walking, his thoughts searching the winds before him. The first beach he checks has birds and sands, but neither the black boulder nor Megaera. The second has a black boulder and birds, but no Megaera.

   Five more beaches and six kays later, as he scrambles down a skree of rock, he sees pale gray on a pale black boulder, pale gray surmounted by flame-red hair.

   "Megaera ..." His heart pounds faster.

   Damn you . . . best-betrothed . . . His feet slip under the impact of the unspoken words, but he recovers with only the faintest of staggers, hitting the slanted sands under the eastern cliffs at a half-run, his booted feet digging into the softer sand above where the gentle waves cascade in.

   A coolness flows within him, the cool, shivering feel of fear. Creslin slows to a walk. Fear? Not his fear, but why fear?

   . . . because you are stronger than I am, except in will . . . because I will always be forced to submit. My body cannot bear . . . just as your soul cannot . . .

   The fragments of thoughts cascade through his head. His steps hesitate, more than necessary on the soft and shifting sand above the waterline. The white water foams in to within cubits of his feet. Overhead, the hazy, high clouds turn the sun shrouded-gold, and the damp breeze from the sea seems suddenly chill. He stops before the bleached black boulder.

   "Megaera?"

   "Yes, best-betrothed?"

   "Why . . . why do you . . . avoid . . . ?"

   ... to save my soul . . . myself . . .

   "The correct word is flee," she says.

   What answers does he have? All he knows is that he has always loved the lady.

   . . . Love? You don't know love, just lust . . .

   "Always lusted after the lady," she corrects him, still sitting on the far end of the gray stone.

   "Not just lust . . . not just that." The calmness within his soul reassures him.

   Why . . . love? How can you call that . . . love? "You're lying to yourself. What you feel isn't love," she insists. Yet she is shaken by his coolness.

   "Perhaps you don't know love, either," he suggests.

   . . . don't know . . . what it's like . . . you have no idea . . .

   "I know what I know." Creslin's heart pounds, even while his words are spoken quietly.

   You know nothing . . . "Perhaps you should see what it feels like." Megaera's eyes fix on him.

   "What what feels like?"

   . . . your . . . love. "What you call love." Megaera smiles.

   Can she never love him? He watches as she lifts one hand theatrically. Fire flares at her fingertips.

   Flames leap along his forearms-or are they Megaera's forearms?-and sweat beads on his forehead. His/her stomach turns at the order/chaos conflict, as if he had told an untruth.

   "Come now, best-betrothed. That's nothing like cold iron." Megaera's voice is hard, and both of her arms lift.

   Yet the ugly internal twisting tells him that she is lying.

   . . . nothing at all like fighting cold iron . . .

   RRHHHsssssm!

   Fire slashes into the blue-green of the sky.

   Creslin stands immobile on the rocky beach, looking at the redhead, his muscles convulsed and knotted like the bark of a gnarled oak.

   "You didn't spend a lifetime bound against such pain, O husband dear ..." Damn you, sister dear . . . and you, unwitting tool. If . . .

   Sensing the pain beneath the pain, Creslin forces his lungs to breathe and takes a step toward the end of the rock where Megaera sits. Once more that fire-white, almost lost within the blackness that enfolds Megaera, jets toward the clear eastern sky.

   Again Creslin's muscles knot with the internal flame that runs through his blood like acid. His guts turn, and he burns from sole to crown. But he takes another step forward. Megaera must feel the pain even more than he does, and how she has borne such agony for so long . . . how?

   Not easily, best-betrothed . . .

   The white flame, jetting into the sky, still burns both of them, and he sways, but breathes, and takes another step-another step toward the fires of the demons of light.

   "Do you still love me, O best-betrothed?" How can you call . . . this love?

   "Yes." The words rasp from his hoarse throat as he reaches the midpoint of the seaward side of the boulder.

   Megaera sits on the landward and northern end, another five cubits from him, another five long steps.

   "Then know the measure of ... my love ... for you." Love is ... pain . . . sorrow . . .

   He takes another two steps before he feels the gathering of whiteness that precedes the flames. If he must walk the fires of damnation-

   RHHHHHSSSssm!

   . . . never . . . not ever . . . love like that. "Such a lovely . . . thought . . ." Megaera's voice is ragged.

   Creslin can feel her unsteadiness, can sense the feeling of loss. He forces himself to take another step.

   RRRhhhsstt!

   Fires course through his arteries, through his arms and legs, and his eyes see only flares of energy. His arm breaks his fall against the boulder, and the sheer physical pain is almost a relief. A hissing escapes his lips. But he steps to within an arm's length of where she sits.

   Her legs are pressed against the pale gray stone, the once-black stone now bleached by sun and sea until it no longer matches the black of the cliff from which time and the sea have riven it.

   "Look ... at your . . . arms."

   Creslin does not look, knowing that they must be as red as though he had thrust them into a hearth. Instead, he lurches forward and grasps her elbows, fumbling but dragging her arms down until his fingers twine around her wrists.

   RHHHssn!

   . . . save me ...

   Someone moans, but Creslin cannot tell which of them it is. He wraps his arms around Megaera. She slides off the boulder, and he staggers backward in the sand that captures his boots. His heels dig in with the force of his and her weight.

   "Sssss . . ."

   A different kind of pain lances through his shoulder where her teeth bite into the muscle. He twists his body to escape.

   "You . . . bound me ... like no one . . . ever bound ..." Her knee jabs into his thigh, seeking his groin and barely missing as he moves.

   . . . not be a slave . . . not even to you . . .

   "I bound . . . myself . . . same way." His gasping words match hers.

   "Different. You chose . . . I didn't." That was different. You chose to bind yourself to me. / didn't choose to be bound to you.

   Ice runs through his veins as the words chill him, words both spoken and echoing through his brain, and he drops away from her. He steps back, staggering, then stands beside the sea-smoothed gray boulder.

   "You chose to bind yourself to me. I didn't choose to be bound to you." The words spin through his thoughts. You chose . . . I didn't. You chose . . . I didn't . . .

   The waves ebb and flow. White birds wheel on wing tip as they cut the air above Creslin, and the sea pours across the sands, slipping around his boots.

   He cannot see for the burning in his eyes, for the tears that streak his face. He cannot speak, for there are no words left to say. For Megaera is right. Megaera is right.

   . . . right, right, right . . .

   Binding himself to her was yet another act of violence, another kind of rape, an invasion of her innermost feelings.

   His feet drag as he stumbles to the other end of the rock. He cannot see, but he does not need to. He has nowhere to go. Seabirds dive into the foam down the beach from where he stands frozen, and the sea whispers onto the sands.

   Megaera is right, and he has no words, and no answers.

   Go ... don't know what I want. Don't want you to stay . . . don't want you to go . . . damn you . . . damn you!

   Creslin cannot speak, nor can he leave. Nor can he see beyond the blurriness that clouds his eyes.

   Even as she has fought him, she has never struck at him other than to escape, as might a caged animal or a prisoner lash out. The flames were thrown to punish herself, and the physical struggle was but to escape, not to attack.

   He swallows, looking out at the sullen swells, knowing that he will never again see the ice spire that is Freyja, save in his mind, nor touch the woman he has loved too well and never touched, yet assaulted all too familiarly.

   White water foams in, flowing toward his boots, not quite reaching him, just as he has never quite reached understanding-or Megaera. Above, the gold-shrouded sun seems to retreat into the hazy, high clouds. The cool flow of air off the water does nothing to calm the burning of his arms and soul.

   He does not look at Megaera, who stares as though frozen at the sea.

   In time, Creslin begins to sing, for what else is there? He can say nothing, nor can he hold her, nor can he take back the pain that he has inflicted on her. Yet he must do something, and the song is old.

 

   . . . down by the seashore,

   where the waters foam white,

   hang your head over;

   hear the wind's flight.

   The east wind loves sunshine,

   and the west wind loves night.

   The north blows alone, dear,

   and I fear the light.

   You've taken my heart, dear,

   beyond the winds' night.

   The fires you have kindled

   last longer than light.

   . . . last longer than light, dear, when the waters foam white;

   hang your head over; hear the wind's flight.

   The fires you have kindled

   will last out my night.

   Soon I will die, dear,

   on the mountains' cold height.

   The steel wind blows truth, dear,

   beyond my blade's might.

   . . . beyond my blade's might, dear, where the waters foam white;

   hang your head over; hear the wind's flight.

 

   I told you the truth, dear,

   right from the start.

   I wanted your love, dear,

   with all of my heart.

   Sometimes you hurt me,

   and sometimes we fought,

   but now that you've left me,

   my life's been for naught.

   My life's been for naught, dear, when the waters foam white;

   so hand your head over, and hear the wind's flight.

   So hang your head over, and hear the wind's flight.

 

   After the song, Creslin is silent. His hands remain knotted around the bleached gray stone.

   How long he stands there, he does not know, and though the clouds thicken above, he has not called the winds. Nor has Megaera, although he knows now that she could, for she knows all that he knows, and more.

   "No . . . there is one thing I don't know." Her voice is soft, but he does not move.

   Finally he swallows. He does not ask the question, hoping only that she will answer.

   "Why you never struck back at me."

   "Because . . ." Because you love me . . .

   He nods. Impossibly, unwisely, he loves Megaera. And he can never touch her, never even hold her.

   "You may hold me, best-beloved."

   . . . best-beloved ...     ^

   Creslin is not aware that she has moved until she stands beside him.

   Why?

   Because you love me. And because I could love no other. Sister dear, damn and praise her soul, was right.

   "You deserve to love someone, not just to be loved." The words are hard, for he knows that he may be pushing her away, but he must be fair, no matter what it may cost. Especially now, for he has not been fair, though he thought he had been.

   "Hold me. Please." . . . always fight you . . . but you know that already. Hold me . . .

   He turns toward her, and there is a lump in his throat. He cannot see past the rekindled burning in his eyes.

   "Are you sure?"

   This time she is the one to say nothing, but her arms go around his neck, and her head is on his shoulder, and her silent sobs rack them both.

   So hard to love . . . "Just keep . . . holding me." The words come like sobs themselves. . . . keep holding me ...

   "Always ..."

   Always . . .

   The sea hisses, and the waves ebb and flow.

   In time, a man and a woman walk northeast along the white beach toward the towers of the sunset. Neither speaks as they are enfolded in the blackness that only they and few others can see. A single ray of sunlight strikes the sand before them, then retreats from their oncoming steps.

   The storms in the western sky dwarf the towers of the sunset. Holding those towers in their place, the storms form a black arch toward which the two walk, soul in soul, hand in hand.

 

 

PART III - ORDER-MASTER

 

 

C

 

CRESLIN TRUDGES UP the sandy slope under the makeshift yoke balanced by a bucket of saltwater at each end. This is his second trip, though the sun has barely cleared the Eastern Ocean.

   He eases the yoke down until the buckets rest on the black stone pavement and stands by one bucket, concentrating. The water swirls, and a pile of dirty white grains appears on the stones beside the wooden bucket. After repeating the process with the second bucket, Creslin pours the now-fresh water into the stone tank and replaces the cover.

   "Creslin?" Creslin . . . you idiot . . .

   He sets the yoke and buckets inside the storage alcove and walks to the terrace, where Megaera waits, wearing a faded thin shift.

   "You know, that's not exactly effective."

   "Oh?" He wipes his forehead, looking over her shoulder. Heat waves, like half-visible black snakes, already undulate over the browned hills to the west of the Black Holding.

   Megaera smiles. "Can't you let someone else carry the water?"

   "Habit ..."

   "But you're the only one who can separate the salt out."

   "You can, and so can Klerris and Lydya."

   "Fine." Exasperation edges her voice. "It's work desalting the water. That's something only a few of us can do. Can't you understand? Let somebody else do the manual work. You have to do the things that only you can do."

   "Like rule?"

   "That was unfair, best-beloved."

   "You're right. But in some ways, I'm not cut out to be a ruler, to watch Other people work. It's hard to sit here and watch the sun burn everything up. It's hard to wait for ships to arrive-"

   "That's not what I said." Idiot!

   A white flamelet sparks from the unseen blackness that now enfolds her, a stubborn remnant of chaos triggered by anger. "You equate manual effort with work. They're not the same. You know that. Being a ruler means working with your mind, not with your body. You can do it. But whenever you get frustrated, you start going back to the physical."

   "But I'm not frustrated," he mock-pleads.

   "You are frustrated. You just said so."

   "All right. I am frustrated. The inn is almost finished, but we have no visitors to use it. The crops are in the fields, but we don't have enough water and they're dying. The pearapples are dropping fruit because they're too dry. I'm tired of eating fish, and so is everyone else. Lydya tells me that we won't have any spices until fall, if then. If I carry water, at least there is some result. What am I supposed to do? Wait until the sun bakes us into cinders?"

   "You're the one who brought us here."

   Creslin glances from the browning hills to the almost unnoticeable swells of the Eastern Ocean. In every direction he looks, he can see heat waves forming, dancing across hilltops and dusty, sandy ground, across the dry, green brush that is all that seems to thrive in the heat, and even across the beaches that contain the Eastern Ocean. Overhead, the sun blisters its way through a cloudless sky.

   "You're right. I'll just bring enough water for us from now on."

   "I can carry some water."

   He returns her smile.

   "And you should eat before you wash up."

   He turns his hands upward in mock helplessness but walks up onto the stones of the terrace and sits on the wall. A loaf of brown bread and two pearapples rest on a plate on the wall between them. So do two mugs of redberry.

   "You planned this," he comments.

   "You need something before you go to work on the ship."

   "Ship?"

   "You said you were going to meet that Hamorian ..."

   "Oh . . ."

   "Don't tell me you forgot?"

   Creslin nods, sheepishly.

   Megaera grins. "I don't believe it. You actually forgot."

   He breaks off a corner of the tough, hard bread, scattering dark crumbs across the black stone. Bread in hand, he sips the redberry. "What are you doing today?"

   "We're going to try for glass for goblets. That's harder than what we did for windows, but Lydya says there's a market for goblets in Nordla."

   He crunches the dry bread, sipping from the mug to help moisten both crust and mouth.

   "As you have pointed out, best-beloved, we need as many markets as we can develop."

   "We also need ships in which to carry the goods," he mumbles through another mouthful of hard bread.

   Megaera nods.

   When he has finished eating, he stands, bends over, and reaches for the platter.

   "I'll take it. You need to get to the wreck."

   "Ship ... I hope."

   "Whatever." She stands, gives him a quick hug and breaks away before he can prolong the gesture, scooping up the platter and mugs as she leaves. She stops by the doorway. "Will you be at the keep later?"

   "If you will be." He tries to leer at her.

   Megaera shakes her head. Beast . . .

   Not quite certain of the tone of that thought, Creslin shrugs, but she has gone"inside. He heads for the wash-house.

   Before long he is on the beach where the Hamorian ship rests; he is accompanied by a stocky man in shorts and a sleeveless tunic.

   "She's wedged pretty tight, ser."

   Creslin walks up from the water's edge, his eyes traveling the schooner's hull planks, until he reaches the bow, half-buried in the soft white sand. "How deep is the keel, or whatever it's called?"

   Byrem frowns. "Maybe four, five cubits."

   Creslin shakes his head.

   "That's the easy part, ser. Stem's narrow, and she's not weighted fore. Most of the weight's midships." The Hamorian wipes his forehead. "Couldn't you call a storm, get her off the same way . . . same way she got here?"

   "If I call a storm, the waves will just push the ship farther onto the beach, no matter which way the winds blow, unless ..." Creslin walks back down toward the water's edge, using the back of his forearm to blot away the sweat that threatens to run into his eyes.

   The stem remains in the water, although the depth around the rudder is less than two cubits. He looks at the rudder, then pulls off his boots and wades into the warm, gently lapping water. After a time of tracing the hull lines, he splashes from the water toward the small bronzed man.

   "Byrem ... are there any usable sails?"

   "There's an old mainsail in the locker, and some topsails. The mainsail probably won't last long in a blow. The others probably wouldn't-you can't sail her off sand, can you?"

   Creslin shakes his head. "No. But I have an idea. When is the tide going to be at high?"

   "That's only a half a cubit difference."

   Creslin waits.

   "Around midday. That's if the storms don't change things. Tides don't matter as much as the high storms."

   "Do we want storms or not?" Byrem frowns, then looks at Creslin. "I don't think so. You'd get too much chop coming onshore. Quiet noon would be the best time to pull her off. There's no place to anchor a pulley or a pivot. That'd make it easier to pull her."

   "We'll work out something." Creslin steps into the narrow shadow cast by the ship and begins to brush the sand off his bare feet. "Something ..."

 

 

CI

 

THE HEAVYSET WHITE Wizard fingers the chain and amulet around his neck, then releases them and studies the mirror on the table, which shows browning meadows, dusty, drooping trees, and an empty road leading to a black keep.

   "Jenred was too pessimistic. He forgot about the summer."

   "Perhaps, Hartor. Perhaps. But Creslin is a Storm Wizard. What if he brings rain to Reduce?" The white-haired but young-faced man sitting in the second chair watches as the mirror blanks.

   "He probably could," admits the High Wizard. "But one rainstorm will buy only a few eight-days and will just make things worse. The one that destroyed the Hamorian raiders encouraged Recluce's fields and orchards to leaf out too much for the hot weather that followed. Now look at them."

   "What if he decides to do more than that?"

   "Gyretis, do you think he could actually change the world's weather? That's a bit much even for Creslin."

   "With Klerris and Lydya advising him, and by drawing on ... his mate ..."

   "I see that her conversion doesn't set well with you, either."

   "I didn't think it was possible," Gyretis responds, "but that's not the question. He's continually done more than we thought possible. What happens if he does it again?"

   Hartor frowns. "If he sends rain to Reduce, it's going to be hotter and drier elsewhere in Candar."

   Gyretis stands. "You've inherited this mess, but you'd better not make the same mistakes Jenred did. The council won't be nearly so understanding."

   "I know, I know. I just have to figure out how to isolate them on Reduce, even if he does get his rain."

   Gyretis pauses by the tower door. "You don't want to try a direct attack?"

   "Would you?"

   "Hardly, unless things change. But that's your job ... to figure out how to change things. Good day."

   The latest of the High Wizards walks toward the window, noting absently that the walls again show the stress of the forces swirling within the tower. Time for the Blacks, one of those left, to reorder the stones once again.

   That will be simple enough compared to his problem: How can he remove Creslin's ties to Westwind and Sarronnyn, and to Montgren as well? Without the support of those lands, Creslin will have a hard time just to survive. Hartor frowns again, his fingers stroking the amulet all the while.

 

 

CII

 

"THE MAIN TIMBERS are as strong as I can make them. So is the sail, but there's only so much I can do there."

   "That's all I can ask." Creslin walks down the powdery sand in the mid-morning glare. Not for the first time, he wishes for the chill of the Westhorns, or even for the temperate clime of Montgren.

   Klerris matches him stride for stride.

   The beached schooner now rests in a small lake surrounded by piles of sand. Nearly two-score men, most of them Hamorian prisoners, stand on the sand. Two hawsers are connected midships, one on each side of the ship, and stretch across the water in which the schooner rests.

   Byrem, still wearing ragged shorts and tunic, steps forward. "She's wobbly on the sand but still hard aground. It'd be dangerous to dig more."

   "We'll just have to try." Creslin lets his senses enfold the schooner. Can he and the winds even nudge that solidity?

   "Let us know." Byrem glances from the two wizards to the men standing by the hawsers.

   "How tough is that sail?" Creslin asks.

   "She'll take a strong, steady blow. Shifting winds, gusts-things like that will rip her pretty quick."

   Creslin reaches for the skies, trying to bring down the trade winds, not the ice winds of winter, which lurk even higher in blue-green depths overhead.

   "Get your men ready. He's starting to call the winds." Klerris gestures toward Creslin.

   "Take up the lines. The lines!" Byrem's tenor voice rises over the soft sounds of the low surf.

   Before long, the gray canvas is billowing seaward, but the schooner does not move.

   "Heave now . . . heave now ..."

   The ship remains mired in the sand-circled water.

   Creslin takes a deep breath and draws in more of the higher winds, twisting them into a directed force that is becoming a small storm. He tries to focus them on the single square of canvas.

   "Heave . . . heave ..." Byrem leads the chant.

   Backs bend, muscles tighten, and the wind rises.

   "... heave . . . heave ..."

   The ship wobbles in the sand, leaning to the left as the patched mainsail's taut curve strains seaward.

   Whhupppp . . . creaakkkk . . .

   "... heave . . . heave ..." Another shiver grips the hull, and the water around the schooner rises into a chop.

   Standing beside Creslin, Klerris concentrates, and a darkness wells from him.

   "... heave ..." Byrem's voice is a lash across the men on the ropes.

   Whuuppp . . . cracckkk. Even as the large sail splits with a thunderclap, the schooner gives a last shudder and slides seaward, seemingly gaining speed as she enters the Eastern Ocean.

   A cheer rises from the Hamorians and the keep troopers.

   Klerris staggers. Creslin puts out an arm. "What did you do?"

   "Just added a little slipperiness to the sand."

   "I should have thought of that."

   "You can't think of everything, young Creslin," snaps the Black mage. "Leave me some pride."

   "Sorry. I didn't mean it that way." Creslin wipes his forehead, although the wind has dried most of the sweat there and the dry clouds block the worst of the heat. The thundercaps are already beginning to break, and there is no rain.

   Both wizards turn and watch as Byrem continues to bark orders from the helm of the schooner wallowing seaward on her two remaining small sails.

 

 

CIII

 

CRESLIN LOOKS OUT from the terrace across the flatness of the Eastern Ocean, dull in the gray light before dawn. In the motionless air, he can smell his own sweat from the restless, hot night.

   Megaera sleeps, for now; the gray sky turns pink, and Creslin thinks about the dried-up and drying springs, and about what Klerris once tried to teach him about the weather.

   Megaera finds him still on the terrace wall long after the sun has cleared the sullen dark green of the ocean. Her hands touch his bare shoulders, and her lips the back of his neck.

   "Thank you."

   "No thanks, best-beloved. You just sat here so you wouldn't wake me, didn't you?"

   Creslin nods as she sits beside him in the familiar faded and thin blue shift. "I hoped that one of us could sleep."

   "The hot weather's hard on you."

   "I miss the Roof of the World a lot more when it gets this hot."

   "Lydya thinks it will get hotter."

   "I can hardly wait." He rums, easing an arm around her waist and squeezing, then releasing. The soft scent of Megaera fills him for an instant, and his eyes water.

   "... flattering me . . . it's morning, and I'm just as sweaty as you are ..."

   But her hand takes his, and they watch the ocean for a time.

   Finally, he speaks again. "We can't survive if this keeps up."

   "The heat?"

   "It's the dryness. There's another score or more of refugees camped by the keep. This bunch is from Lydya. One of us is going to have to desalt more water. The pearapples are turning brown."

   "Lydya says that's because the water for the fields used to flow under the orchards."

   "No matter what we try, we get stopped by the lack of water. We need food. If we irrigate the fields, the orchards die. And with all the new people, we can't buy enough food." Half of the heavy links on his gold chain are already gone, and it is but early summer.

   "You have something in mind?"

   "Changing the weather."

   "That's not a good idea." . . . terrible idea!

   He rubs his forehead at the violence of her thoughts, and she blushes as she feels his discomfort. "I'm sorry. This still takes getting used to," she explains.

   "Not all of it," he says, thinking of one aspect of the night before, flushing as he does.

   Her embarrassment matches his. Then they laugh- together.

   "Sometimes ..."

   "... you ..."

   A few moments later, Megaera speaks. "Will you at least talk to Klerris before you try anything with the weather?"

   "I will." He can feel her start to stand.

   "Let's get dressed."

   "Do you want to talk to him this morning?" she asks.

   "Why not? If I'm right, we should get started. If I'm not, somehow, I need-we need-to look for another answer."

   In time, somewhat cleaner from the water that Creslin has lugged up once again from the beach, they make their way to a small cot in Land's End. Both are sweat-streaked and dusty by the time they arrive.

   "So much for cleanliness. We ought to think about adding a stable," Megaera suggests.

   "It's hard to stay clean when it's either too hot or too cold." Creslin glances at the cot door. "Klerris is expecting us."

   The Black mage stands in the doorway of the one-time fisher's cot that has been expanded into a comfortable bungalow, with even a covered porch to catch the cooler breezes off the harbor. "You're here early. Shierra and Hyel weren't expecting you until later."

   "We're here for a different reason. I want to talk to you about changing the weather. Megaera feels that no matter how bad things are, trying to make Reduce wetter on a permanent basis would just make things worse."

   Klerris motions them toward the porch. "That's really almost a theoretical question, and I thought you weren't fond of theory."

   "Theoretical?"

   "Well," Klerris smiles, "until you appeared, no one was ever strong enough to think about it. So why didn't you just go ahead and do it?"

   "Megaera convinced me otherwise." Creslin steps out onto the porch and stands facing the light sea breeze.

   Megaera glances from him to Klerris and back. "There's something he's not telling us." Her right eyebrow lifts for an instant.

   "I'm sure there is." Klerris wanders to the corner of the porch, then turns. "Since you are here, you obviously have a reason-"

   . . . doesn't he always?

   "You're both right," Creslin tells them. "We need cool weather, and we need rain. I can call the ice winds, but I feel that to get them here-now-would bring so much destruction that the orchards and crops would be ribbons before the kind of rain we need would fall."

   . . . at least he asked . . .

   "Would you please-?"

   This time Megaera is the one to blush. "Sorry. I still forget."

   "That's because you use force in the wrong places." Klerris takes one of the rough wooden chairs. "Sit down. This is going to take a while."

   Megaera eases into one of the chairs, while Creslin sits on the stone wall at the back of the porch, where he can see Klerris, Megaera, and the harbor-vacant once more except for the waterlogged fishing boat.

   "Think of a lever," Klerris says. "If your lever is short and you have a boulder to move, it takes a lot of force on the lever, and the movement, if it happens at all, happens right then. A longer lever takes much less force, but you have to move the lever farther. Working with weather is similar if you think of the lever's length and movement as distance and time. When you built the storm that destroyed the Hamorian raiders, you used brute force immediately-"

   "I didn't have much choice."

   "Don't be quite so sensitive." Klerris shakes his head. "That isn't the point. Had you been able to predict when the Hamorians were about to arrive, you could have reached farther away, days earlier, and shifted a few winds slightly in order to create a storm front that would have been much easier to tap-" \

   "But how do you know which winds to change and how?"

   "If," Klerris takes a deep breath, "you wish to listen, I would be happy to explain. You may recall, I wanted to tell you this some time ago, but you didn't seem interested."

   "I was seasick at the time," Creslin answers dryly.

   Megaera looks at him.

   "Sorry . . . you're right. I could have asked later."

   "Before we get started, and this will take some time, would you like something to drink?"

   Creslin nods and stands. "Where-"

   "I'll get it," Megaera interrupts. "You can tell Creslin the background information you've already told me."

   Creslin does not sigh. Once again Megaera has shown that he needs to think ahead more clearly. He takes the other chair, sits down, and turns toward Klerris.

 

 

CIV

 

"YOU'LL TAKE CARE of the details?" asks the Duke as the black-haired woman lifts the cup to his lips. He struggles upright against the pillows.

   "Of course, of course." The woman touches his feverish brow with her free hand. "I know how you worry."

   "... feels good . . ." he mumbles between sips.

   "Drink some more. It's good for you."

   "Tastes terrible . . . hand feels good."

   Helisse lifts the cup from his lips, suppressing a frown.

   "Can't keep going like this. Every time it's worse. Don't know what I'd do without you." The words are followed by a ragged series of gasps. "So hot ... so dry ..."

   "They say that's because of the Black magic on Reduce. They've stolen the rain." Helisse sets the cup on the table next to the high bed.

   "Don't believe it," gasps the Duke. "Year started hot. More rain when Creslin was here . . . any time last year. Make sure the pay chest goes on the next shipment."

   "I understand, dear man. I understand." Helisse lays a hand on his sweating forehead again. "But you need to rest."

   "Rest, rest. It's all I do."

   After a time, Helisse removes her hand. A shimmer of reddish-white lingers at her fingertips. His eyes closed, the Duke coughs raggedly.

   "Sleep softly, dear man. Sleep softly."

   She turns to the girl seated on the stool by the window. "Call for me if he needs anything. They know where to find me."

   "Yes, mistress."

   The Duke coughs again, but Helisse does not turn as she departs his sickroom, only nodding at the pair of guards in the corridor outside.

 

 

CV

 

FROM THE TERRACE southward, the dry plateau stretches into the dusty horizon. Before long, heat devils will appear. Out on the Eastern Ocean, its swells low and flat, the water barely laps at the beaches below the terrace.

   Creslin glances at the buckets and the yoke. Today will be another long day of desalting water for the keep and the handful of refugees at Land's End. Should he even bother to wash up? Megaera has said that he should not do so much manual labor, and lugging water is certainly a labor.

   "Creslin?" Megaera's voice is soft as she stands in the morning light just outside the doorway from the hallway, barefoot and in her thin shift. He wonders what she wants.

   "Is it that obvious?" She twists her face into a grimace. . . damn you . . . But the feeling is not edged, only regretful.

   "Sorry," he says. "The Griffin will land tomorrow."

   "And?"

   "Aldonya and Lynnya will be on board."

   "You want them to stay here?" "I promised." "Which guest house?" "You don't-thank you."

   The arms around him are more than worth the inconvenience that may follow. He slips an arm inside the .shift and around her naked back.

   "Creslin ..." No! Not now . . . With a last squeeze and more than a slight wandering of his hand, he releases her.

   "You-" . . . take too many liberties . . . always haw , . . "-always have one thing on your mind."

   "Not always. Just when I'm around you." She shakes her head and straightens her shift, not meeting his eyes.

   "Anyway . . ." Creslin says to break the silence and to change the unspoken subject on his mind, ". . . I know that you've worried about Aldonya."

   "She'll be pleased." Megaera's smile lifts some of his fear.

   "I know she'll be pleased to see you . . . she's very loyal. But will she be pleased to see me?"

   "Of course. She once told me that you're good at heart."

   "But do you believe her?"

   "Of course not. You still haven't changed that much, best-beloved."

   Beneath the banter, the anxieties bounce back and forth.

   Why does she still . . .

   . . . can't he see?

   . . . never meant that, and she knows it . . . love her . . . never hurt . . .

   Creslin wipes his suddenly damp forehead, swallowing, looking down at the terrace stones, concentrating on their shape, pushing away mental images of Megaera.

   "Best-beloved?"

   He looks up.

   Tears streak her cheeks, a hint of the fine red dust that settles everywhere muddying her clear skin. "I didn't mean . . . just hold me."

   Creslin wraps his arms around her and does not think. Nor does she. In this, or in much else, they can scarcely deceive each other.

   She lets him be the one to break away. "I'm going to get some water, just for us," he tells her.

   "What are you doing today?"

   "Looking for another well. Klerris says there's water somewhere beyond the high fields." He shrugs. "It's better than watching the island dry up and blow away. How about you?"

   "More blade practice, then some glasswork. Avalari's done a goblet, and it's pretty good. I still can't get the mixtures right all the time. Some of the glass cracks."

   "But-"

   "I know. I could bind it with order, but that's not the point."

   Creslin agrees. Neither of them can do everything, but it's hard for them to realize it sometimes. He crosses the terrace and hoists the yoke. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

 

 

CVI

 

CRESLIN SQUINTS AGAINST the glare of the sun. Behind him, on the eastern side of the pier, is tied the newly named Dawnstar, her masts still bare of canvas. A half-dozen men work on the former Hamorian war schooner. At the shore end of the pier, a wagon and a cart wait. A few steps from him stands a squad-half trooper, half guard-waiting to help off-load the sloop.

   "She's heavy," offers Creslin as he watches the Griffin wallow toward the pier.

   "She is not," counters Megaera, her eyes on the dark-haired woman standing by the railing, an infant in a cradle-pack on her back.

   "I meant the ship."

   "Sometimes you're just too serious." Megaera grins at him.

   He shakes his head, then grins back at her. They wait as the Griffin is moored to the stone bollard.

   Freigr acknowledges their presence on the pier with a half-salute, but he remains by the helm as the sail is furled and the gangway lowered.

   Aldonya is the first off the sloop, nearly running down the plank despite the child on her back. She kneels at Megaera's feet. "Your grace ..."

   Taking her hand, Megaera helps her rise.

   ". . . it is so good to be here!" Aldonya breathes.

   Creslin and Megaera consider the black-walled keep, the heat-browned hills, and the heat waves that ripple off the hillside, then look at each other before looking back at Aldonya.

   Megaera raises an eyebrow. "I appreciate the sentiment, Aldonya, but this is not exactly paradise."

   "Oh, but it is, your grace. Living in Montgren was-but I should not complain, the Duke was so kind, when he was not ill."

   "Go on," Creslin prompts gently.

   "Waaaa ..."

   Aldonya slips out of the harness and cradles the red-haired infant, rocking her. "Now, now . . . we're home. No more traveling, little Lynnya. No more traveling . . ."

   Megaera smiles, and her smile warms Creslin. Then she flushes as she feels his pleasure. "You're impossible," she whispers.

   Aldonya looks up from the wide-eyed baby. "I told you that he's good at heart."

   Megaera flushes even redder.

   "About Montgren ..." Creslin prompts, as much to rescue Megaera as to hear what Aldonya had begun to say.

   "Oh ... it was like living under a storm. I mean-" her shoulders shrug even as she opens her blouse and lifts the child to her breast "-there is a storm coming, and there will be trouble, and everyone knows this, and no one will say anything. It was so sad, and I am so glad to be here."

   As she talks, Synder leads a chestnut mare off the Griffin. The squad forms a chain up the gangplank and onto the ship. A heavy cask is passed along the chain and set upon the pier stones, then another cask, and a third.

   "It is good to see that you are happy. Lynnya and I will be happy with you."

   "Do you have any baggage?" Creslin asks.

   "Oh ... I forgot. Many things." Aldonya grins at them. "Perhaps some . . . anyway ..."

   "Your graces?" interrupts Freigr, standing halfway down the gangway.

   "Why don't you talk to Freigr?" Megaera suggests.

   "You'll take care of Aldonya?" asks Creslin.

   "I'll see you at the keep later, after she's settled." Megaera pauses. "I arranged for the horses. We do need some stalls or a stable at the holding."

   "With Aldonya ... I suppose so."

   "The Hamorian stoneworkers are through with the addition to the inn."

   "Fine. See if Klerris . . . someone . . . will rough out plans for the stable."

   "You can still walk to the keep if you want the exercise." . . . stiff-necked . . .

   He supposes he is, but he turns, and after easing past the guards and troopers still unloading the Griffin, he steps aboard the ship.

   "Greetings."

   "Same to you, your grace." Freigr is standing by the helm.

   Creslin waves away the honorific.

   Freigr looks across the pier at the bare-masted schooner. "You've done a good job with her."

   "I can't say that I've had much to do with it. Byrem-he used to be a Nordlan mate, before the Hamorians captured him-has been handling the Dawnstar's refitting. He tells us what he needs, and I try to figure out how to get it." Creslin eyes the Griffin's captain. "You interested in recruiting?"

   "Don't you have enough here, with the Hamorians and some of the refugees?"

   "Close enough, if either you or Gossel want to captain her, assuming that Korweil won't mind. But that's not the problem."

   "Korweil doesn't own either one of us." Freigr laughs. "You keep thinking about the problems that haven't reached you. Most of them won't."

   "If we get another ship, we'll need a crew."

   "You haven't finished that one."

   Creslin looks at the Dawnstar. "If we're going to make it here on Reduce, we'll need more ships. I'll have to figure out a way to get them, even if it means stealing them from the White Wizards."

   "That won't exactly make them happy."

   "Has anything? Do you really think they'll let us build up Reduce without trying something else?"

   Freigr pulls at his chin. "Can't say as I'd thought about it one way or another. After you did in the Hamorians, do you think they'd want to risk any of their own ships?"

   Creslin steps to the railing, looking northward into the nearly flat green sea. "They don't have to. We can't grow enough food yet, and it will be a few years before we have enough sheep. Already you can't supply what we need, and Korweil won't let the Hypogrif cross the northern waters."

   "I wouldn't either," snorts Freigr. "Not enough freeboard, or a solid enough keel. She'd go over in any sort of blow."

   "I'm paying twice what I should-"

   "About the dried-I meant to ..."

   Creslin groans. "The mutton was from the Duke, right?"

   "But the dried fruit came all the way from Kyphros. You insisted that the fruit was important."

   "You couldn't find any fruit from anyplace closer than Kyphros?"

   "Lucky to find that. It's been a dry year everywhere."

   "How much did it cost?"

   Freigr doesn't look at Creslin; instead, he digs out a slip of parchment. "I did the best I could."

   "I'll have the payment for you later today." Creslin swallows. More of the heavy gold links will go. Some of the fruit he can trade for fish or sea ducks. He looks at the Dawnstar, then at Freigr. "We need that canvas."

   "It should be ready by the next trip. But they want the gold in advance."

   "In advance?"

   The Griffin's master shrugs. "You know how many I had to talk to before anyone would agree to it."

   "You're saying that you won't get sails for the Dawnstar unless I show gold in advance." The graying master looks at the smooth planks underfoot. "I'd never make a free trader, but even Gossel couldn't get around it. And he was raised to it."

   "Nothing's ever as easy as you think it will be."

   "No, it's not. And it always takes longer." Then Freigr smiles. "At least you have a proper inn now. You going to sing tonight?"

   "Somehow I'm not much in the mood for singing."

   "Too bad. You'd have made it with the best of the minstrels, and you'd probably be happier."

   "Could be," admits the co-regent of Reduce. He straightens. "What else do I have to find a way to pay you for?"

   "Well, there are the tools ..."

 

 

CVII

 

"THERE WASN'T A pay chest." Hyel looks around the table. "And there was another taxation notice."

   "It came on the Griffin" Creslin explains. "But the notice doesn't change anything. What do we have to pay it with? Was there anything else? Any letters for Megaera or 'me?"

   Hyel shakes his head. "The notice was addressed to you as regents."

   "Korweil . . . even given ... I can't believe it," murmurs Megaera.

   Klerris glances from one regent to the other, purses his lips, then waits.

   "What about the cargo?" asks Shierra.

   "It's paid for," Creslin snaps. Paid for with gold links and his remaining coins-except for the Duke's mutton and the salted beef, the last of the provisions sent by Llyse.

   "Did you have to pay, since the ship is Korweil's?" Shierra's question is blunt.

   "Freigr's acting as a consignment agent. Even if the Duke made good the loss, would we get another shipment? Would anyone else trade with us?"

   "Oh."

   "Exactly. Until the Dawnstar is finished, and until the Griffin brings the canvas-that should be on the next trip-our choices are limited."

   "Limited?"

   "The traders know we don't have ships and that most Candarians won't trade with us. We don't buy enough to make it worthwhile for the Nordlans or the Bristans to make a special run-"

   "So they're gouging the darkness out of us?" assesses Hyel.

   "That's why we need the Dawnstar, and a few others as well."

   "We can't pay for one ship, let alone others."

   "We can't afford not to," snaps Creslin. "Sorry," he adds as a faint aching echoes across his skull and as Megaera rubs her forehead. Even his righteous frustration can hurt both of them.

   "How do you plan to get more ships?" asks Lydya.

   "I don't know."

   Both Megaera's sharp look and the tightness in his guts bear witness to the lie, but no one presses him. Still, he stands. "I'm heading out beyond the high fields. I need to see if we can find another spring."

   "What are we going to do about the pay chest we don't have?"

   "I'll tell everyone the truth-that they won't get paid, that we've been abandoned by Korweil. If they .trust us, I'll promise to make it up them when we can. Those who don't-" Creslin shrugs "-they can leave or go try to live off the land."

   "That's not much of a choice," presses Hyel.

   "I don't have any better to offer. I've spent almost everything I have on food and supplies. And I certainly didn't eat it all personally."

   "That's a little harsh." Megaera's voice is sharp.

   Creslin winces, not at the words, but at the feelings beneath them. He continues to stand, although he does not step toward the doorway.

   "Especially since they wouldn't be in this mess-"

   Creslin focuses on Hyel, and the thin officer breaks off his statement. "You are right," Creslin agrees. They wouldn't be in this mess now. It would have happened a year from now, and they'd all be dead for certain."

   "You don't know that for sure," Hyel retorts.

   Creslin turns and leaves the room, his ears ringing. His steps are quick as he takes the steps down to the main floor of the keep two at a time. Trying to ignore the sadness and anger that Megaera feels, he mounts the mare and urges her toward the high fields and the spring he will-must-find.

   "Damned fools. As if there were ever easy answers ..." But his guts twist as he rides.

 

 

CVIII

 

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

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

   "How? They can't return. They're bound to blame Korweil, and Korweil will resent them-"

   "That's one possibility."

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

   "When he changes the weather?"

   "You think he will?"

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

   "Then what?"

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

   "Then what?"

   "We'll see. We'll see." Hartor fingers the chain and amulet he wears around his neck.

 

 

CIX

 

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

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

   Megaera meets Creslin's eyes, but shrugs.

   "What are they?" he asks.

   "Quilla roots," answers Aldonya. "You should try them."

   "Quilla roots?"

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

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

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

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

   "You see, Lynnya? Your mother knows what she is doing ..."

   Megaera hastily follows Creslin's example.

   "Aren't there a lot of these in the high valley down the road?" Creslin asks.

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

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

   Megaera continues crunching the quilla root, finally swallowing. "It's chewy."

   "Tomorrow we're having a new kind of seaweed," announces Aldonya.

   "Then, again ..." mumbles Creslin.

   "It's really not bad, best-beloved."

   "The seaweed is good. I tried it," adds Aldonya.

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

 

 

CX

 

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

   "You're still going to do it, aren't you?" . . . beloved idiot . . . Megaera stands in the doorway.

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

   "That's different."

   "Because you're trying to hide the fact that you're going to try to switch the weather?"

   "Yes."

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

   "Probably not."

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

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

   "It could be Helisse who did that."

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

   "It's not that far."

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

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

   "Where is she?"

   "At the keep, silly." . . . likes privacy sometimes, too . . .

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

   "So much for belief in the Legend."

   "That was unfair."

   Megaera swallows. "I'm sorry."

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

   She takes the five heavy gold links.

   "That's what's left. That's all," he tells her.

   "The last Suthyan coaster's supplies . . . did they cost that much?"

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