are near lost in the sunlit morning. Near lost, but not totally lost. Creslin begins to recall the darkness…
“… the Legend. Unfortunately, I am yours, and you do not even know me. Now, harsh wizard, though you try, never will you escape me, neither through purpose nor deed, for I am sealed to your soul . . •. and for that, you will pay.”
Who is she? How did she find him? And why will he pay? She had resisted-but not for long-and she had shared his bed.
He swallows, not quite believing that he could have forced himself on her… but had he?
He swings his feet onto the stone, recognizing that one reason he is not chill is that he wears his underclothes. He had worn underclothes to bed, taking to heart the innkeeper’s admonition that the nights in the Westhorns were cold, even with the inn’s fires stoked high. Yet he recalls warm skin on warm skin. Even in the empty room, alone, he flushes.
So why is he shivering as though the ice of the Westhorns has knifed through his heart? Megaera?
He shakes his head and stands, shuffling to the basin of cold water, where he splashes another kind of chill upon his face. Thinking about the natural hot baths at the other end of the inn, he stops, then purses his lips.
After a moment, when he looks out through the narrow window at the patterns of frost upon the grass in the field across the road from the inn, he continues his ablutions with the clean, cold water he had not used the night before.
After he dries his face and hands, he folds the towel over the wooden peg on the edge of the table and then unfolds the heavy leathers. By the second bell, he must meet Hylin and Derrild.
But his eyes flicker back to the pillow as he pulls on his boots, and his thoughts linger on a mirror, although he cannot say why.
XXI
IN CONTRAST TO the ice-rain and the gloom of the day before, the morning dawns bright and clear, the sun-thrusting its light through the sole gap in the eastern peaks of the Westhorns and thus through the narrow windows of the Cup and Bowl long before half the travelers have struggled awake.
In the stable, his breath steaming like the caldrons in the kitchen, Creslin studies the horse, taller and more fragile than the battle ponies of Westwind’s guards. Finally he touches the chestnut gelding’s shoulder, avoiding an old scar, and concentrates on reassuring the beast. In time, he checks the bridle and the rest of the fittings before beginning to saddle up.
“I never got your name… or what you’d be called if the name’s a problem.” Hylin watches but for a moment before saddling his own horse, a heavier and younger gray. “Derrild’ll be here ‘fore long.”
“I’ll be ready.” Creslin wears his sword in the shoulder harness, as he has been battle-trained, outlandish as it may appear to the easterners. Only on ceremonial occasions do the guards wear sword-belts. “Call me Creslin.”
“Creslin…” The thin man rolls the sound across his tongue. “Weren’t for that beard you had the other day, and that silver hair, you’d pass for one of those devil guards.”
“Devil guards?”
“You know. Haven’t you heard of them? Those women fighters off the Roof of the World. The ones that destroyed Jerliall two years ago.” The small man tightens the straps on a pack mule, then stacks the fitted bags onto the harness.
“Jerliall?” The name is unfamiliar, but then, Creslin realizes, there is so much he does not know.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
Creslin shakes his head.
“Stop the jabbering, and let’s get on the road.” Derrild’s voice is even thicker than on the day before. The trader jabs a heavy arm at Hylin and then toward the half-open stable door.
• In turn, Hylin turns toward the youth. “Give me a hand, would you, Creslin?”
Creslin skirts the gelding and begins to hand the cargo bags to Hylin one at a time as the trader wrestles another mule out into the yard and into cart traces.
Silently, Hylin
“… the Legend. Unfortunately, I am yours, and you do not even know me. Now, harsh wizard, though you try, never will you escape me, neither through purpose nor deed, for I am sealed to your soul . . •. and for that, you will pay.”
Who is she? How did she find him? And why will he pay? She had resisted-but not for long-and she had shared his bed.
He swallows, not quite believing that he could have forced himself on her… but had he?
He swings his feet onto the stone, recognizing that one reason he is not chill is that he wears his underclothes. He had worn underclothes to bed, taking to heart the innkeeper’s admonition that the nights in the Westhorns were cold, even with the inn’s fires stoked high. Yet he recalls warm skin on warm skin. Even in the empty room, alone, he flushes.
So why is he shivering as though the ice of the Westhorns has knifed through his heart? Megaera?
He shakes his head and stands, shuffling to the basin of cold water, where he splashes another kind of chill upon his face. Thinking about the natural hot baths at the other end of the inn, he stops, then purses his lips.
After a moment, when he looks out through the narrow window at the patterns of frost upon the grass in the field across the road from the inn, he continues his ablutions with the clean, cold water he had not used the night before.
After he dries his face and hands, he folds the towel over the wooden peg on the edge of the table and then unfolds the heavy leathers. By the second bell, he must meet Hylin and Derrild.
But his eyes flicker back to the pillow as he pulls on his boots, and his thoughts linger on a mirror, although he cannot say why.
XXI
IN CONTRAST TO the ice-rain and the gloom of the day before, the morning dawns bright and clear, the sun-thrusting its light through the sole gap in the eastern peaks of the Westhorns and thus through the narrow windows of the Cup and Bowl long before half the travelers have struggled awake.
In the stable, his breath steaming like the caldrons in the kitchen, Creslin studies the horse, taller and more fragile than the battle ponies of Westwind’s guards. Finally he touches the chestnut gelding’s shoulder, avoiding an old scar, and concentrates on reassuring the beast. In time, he checks the bridle and the rest of the fittings before beginning to saddle up.
“I never got your name… or what you’d be called if the name’s a problem.” Hylin watches but for a moment before saddling his own horse, a heavier and younger gray. “Derrild’ll be here ‘fore long.”
“I’ll be ready.” Creslin wears his sword in the shoulder harness, as he has been battle-trained, outlandish as it may appear to the easterners. Only on ceremonial occasions do the guards wear sword-belts. “Call me Creslin.”
“Creslin…” The thin man rolls the sound across his tongue. “Weren’t for that beard you had the other day, and that silver hair, you’d pass for one of those devil guards.”
“Devil guards?”
“You know. Haven’t you heard of them? Those women fighters off the Roof of the World. The ones that destroyed Jerliall two years ago.” The small man tightens the straps on a pack mule, then stacks the fitted bags onto the harness.
“Jerliall?” The name is unfamiliar, but then, Creslin realizes, there is so much he does not know.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
Creslin shakes his head.
“Stop the jabbering, and let’s get on the road.” Derrild’s voice is even thicker than on the day before. The trader jabs a heavy arm at Hylin and then toward the half-open stable door.
• In turn, Hylin turns toward the youth. “Give me a hand, would you, Creslin?”
Creslin skirts the gelding and begins to hand the cargo bags to Hylin one at a time as the trader wrestles another mule out into the yard and into cart traces.
Silently, Hylin
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