The Towers Of the Sunset (18 page)

“RIGHT NOW THEY only pay lip service to the Balance, and they ignore the Legend totally.”

“Can we really believe the Legend?” asks the healer.

“Look at
Fairhaven, and the way things are heading. Then look at Sarronnyn, and tell me.”

“What about Westwind?” The healer purses her lips.

“The
Marshall’s almost as bad as the High Wizard. How Werlynn ever stood it… He loved her.” The man in black shakes his head. “And he went there only to do his duty. His son is a miracle, and we owe him that much.” He appraises the healer. “Are you willing to try to lift the memory block? It could be fatal if they discover your efforts.”

“They won’t. He has an injured foot. He’s been to see me once, and I have already started the process. He may be able to do the rest on his own. If not, I can stage it in a way that he looks out of his mind.”

“You wouldn’t use a Compulsion?” The sound of repugnance chokes his voice.

“I’m not that far gone, Klerris. He’s bright, very bright, and still struggling hard under that White prison. He can speak and understand, and that’s a wonder in itself. Next time they won’t catch him.”

“If he gets away…”

She looks down. “There’s no risk to us there. He either escapes or they kill him.”

For a time, both are silent. Finally she stands. “Do your best with the leg.”

“That’s easy enough, compared-”

She waves him off. “The Whites serve only chaos. If we don’t serve the Balance,‘twho will?”

“If we don’t serve the ^Balance, who will?” Her words ring in his mind long after he has mounted the steps and begun to repair a prisoner’s shattered leg under the watchful eyes of the road guard.

THE REDHEAD FIXES her eyes upon the mirror once again, ignoring the damp patches on her forehead and cheeks, and the hair matted with sweat.

On the dark oak-paneled wall two oil lamps burn steadily, flickering only when she casts her thoughts into the silvered depths before her.

“Damn you… damn…”

She senses the thinnest of threads… a touch of whiteness, smooth, and the swirl of winds beneath that barrier-her teeth bare in a fierce smile as she throws her energies along that thin line of sweat and blood.

Crack!

On the heavy oaken table, the mirror lies shattered. The lamps on the wall behind her are snuffed out.

Blood oozes from a cut on the redhead’s forearm, above the scar that circles her left wrist. Her head slumps onto her arms, tears and blood and glass mixing as shudders take her body.

“Damn… Creslin… and damn you, sister…” The words are low, nearly a hiss.

Behind her, the heavy door silently swings open. A short, slender man, dressed in green and gold, stands in the light from hall lamps bright enough to show his white-streaked red hair and the creases in his forehead.

He stares at the slumped figure, the shards of glass and the black lamps, and his mouth opens, then shuts. He makes a gesture of protection, steps backward into the hallway and closes the door as silently as when he entered.

Within, the shudders continue.

THE MAN WITHOUT a name limps into the wagon, his right foot bare and carrying a boot in one hand and a damp sock in the other. He ignores the road guard who has followed him back from the water trough.

“No more roaming around, not after dark,” growls the rail-thin night guard. Unlike the day guards, the night guards wear knives and swords. The white-red glow of both is clear to the limping silver-haired man.

“The healer said-”

“Before dark, silver-top. That’s it. You know the rules.”

The prisoner moves into the darkness of the bunk wagon, not that the darkness slows him, for he has found that he can perceive objects equally well in darkness or in light. And at night his eyes do not have to squint to block out the distracting brightness of the summer sun. Again, it seems to him as though he should know these things. He wants to know them, but his thoughts find nothing save a great void where there should be memories.

“… guards… hassling, hassling, hassling.” He hears the voices of the other prisoners in the wagon.

“It’s one of their cherished pleasures, Deiter. Wine, women, and song, you remember? No wine here. The only women are other guards, and they’re tougher than the men. And you know how the wizards feel about song.”

The nameless man sets his boot on the bottom of the top bunk and prepares to climb up. No women? What about the healer? And song? Blithe does not ask. There is too much he does not know. Finally he puts his foot on the edge of the bottom bunk.

“Careful there, silver-top.”

“Sorry.”

He climbs toward his bunk and the planked roof of the wagon, where he wiggles into the narrow space and removes his other boot. Then he attempts to stretch out and sleep. His muscles ache, though not nearly so greatly as when he remembers first carrying the stones.

Although the soreness in his heel has disappeared, the low whispers of the other prisoners persist, and sleep does not find him.

“A song…” hisses a voice.

The silver-haired man eases to the edge of the cramped bunk, looking down.

Redrick sits on the narrow space next to the bottom bunk of the opposite row, glances from one side of the wagon to the other, clears his throat softly, swallows, then looks toward the open doorway and the blackness beyond. Like three others in the wagon, he half sits, half leans, between the lower bunk and the narrow floor space that separates the twin row of pallets upon hard wooden frames.

“Go on… a song,” insists the older man with the hairless and tanned skull, the one with arms like small trees.

“A song?”

“A song.”

“Shhh…” hissing from a top bunk. That noise’ll have the wizards’ men back here as fast as storm bolts.“

The single lamp flickers in the wind that gusts through the doorless opening in the wagon.

“Shit…” The mutter comes from the bottom bunk, the lowest in the stack of three beneath the nameless man.

Redrick glances nervously toward the emptiness outside and clears his throat once more. Then, without strings, without flute, his thin voice, as clear as a mountain stream at dawn, creeps through the wagon, one note, one word, at a time.

Ask not the song to be sung, or the bell to be rung, or if my tale is done.

The answer is all-and none.

The answer is all-and none.

Oh, white was the color of my love, as bright and white as a dove, and white was he, as fair as she, who sundered my love from me…

Even in the flickering light of the lamp, the singer appears drawn, as though each word is a struggle against an unseen opponent, each note an arrow thrown against a white-red flame that seeks to consume it.

To the silver-haired man, those fragile notes climb like silver ghost-lights from the singer toward the flat plank roof of the wagon, lights more intense in their insubstantial glow than the yellow flame of the lamp itself. He extends a hand, cupping it around a single ordered vibration.

Tweet! Tweet!

Redrick’s voice falters, halts…

The note shatters into less than dust, and the nameless man stares blankly at the emptiness between his palm and his fingers, feeling tears welling in his eyes. Tears? For a fragment of nothing?

“So…” rumbles the gravelly voice of the road soldier. “Singing, is it? Such a happy little group here. And who was singing?” The white wand he carries twists toward the thin man with the reddish-blond hair. “You again? Still the troublemaker?” ‘t,

Redrick does not look at the soldier.

The wand jabs at the singer. “Move. The wizards want to see you. You know what they think about singing here.”

Slowly, Redrick slouches to his feet.

“Now, my fine singer!”

Before the silver-haired man can focus on what has happened, both singer and soldier are gone and the lamp flickers in the wind of their disappearance.

“Singing disrupts the road work…” The sotto-voce imitation is nearly inaudible, cruel and bitter in its mocking overtones.

No other voices rise in protest. None.

The silver-haired man wipes away his tears and turns his face to the wall, but the unsung words resound in his mind, their tones echoing in his ears.

… the answer is all-and none.

The answer is all-and none…

In the darkness of the wagon, long after the others have drifted into exhausted sleep, he lies awake, staring at the planks less than a cubit from his face. Through the blackness whisper the small sounds; the snores of exhausted men, the creaking of bunk frames as those men turn in their sleep, even the few murmurs of Hamorian as a foreign prisoner mutters into the depths of his dreams.

The nameless man’s muscles no longer ache as they did in the first days he worked on the road, and his pale skin has bronzed and toughened. But he has no name, no past save the whispers of voices within his skull, voices so faint that he cannot make out their words, barely comprehending that they are there. Only one thing does he recall clearly: the shadow with a woman’s face.

In time, he sleeps, dreaming about golden notes that glitter against gray stone walls and endless white snow.

Tweet! Tweet!

“Let’s go! Up and out!” The gravelly voice of the morning guard grates more harshly than normal.

Outside the bunk wagon, a faint drizzle fills the canyon, but even the mist bears the grit of crushed and shattered rock. So does the porridge ladled out to each road-work prisoner. Only the water is pure and cold, and the cold reminds him of falling white flakes, and of song.

The wooden bowl bounces off the rock underfoot, the porridge splattering across the stone. His eyes open, seeing not the fog and mist above, nor the prisoners around him, nor the guards behind him.

“NOOOooo!” The scream goes on and on, never ending, and the silver-haired man wonders why the guards do not do anything, even as he realizes that the tortured voice is his and that the guards are moving toward him in slow motion.

The cold and whiteness of his thoughts, the rushing images of…

-An endless expanse of snow beneath peaks that touch the sky

-Silvered notes shattering against gray granite walls

-Eating in green leathers at the high table

-Riding a narrow, stone-worked road…

He totters on wobbly legs, not lifting his hands to fend off the blows. The images are dispelled with the second blow and the rush of darkness it brings upon him.

When he wakes, he cannot move, for he is bound upon a table, and overhead, damp canvas sways in the wind.

Flip… plip… Droplets of water collect in the depressions of the tent above his head, some seeping through the worn fabric and falling onto the stone, others falling upon his half-bare body.

The dark-haired healer glances over at him, although her hands are dressing the gash in the arm of another prisoner, a thin, bald man who once was fat.

“That should do it. Try to keep it clean.” Her voice was flat, as if she knows that the dust and rock powder will infiltrate anything.

The silver-haired man closes his eyes, tries to keep his breathing regular.

“Is he ready?”

“This one? Yes.”

“What about silver-top?”

“His breathing is more regular, but until he wakes up, I can’t say. A second head injury isn’t good for anyone.”

“No loss. He didn’t even know who he was.”

“He may never know if you keep beating his skull.”

“He went nuts!”

“Did he strike anyone?”

“He started screaming ‘No!’ at the top of his lungs. Wouldn’t stop. The wizards were real upset. Gero had to crack him. They would have done worse.”

“I’ll let you know.”

The slooshing footstep sounds of the guard and the bald prisoner retreat.

“They’re gone.”

Her voice is almost on top of him, and he jumps. “Easy. I’m going to untie these.”

He relaxes, as much as he can, while moving his stiff arms out of the spread-eagled position where he has been restrained. His skull aches, more than his shoulders ever did.

“Don’t try to sit up yet.”

He opens his eyes slowly to see the healer studying his face, looking from one eye to another.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I… don’t know,” he mumbles, feeling the once-familiar tightening in his stomach. “Exactly…”he adds to relieve the tension.

She nods slowly. “You could probably go back to work tomorrow, but you will have to be very careful. You won’t see things exactly as you have, and the adjustment will be difficult.” Her eyes turn toward the opening in the front of the tent and follow the stone pavement stretching eastward. “There’s a beautiful valley five kays back toward Jellico. The wizards left it for a future inn or a resting spot. The stream leads up to where one could cross into the northern valleys of Certis on the way to
Sligo.”

Heavy steps sound in the rain outside.

“Let’s see those eyes again.”

“So silver-top is recovering?” The growling road guard stands just inside the tent.

“He’s still dizzy, but you didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. He might even recover, provided you let him rest today. He could have dizzy spells for several days. So if he sits down suddenly, it’s probably real.”

“How long will he be like that?”

“It might last for just a day. It might last for three or four. If he gets through three or four days, he’ll recover. There’s nothing broken, and I can’t do much more.”

“Fine! He can lie on his bunk as well as here. Let’s go, silver-top.”

The healer looks at the guard. “Not yet. He may not even be able to stand without getting dizzy.”

“I’ll be back.”

The drizzle of the morning has turned into a flood of water from unbroken gray skies. For the first time in days, if not longer, the odor of dust and rock has vanished.

“Try to sit up.”

He swings his feet over the side of the table. For an instant he feels as though he is two separate people, sitting side by side, yet together. Even the rain seems to fall in two separate patterns.

“Stand up.”

The urgency in her voice spurs him to his feet. She studies his eyes as he sways upright. His hand grasps the table to steady himself.

“You can sit down.” Her voice is flat again.

The guard steps into the tent, ducking under the sagging and damp canvas.

“He’s still unsteady, but there’s not much else I can do.”

The silver-haired man, for he now knows that it is dangerous even to admit he has a name, follows the guard through the rain to the bunk wagon, which is filled with the other prisoners.

“Silver-top’s back.”

“Must have a skull like armor. You see how hard Gero cracked him?”

He makes his way to the top bunk, gingerly, trying to ignore the single empty bunk once occupied by a singer. Soon the bunk will be filled with another hapless prisoner, but the song will remain unsung.

Escape… there is little time before the White Wizards will recognize him. While he knows what once he could do, he does not know his present abilities.

Light sears the canyon through the rain, followed by a roll of thunder. The rain continues to drum on the roof, with an occasional gust of wet air blowing into the doorless wagon.

In time, the throbbing of the lump on his skull subsides into a dull ache. He eases himself to the side of the bunk and begins to clamber down, his booted feet clumsy on the wood.

“… stay in your place.”

“… just silver-top.”

He says nothing, trying to keep a vacant expression on his face as he stumbles toward the doorway, where he halts, apparently staring out into the rain.

The old patterns reassert themselves, though each look sends a wave of agony through his eyes. The heaviest rain will continue, but not for long.

The bored guards stand under canvas, talking.

After a moment he lurches into the rain and begins to amble eastward, angling toward the incomplete wall that separates the raised roadway from the sunken drainage channel on the left.

“… silver-top. Crazier than ever.”

“… don’t do it!”

He is not crazy, but saner than in many eight-days, for only in the storm can he possibly escape the wizards.

“Gero! Get the idiot!”

The prisoner shuffles faster, heading toward the wall, and the torrent a good five cubits below.

The tall guard hesitates, then pulls his sword and moves after the silver-haired man, not at a full run, not on the rain-slicked stones.  ,

“Run! Run, silver-top!”

“Quiet!” snaps the other guard, the one who does not pursue.

Like a silent play, the action unfolds through the blurring of the falling torrents. The prisoner totters toward the edge of the uncompleted wall, momentarily staring at something below. The guard scurries forward, sword at the ready.

The wind whips a violent blast of air and water into the guard’s face, and he slows, shaking his head.