Modesitt, L.E. - Recluce 05 - The Towers of the Sunset

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The Towers Of the Sunset

by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

Recluce Book Two

Edited by David G. Hartwell

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10010

For Eva, and Susan,

For yet unforgotten memories,

and the lessons I should have learned,

and still have not.

PART I - BLADE-MASTER

CAN YOU SEE how the pieces fit together? Not just the visible ones, like the towers of the sunset,

but those unseen, like the heart of a man or the soul of a wizard.

Not that you will believe. Patterns work that way, for each individual is captured by her

patterns, even as she must reconcile them.

The lady named Megaera, if indeed merely that, sees all the patterns, yet for all she sees and

says, for all the truth in the Legend, logic and the towers fail. Logic indeed is a frail

structure to hold a reality that must encompass both order and chaos, especially when Black

supports order and White is the sign of chaos.

Even logic must fall to understanding, to those who can laugh at their chains and shatter chaos

and upend order, even more so than the so-called gods and those who call upon them. Or the Furies

that followed the fallen angels of Heaven.

Has there been a god in Candar? Did the angels in truth fall upon the Roof of the World? How

true is the Legend? The patterns supply no answers, but any story must start somewhere, even if

its beginning seems like the ending of another tale, or the middle of a third epic. And patterns

never tell the entire story, the order-masters and the chaos-masters notwithstanding.

As for the towers of the sunset . . .

Though the musician has seen them-the towers of the sunset-rearing above the needle peaks of

the west, who has dwelt there?

Another look and they are no more, just towering cumuli-nimbi, strafing the foothills with the

lashes of the gods. In the gold light of morning, the rivulets of ice would verify the anger of .

. . ?

What does a house tell of its builder? A sword of its owner? Or of those who stop to admire the

lines of each?

The musician smiles briefly. That is all he can do. That, and bring to music what his eyes have

seen, for he will sing to the Marshall of Westwind, ruler of the Roof of the World, about the

towers of the sunset.

Who else looks at the towers of the sunset? Who built them? The angels of Heaven? The musician

knows no answers except those of his music, and of his heart, which lies colder than the strings

of the guitar he bears with him.

Suffice it to say that the castle is called Westwind . . . founded by a long-dead captain:

Ryba, from the swift ships of Heaven.

Her many-time daughter's son-but that is the story to come.

"REMOVE WESTWIND's CONTROL of the Westhorns, and Sarronnyn and Suthya will fall like overripe

apples."

"If I recall correctly, that kind of thinking cost the prefect of Gallos most of his army."

"Light! We're not talking about arms." The skeletal man in white jabs a finger skyward, the

mouth in his young face smiling. "We are talking about love."

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"What does love have to do with removing Westwind?"

"I have sent Werlynn to Westwind. Do you not like the sound of that? Werlynn to Westwind?"

"But . . . how? Werlynn never comes here; his music ruins the work of the White brethren. What-

"That's the beauty of it. One little charm . . . to ensure that he will bring the Marshall a

son . . . first. And the charm was even order-based."

"You've never liked Werlynn, have you? Ever since-"

"That's not the question. The question is the Marshall. Just think-think-she is a woman. She

won't kill her firstborn, male or not, Legend or not."

"You seem certain of that. But she has no children, nor even a consort."

"Werlynn will see to that."

"Even if he does, that's a long time from now."

"We have time. The road is still not through the East-horns."

The other man shakes his head, but does not speak further.

III

THE GUITARIST STRUMS an ordered cadence, almost a march, so precise are the notes, so clear are

the tones. He does not sing.

A single look, underlined with a brief flare of light from the middle stone seat, the one

upholstered with the black cushion, stops the guitarist. He nods toward the woman. "Your pardon,

grace." His voice is as musical as the strings he plays, evoking a sense of dusky summer that has

yet to come to Westwind, even in the centuries since its construction.

"Perhaps you should consider a trip to Hydolar, or even to Fairhaven."

"Perhaps I should, if that is your wish." His eyes darken as he looks toward the boy.

In turn, the silver-haired toddler hanging on to the stone arm of the chair bearing the green

cushion glances from the silver-haired guitarist to the black-haired woman, and back again.

"Play another song of summer," she orders.

"As you wish."

As the notes cascade from the strings of the guitar, an unseen fire lifts the chill from the

stone walls of the room, and even the guitarist's breath no longer smokes in the dim afternoon of

the Westhorns' endless winter.

The toddler sees the notes as they climb from the strings into the air, lets go of the stone

support and clutches at a single fragment as it passes beyond his grasp.

Neither the woman nor the guitarist remark upon his sudden drop to the gray granite beside the

chair he has released. Nor do they notice the glimmer of gold he clutches within his pink fingers

and how he turns to seek the light it bears.

Nor do they see the wetness in his eyes when the gold dissipates from within his grasp even as

he watches.

His jaw set, the chubby-legged child struggles upright until he stands next to the chair that

is his, his hands reaching out once more toward the order behind the sounds he sees and hears.

But the song of summer has come to an end, with tears unshed in the eyes of the guitarist.

Beyond the gray granite walls, the wind howls and . . . again . . . the snow falls.

"I HAVE TO wear this?" Against the warm light that floods from the open double-casement window

through the thin, close-woven silksheen of the flimsy dark trousers, the young man can see the

outline of the man who stands holding the garment at the foot of the bed. "Galen, you can't be

serious."

The older, round-faced man shrugs helplessly. "The Marshall ordered . . ."

The youngster takes the trousers and tosses them onto the bed next to an equally thin white

silksheen shirt. His image- that of a slight, silver-haired youth in a light-gray flannel shirt

and green leather vest and trousers-is framed in the full-length, gilt-edged mirror that hangs

against the blond wood paneling. His eyes are a steady gray-green. The silver hair and fine

features overshadow the wiry muscles beneath the flannel and the weapons calluses upon the strong,

squarish hands.

"Why did she even bother to bring me? I'm no consort to be paraded around."

Galen straightens out the clothes so they lie neatly upon the green-and-white-brocaded

bedcover. "The Marshall thought that you should learn about Sarronnyn firsthand. And like it or

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not, you ate a consort."

"Ha. She has more in mind than that. Llyse will be the one who must deal with Sarronnyn."

Galen shrugs again, almost helplessly, and his shoulder-length white curls bob. "Your grace, I

can but follow the Marshall's orders."

The oak door connecting the spacious single room with the suite provided to the Marshall by the

Tyrant swings open. A tall woman, slender and deadly as a rapier despite the flowing green silks

that cover her figure, steps into the room. A single guard, her short-cut brown hair shot with

gray, followers the Marshall, a pace behind.

The youth looks from the silksheen clothes to the Marshall and back to the clothes upon the

brocaded spread.

The woman smiles faintly, but her eyes do not mirror her lips. "Creslin, if I am wearing

silksheen, then you certainly can. The garments are a gift from the Tyrant, and spurning them will

only make the negotiations that much more difficult. Unlike you, I prefer to save my resistance

for those times when the issue matters."

Her blue eyes are as hard as the dark stones of Westwind. The contrast between their adamancy

and the green silks that flow around the lithe muscles-muscles she has developed and maintained

over nearly four decades of training and warfare-reminds Creslin of the snow leopards that skulk

the edges of the Roof of the World.

He inclines his head as he removes his green-leather sleeveless vest and lays it on the bed. "I

will be ready in a moment."

"Thank you." She steps back through the entry to her suite but does not close the heavy oak

door behind her.

Creslin tosses his flannel shirt next to the vest, then strips off the leather trousers.

"Where did you get that?" asks Galen, pointing to a thin line of red down the consort's left

arm.

"Blade exercises. Where else?"

"Your grace, does the Marshall-"

"She knows, but she can't object to my wanting to be able to take care of myself." Creslin

frowns as he holds up the dark green silk trousers, then begins to ease his well-muscled legs into

them. "I keep telling her that if I'm too emotional I must need the training even more. She just

shakes her head, but so far she hasn't actually forbidden it. Once in a while I have to smile, but

most of the time I can appeal to reason. I mean, how would it look if the son of the most feared

warrior in the Westhorns doesn't even know which edge of the blade is which?"

Galen shivers, although the room is not cold.

Creslin pulls on the shirt and arranges it as he looks in the mirror.

"Your grace . . ." ventures Galen.

"Yes, Galen? Which fold did I do wrong?"

Galen's hands deftly readjust the collar, then add the silver-framed emerald collar pin

provided by the Marshall.

"Do I have to wear that, too? I feel like property." Galen says nothing.

"All right, I am property, courtesy of the damned Legend."

"Your grace ..." mumbles Galen, his hands not quite going to his mouth.

"Are you ready, Creslin?" The voice comes from beyond the door.

"Yes, your grace. As soon as I retrieve my blade."

"Creslin-"

"Galen, would not any eastern male wear a blade?"

There is no response, and a faint smile crosses Creslin's lips as he buckles the soft leather

of the formal sword-belt into place. The blade, the short sword of the guards of Westwind, remains

securely sheathed therein.

Creslin steps through the connecting door. The guard follows him with her eyes, but he ignores

her as he joins his mother the Marshall.

They walk out through the carved doorway of the guest-wing entrance. Creslin moves to the

Marshall's left, a half-pace back, knowing that is as far as he can push.

"Creslin," begins the Marshall in the hard-edged soft voice that is not meant to carry, "do you

understand your role here?"

"Yes, your grace. I am to be charming and receptive and not to volunteer anything but trivia. I

may sing, if the occasion arises, but only a single song, and an ... inoffensive one. I am not to

touch steel unless I am in mortal danger, which is rather unlikely. And I am not to comment upon

the negotiations. "

"You did listen." Her voice is wry.

"I always listen, your grace."

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"I know. You just don't always obey."

"I am a dutiful son and consort."

"See that it stays that way."

During their exchange of words, their steps have carried them down the hall and into a wider

hallway leading to the dining room of the Tyrant's palace. A herald, scarcely more than a boy, has

appeared to escort them into the Tyrant's presence.

As they turn into an even broader corridor, wide-glassed windows on the left show a garden with

a hedge of short, green-leaved bushes cut into a maze centering on a pond with a central fountain.

From around the fountain's statue-an unclothed man well-endowed in all parts-shoot jets of water

that arch upward before cascading into the pond.

The wall to the right of the two from Westwind is of pale pink granite, smoothed and polished.

Gold-fringed tapestries depicting life in ancient Sarronnyn hang against the stone, a space

perhaps equal to three paces between each scene.

Creslin, having studied the hangings earlier in the afternoon, ignores them, instead fixing his

eyes on the doorway ahead, where a pair of armed women guard the entrance to the dining room.

The Marshall waits as the herald steps into me hall. Creslin waits with her, still a half-pace

back.

"The Marshall of Westwind!" announces the young herald. "Accompanied by the consort-assign."

The Marshall nods and they step inside, following the herald toward the long table upon the

dais.

"... handsome lad."

". . .a blade yet ... but can he use it?"

"... like to see his work with the other blade."

"... too feminine. Looks like he trained as a guard."

Creslin purses his lips, trying not to hear the whispered comments of the court as he trails

the herald and the Marshall. Some of the comments are all too familiar. Two places are vacant at

the high table: one next to the Tyrant and one at the end, between two women.

"Your grace . . ."A serving boy pulls out a chair for Creslin.

Creslin nods to the graying woman at his right, then to the girl at his left. The girl's unruly

and shoulder-length mahogany curls flow from a silver hair band, and she is the only woman at the

table with long hair.

"Your grace," begins the older woman.

With regret, because he understands the seating, Creslin turns to her. "Yes?" His voice is

nearly musical, much as he rues it at times such as these.

"What might we call you?"

"Creslin, but no names are really necessary among friends." His stomach turns at the lie, and

he wonders if he will ever be able to twist the truth, as he has been taught, without paying his

own personal price. His eyes flicker to the center of the table, where the man to the left of the

Tyrant has raised his knife.

The others turn to the sectioned pearapples on the yellow china plates before them, and Creslin

lifts his knife to pare the sections into even smaller slices.

"Do all men in Westwind wear blades?" asks the older woman.

"Your grace," he defers, "Westwind is upon the Roof of the World, and all those who leave her

walls must beware of the elements and the beasts that brave them. The Marshall would leave no soul

unprotected, but was generous enough to grant my request to be able to protect myself."

"You appear rather . . . athletic."

Creslin smiles, and his stomach turns yet again. "Appearances may be deceiving, your grace."

"You may call me Frewya." Her smile is only slightly less overpowering than her breath. "Would

you tell us about Westwind?"

Creslin nods but first finishes a small section of pearapple and wipes his lips with the linen

napkin before speaking. "I doubt that I am the most-qualified individual to describe Westwind, but

I will do my best." He turns to the red-haired girl. "I would not exclude you, your grace-"

"If you would tell us about Westwind ..." Her voice contains a hint of laughter as she pauses

in raising her goblet. She wears a heavy, dull, iron bracelet, almost as wide as a wrist gauntlet

and set with a single black stone.

Creslin senses that the bracelet is not exactly what it seems to be before he quickly returns

his glance to her face. Her hidden laughter has pleased him, and he bestows a smile upon her

before turning back to Frewya.

"Westwind sits upon the Roof of the World, anchored in gray granite to the mountains

themselves, walled against the weather, and armored against all assailants ..." Creslin did not

compose the words he employs, but calls them from his memory of words written by another silver-

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haired man, kept in a small volume addressed to him.

"... and during the storms, the great hall, with its furnaces and chimneys, holds all warm

against the winter and worse. Outside the walls of Westwind and beyond the walled road that leads

to the trade routes, near-unbroken whiteness sweeps from below the south tower and up toward the

still-shimmering needle of Freyja.

"Freyja" Creslin explains more conversationally, "is the sole peak to catch the light of the

sun at dawn and at dusk.

"Beyond the Roof of the World are the depths, the cliffs that drop more than a thousand cubits

into ice and rock. Beyond and below them lies the darkness of the high forest-massive spruces and

firs that march both north and south toward the barrier peaks of the Westhorns." Creslin stops and

smiles, then shrugs. "You see, I can offer you only images."

"You offer them well," responds Frewya.

The red-haired girl, or woman-for Creslin has perceived that she is somewhat older than he is-

nods.

In the interim, his plate has been removed and replaced with a second and larger one, also of

yellow porcelain, on which rests a slice of browned meat covered with a white sauce. To the side

are cooked green leaves.

Creslin slices a presentably small section of meat. He ignores the spicy and bitter taste,

although he calls the slightest of breezes to carry away the perspiration that threatens to bead

on his forehead.

"How do you like the burkha?" The question comes from the redhead.

"It's a bit spicier than what is served at Westwind," he admits.

The woman laughs. "You're the first outsider I've seen who didn't totally burst into sweat with

the first bite."

Creslin smiles vaguely, wondering whether to feel insulted or complimented. "I take it that's a

compliment."

" Yes." But before she can say more, she turns to the man on her left in response to a question

from him.

Creslin realizes that she wears a second bracelet upon her left arm. Both bracelets are

concealed by the flowing blue silksheen of her gown, except when she raises a hand to pick up a

goblet or to gesture. The man on her left, who wears a laced and frilled shirt open nearly to his

waist, displays a broad and tanned chest, although one which seems soft to Creslin. Still, the man

is taller than Creslin, as are most of the Sarronnese men, and his laugh is easy and practiced.

The tone grates on Creslin's ears, as do all falsehoods-his own and others'.

"What do you think of the progress of the negotiations?" asks Frewya.

Creslin finishes another bite of the burkha. "I trust that they are going as planned, but since

the higher matters of statecraft are best practiced by those with their responsibility, I can but

hope." He takes another bite, this time of the mint leaves that help to cool the fire of the hot

brown sauce.

"Are the guards of Westwind as fearsome as they are reputed to be?" pursues his tablemate,

sending another gust of highly charged breath into his face.

"Fearsome? Certainly they are called fearsome. Their training is rigorous . . . that I have

seen. But since I have not seen them in battle, only in practice, I might not be the best one to

answer that question." He cuts another slice of the highly spiced meat.

"You seem rather unable to comment about much, Consort-Assign," breaks in a new voice, a deep

masculine voice, belonging to the man on the other side of the red-haired woman.

Creslin lifts his head, takes in the artificially waved blond locks, the even tan, and the

stylish shirt. "I'm afraid I have little practice in saying nothing, and perhaps my lack of

training in the art of diplomacy shows through."

A bemused smile appears on the redhead's lips, but she says nothing.

"Your words belie your assertions, for again you have said little."

"You are absolutely correct, but then, I need to say nothing. Nor do I have the need to prove

anything by my words." Creslin turns his head fractionally from the blond man to the redhead.

"Your pardon, your grace, for such bluntness, but the Roof of the World is not a soft place, even

for a consort, and I am not skilled at evasions."

With a smile that is half-bemusement, half-laughter, she responds with a tilt of her head. "I

accept your bluntness, Creslin. It is a shame that you will not be here much longer. Some . . .

could learn from your words." She turns from him to her companion and adds, "Dreric, I am certain

that our guest would have more than enough to say in a less formal setting."

Dreric nods, then turns to the woman to his left and asks, "Your grace, have you heard the

Sligan guitarists before?"

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For all the politeness, Creslin suppresses a wince at the iron behind the words of the red-

haired woman and at Dreric's reaction.

"What do you think of Sarronnyn? That should be a question harmless enough," laughs the

redhead, whose name Creslin has not yet learned.

"I don't know what to think," he begins, "except that it appears prosperous. Certainly the

roads are well maintained, and the people we passed on the way scarcely looked up from their work.

Some even waved, and that would indicate general contentment."

"You are cautious, aren't you?"

"One learns a certain caution upon the Roof of the World."

"And as the only male of standing in a garrison of the Westhorns' most fearsome fighters?"

"Standing?" Creslin laughs, and the laugh is not forced. "Your grace, I have no standing, save

by the Marshall's wish."

"You are the consort-assign?"

"While the Marshall holds Westwind."

"I fail to see the distinction."

Creslin shrugs. "Given the Marshall, and given my sister Llyse, there probably isn't one. But

the succession isn't automatically hereditary. The guard captains can theoretically chose another

Marshall."

"Is that likely?"

"Now? Hardly. I suppose the tradition is a protection in case there should be a weak Marshall.

Those who live by the Legend hold to their strength."

Thrumm. A single note hums from the platform to the side of the high table, where sit three

musicians in bright-blue tunics and trousers. Two are men, one a woman. Each cradles a guitar, but

the three instruments vary in size and shape.

Creslin can see the faint golden-silver of that single note as it ascends toward the high, dark-

timbered ceiling.

"The guitarists from Sligo are supposed to be rather good," he ventures.

"Yes. Although that is like saying that Werlynn was good."

"Werlynn?"

"The music-master of South wind. Did you ever hear him? He spent some time at Westwind, they

say."

"More than one musician has spent time at Westwind. The Marshall is fond of music. I do not

recall a man named Werlynn."

"You might not. He disappeared somewhere in the snows of the Westhorns years ago. But the older

folk still mention him. He had silver hair like yours, and not many people do."

"That is true," Creslin responds, "and I may have heard him if he had silver hair. His notes

were true."

"True? That's an odd comment. Some time, perhaps you could explain."

While her words invite a comment, their tone is perfunctory and vaguely threatening, as if

discussing the trueness of notes were a subject better not mentioned at table. Creslin takes the

hint gratefully, for to explain would reveal too much, and to lie would hurt even more. Instead he

shifts his eyes to the guitarists as they begin to play.

AFTER WHAT SEEMS the hundredth look out the open casement windows at the formal gardens below

since his breakfast, Creslin snorts. "Enough is enough."

"Enough what?" asks Galen.

"I'm going out."

"Creslin! But the Marshall-"

"She didn't say I had to stay in one room. She said I had to stay out of trouble. Walking in

that garden down there isn't going to get me in trouble. It's entirely inside the palace."

"Let me at least get you a guide."

"I don't need a guide."

"Not for that reason. A guide will signify that you're a visitor."

"I'm leaving."

"It will take only a moment."

"A moment's about what you've got."

Galen scurries through the connecting door to the Marshall's suite, returning even before

Creslin finishes adjusting the formal sword-belt over the silksheen trousers that slither against

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his skin.

"Creslin, is the sword-"

Beside Galen is the young herald who had escorted Creslin and the Marshall the evening before.

"I feel undressed without it. Wearing this . . . bordello outfit is bad enough. Besides, it's

not in a battle harness." Creslin turns toward the boy. "Is there any reason why I can't walk

through the formal garden there?"

"Many of the ... men of your situation do, your grace."

"A diplomatic answer, young man. Well, there's no one there anyway. Lead on." Creslin ignores

the fretful look on Galen's face and opens the door to the hallway. Clunk. He has not meant to

shut the heavy oak door so firmly, but the hinges are well oiled.

For the first dozen steps, neither Creslin nor the herald speak. At last the youth asks, "Is it

true that you wear battle leathers, your grace?"

Creslin laughs softly. "I wear leathers, but so does everyone in Westwind. You'd freeze in

silks like these. Our summers are colder than your winters."

"But how do you grow crops?"

"We don't. We have some mountain-sheep herds for milk, cheese, and meat. We trade for the rest.

We pay for it by maintaining the western trade roads clear of bandits, and-"

"-and hiring out to the western powers?" asks the boy. "Are the guards as good as the Tyrant

says?"

"Probably," admits Creslin, as he follows the herald down the wide stone steps. "But I don't

know what the Tyrant said about them."

"She said that even the wizards of Fairhaven could not stand against them."

"I don't know about that. Wizards don't like cold steel, but the eastern wizards are supposed

to be able to split mountains."

"Each year they move a little closer, they say."

Creslin shrugs. The affairs of a kingdom ruled by wizards on the eastern side of the Easthorns-

two mountain ranges east of the Roof of the World-scarcely seem urgent. "Is this the entrance to

the gardens?"

"This is the east door. There's another door from the men's quarters."

"The men's quarters?" Creslin steps onto the white gravel path. The shadow that has darkened

the garden lifts as a small white cloud drifts away, revealing the white-gold sun, and as the blue-

green of the sky brightens like a fire emerald.

"You know, where the unattached consorts and the other . . . male guests ..."

Creslin raises his eyebrows. "Hostages for good behavior? Sons of suspect houses?"

The herald looks down at the fine and polished white pebbles.

"Never mind. Tell me about the garden."

"It's nearly as old as the palace. The tales say the second Tyrant built it in memory of her

consort. That was Aldron, the last consort to ride in battle. He was killed at Berlitos when the

Tyrant crushed the Jerans."

"Jera is southern Sarronnyn now, isn't it?"

"Yes, your grace. Very loyal. This maze is sculpted from just one creeping tarnitz."

"Just one?"

"That's right. If you look down, you can see how the roots intertwine."

Creslin kneels to study the base of the tarnitz.

"Very clever gardening. We couldn't do this sort of thing at West wind."

"Oh?"

Creslin laughs briefly. "Only the evergreens grow there, and not well. Show me some more of the

garden."

The herald leads Creslin around a series of turns through the maze until they emerge near the

statue in the midst of the marble-walled pond.

"Aldron?" asks Creslin, gesturing toward the well-endowed male figure.

"So it's said, your grace, but no one knows for certain."

Creslin turns at the sound of footsteps and a voice saying, "Ah, I do believe it is the

honorable consort-design of Westwind. You know, Nertyrl, the one who had nothing to say at the

banquet."

The speaker is Dreric, the broad, blond companion of the unnamed redheaded woman. He wears

matching royal-blue silks that under the white-gold sun set off his tan and his flowing golden

hair. Beside him is an older man, wearing gray silks, a pointed and drooping mustache, and a long

blade.

Although he smiles faintly, Creslin has nothing to say to either man, particularly since he has

no doubt that any wit he might display would be far less practiced than that of two men who have

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spent a lifetime mastering the innuendo.

"Good day, I say." Dreric's voice oozes from his lips, honey-coated.

"A pleasant day, indeed," agrees Creslin, knowing that he cannot refuse to respond to a direct

greeting.

"He wears a blade, you see," comments Dreric, with a pronounced look at the older man. "Perhaps

because his other blade is less than adequate, you think, Nertryl?"

"That would be for the ... women ... to decide, your grace."

"Ah, yes . . . assuming that women are even-No matter ..."

Creslin swallows as Dreric halts perhaps four paces away. Dreric turns his back on Creslin and

begins to study a miniature pink rose set in a waist-high box of white marble.

"Your grace," whispers the herald, tugging at Creslin's sleeve.

Creslin remains immobile.

"Do you think he really merits the title, Nertryl? Grace? Ah, well . . . what we must put up

with to obtain a little more security. We could do him a favor, I suppose. Maggio likes boys, the

thin ones like this mountain . . . lordlet. Do you suppose we could manage an introduction?"

Creslin can feel his face flush, not from the direct sunlight.

"I do believe he shows some interest, your grace." Nertryl's voice is simultaneously flat and

languid.

"One must be so dreadfully direct with . . . mountain . . . nobility."

Creslin turns to the herald. "It is truly amazing to hear such vulgarity posturing under polite

language. I would like to see an area of the garden not spoiled by . . ." He cannot finish the

sentence.

There is a moment of silence.

Creslin turns as a hand touches his sleeve.

"I do believe you have slighted my lord. Grievously," admonishes Nertyrl. The smile on his face

is not mirrored in his eyes.

"One cannot slander a toad," snaps Creslin. "They live in the mud."

"Your grace . . ." whispers the herald.

The long blade clears the scabbard.

Creslin swallows.

"Well ... do you wish to beg his grace's pardon . . . humbly, and upon your knees?" Nertryl's

voice remains hard and languid.

"I think not." As he speaks, Creslin steps back, and his own shorter and fractionally wider

blade is in his hand.

"Well, well ... he has some nerve, if not much in the way of intelligence ..." The grating

voice is that of Dreric.

Nertryl says nothing, his eyes fixed upon Creslin's.

Creslin smiles, remembering the sessions with Aemris and Heldra, and his blade moves without

his eyes moving.

Nertryl steps back, involuntarily, at the nick on his forearm, then moves forward.

Creslin's blade flashes, almost faster than his thoughts, and the long blade lies upon the

white gravel.

Nertryl holds his right arm as heavy red wells through his fingers and over the gray silks.

Dreric's mouth is still open as Creslin steps forward, blade flickering.

"... you wouldn't . . . barbarian ..."

The sword caresses the blond man's cheek, and two thin lines of red appear.

"That should be enough, Lordlet Dreric, to remind you that insulting one's betters is

dangerous." Creslin bows to Nertryl. "My apologies, of a sort, to you. You might also remember

that the Guards of Westwind are far better at this than I am. I am merely a poor Consort-Assign."

Creslin turns to the open-mouthed lad. "Let's go. I detest the stench of blood." He swallows as

he thinks about the Marshall's reaction. She will not be pleased.

"Your grace ..."

"Which way?" Creslin starts toward the path by which they had entered the garden.

The herald shrugs and leads him back along the white-pebbled stones. Behind him, Creslin can

hear the rapid crunch of footsteps grow fainter. He forces himself to walk slowly after the

herald, wondering where Dreric is heading in such haste.

His own steps are deliberate. He will not be stampeded by any male harlot, especially one

without enough nerve to handle his own dirty work.

"Are you all right, your grace?"

"I'm fine. Just thinking." In silence they approach the golden-varnished door leading from the

garden into the palace proper. The herald opens the portal, which swings wide on the same well-

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oiled hinges as had the door in Creslin's room. Still wondering about Dreric, Creslin steps into

the relative gloom of the stonewalled corridor.

"Lord Creslin!"

Darkness swirls around him, as though night had descended from nowhere. His hand darts for his

blade. Before his fingers reach the hilt, they are jarred loose as he finds himself slammed

against the granite wall, with more than one pair of arms trying to pin him.

His thoughts reach for the winds, and the bitter gusts of winter suddenly swirl silks and

scarves, lashing them toward faces and eyes. A line of cold stabs at his arm even as he falls away

from the blade. The darkness lifts, and the winds depart, and he stands alone-except for the

herald, his eyes downcast.

"What . . . was . . . that?" Creslin gasps.

"What, your grace?" asks the boy, his eyes clear. "Someone called, and you stopped to talk with

her. I didn't see who. Since you stopped, I thought you knew her." The boy looks at Creslin's

disarray. "Are you all right?"

"You didn't see who it was?"

"No, your grace. I mean, not clearly. She was in the shadows."

Creslin looks back at the door. Although not as bright as the garden, the corridor is well lit

by the windows several paces away. There are no shadows. "Oh, well. I wish I knew who she was," he

temporizes.

"She must think a lot of you, to be so open," marvels the herald.

Creslin smiles falsely, and his stomach turns again. Dreric's doing? But why would anyone start

an attack and then leave as soon as they she pinked his arm? Creslin does not look at his arm,

although his senses tell him that it bears a needlesized hole, and the slit in his silks is so

narrow that it cannot be seen.

Compared to the mess in the garden, the incident in the corridor is mild, best forgotten, and

quickly.

Still, he wonders.

"YOU TOOK A considerable risk, Creslin. What if he had been a master-blade?"

"He wasn't. He wore the silks too well."

The Marshall shakes her head. "You realize that this will make your life much harder?"

"My life? I was more worried about your negotiations." He glances toward the window, where the

silken curtains billow in the wind preceding the rain clouds yet on the horizon.

"You couldn't have helped me more." The Marshall steps toward the window, then stops and fixes

hard blue eyes on her son.

Is she jesting? He waits for her to continue. For a time, the sitting room of the suite is

silent.

"A consort, scarcely more than a boy, disarms one of the most notorious blades in Sarronnyn.

Nertryl has killed more than a score of blades, male and female." The Marshall laughs harshly.

"And you apologized because you weren't up to the standard of the guard. Your friend, the herald,

had that all over the palace within moments of the time you were back in your room."

"I fail to see the problem," Creslin admits.

"What ruling family would willingly accept a consort more deadly than any man west of the

wizards and more dangerous than most of the fighting women in Candar? It doesn't exactly set well

with those who respect the Legend." The Marshall smiles. "That artistry on the other fellow's

cheek was also a bit much. Oh, I know it was justified, but it also shows that you don't play

games. Then, we all learned that a long time ago." She looks to the window. "In a way, it's too

bad we didn't get along better with the Suthyan emissary last spring. We'll do what we can ..."

Creslin suppresses a frown. At least he hadn't killed anyone. In view of the Marshall's mood,

he decides not to mention the strange episode in the corridor. The wound in his arm is no more

than a pinprick, and his senses and his health tell him that no poisons were involved.

The guard in the doorway shakes her head ever so slightly, mirroring the gesture of the

Marshall of Westwind, until Creslin looks in her direction.

VII

Ask not what a man is,

that he scramble after flattery as he can,

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or that he bend his soul to a woman's wish . . .

After all, he is but a man.

Ask not what a man might be,

that he carry a blade like a fan,

and sees only what his ladies wish him to see . . .

After all, he is but a man . . .

The chuckles from the guards at the tables below grate on Creslin's nerves, but the minstrel

continues with his elaborate parody of the frailties of man. With each line, Creslin's teeth grate

ever tighter. The Marshall's face is impassive. Llyse, on the other hand, smiles faintly, as if

not quite certain whether the verses are truly humorous.

The minstrel, dressed in shimmering, skintight tan trousers and a royal-blue silksheen shirt,

flounces across the cleared end of the dais, thrusting-at times suggestively-a long fan shaped as

a sword.

"... and, after all, he is but a man!" The applause is generous, and the minstrel bows in all

directions before setting aside the comic fan, retrieving his guitar, and pulling up a stool on

which to perch and face the crowd as the clapping and whistling die down.

Creslin listens, watches as the silver notes shimmer from the guitar strings and observes the

guards' reaction to the more traditional ballad of Fenardre the Great. The silver-haired young man

recalls hearing the words from another silver-haired man.

The minstrel is good, but not outstanding. Creslin is nearly as good as the performer, and he

has no pretensions about being a minstrel. The applause is only polite at the end of the ballad.

The minstrel inclines his head toward the dais with a wry smile, then turns back to the guards

below and begins to strum a driving, demanding beat.

Several of the guards begin to tap the tabletops to match the rhythm as he leads them through

the marching songs of Westwind.

Even as he enjoys the familiar music, Creslin feels that he does not belong on the dais, or

even in the hall. The refrain from the comic song still echoes in his thoughts: "After all, he is

but a man ..." His lips tighten as he becomes aware of the Marshall's study of him. He meets her

dark eyes. For a time, neither blinks. Finally Creslin drops his glance, not that he has to, but

what good will it do?

The thought comes to him, not for the first time, that he must leave Westwind, that he must

find his own place in the world. But how? And where? His eyes focus, unseeing, on the minstrel.

At the end of the dais, the singer is standing now, bowing, and nodding toward the table where

the Marshall, Llyse the Marshalle, the consort, and Aemris, the guard captain, are seated.

As the whistling again dies down, the Marshall leans to her left and murmurs a few words to

Aemris. In turn, Aemris's eyes flick to Creslin and then to the approaching minstrel. She shakes

her head minutely.

Creslin strains to bring the words to him on the wind currents generated by the roaring fire in

the great hearth, but can catch only the last few murmured by the Marshall: "... after Sarronnyn,

he'll always run the risk of being challenged. He has to be as good as he can be."

"As you wish," affirms Aemris, but her tone is not pleasant.

Creslin wishes he had paid more attention to the first words between the two.

The Marshall stands as the minstrel approaches. "Join us, if you would, Rokelle of Hydlen."

"I am .honored." Rokelle bows. He is older than his slender figure and youthful voice, with

gray at his temples and fine lines radiating from his flat brown eyes.

Creslin suppresses a frown at the wrongness of the eyes and smiles instead.

In turn, Rokelle takes the empty chair between Llyse and Aemris, reaching for the goblet that

Llyse has filled for him. "Ah . . . singing's a thirsty business, even when you're appreciated."

"And when you're not?" asks Aemris.

"Then you've no time to be thirsty." Rokelle takes a deep pull of the warm, spiced wine.

"Any news of interest?" asks the Marshall.

"There is always news, your grace. But where to begin? Perhaps with the White Wizards. The

great road is well past the midpoint of the Easthorns, and now they are building a port city on

the Great North Bay, where the town of Lydiar used to be."

"What happened to the Duke of Lydiar?"

"What happens to anyone who defies the White Wizards? Chaos . . . destruction." The minstrel

takes a smaller sip of the wine and reaches for a slice of the white cheese on the plate before

him.

"And those who supposedly revere order? The Black ones?"

Rokelle shrugs. "Who can say? Destruction is so much easier than order."

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