The Towers Of the Sunset

 by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

Recluce Book Two

Copyright © 1992

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

 

 

I

 

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.

 

 

II

 

"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."

   "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.

 

 

IV

 

"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 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."

   "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-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?"

   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.

 

 

V

 

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 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 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-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.

 

 

VI

 

"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,

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."

   A number of the older guards have left the tables below, but the younger women at the front tables continue to pour from the wine pitchers. Creslin glances across the tables, hoping for a glimpse of Fiera's short blond hair, but he does not see the junior guard. His ears miss the next few sentences, until he realizes that Fiera is no longer in the hall, if indeed she has been there at all.

   "Ah, yes . . . well, the wizards and the Duke of Montgren seem to have come to some sort of agreement, now that the Duke has completed his fortification of Vergren and Land's end-"

   "Land's End? Out on Reduce?" asks the Marshall. "Montgren has claimed Recluce for generations, your grace."

   "An empty claim," snorts Aemris. "A huge, dry, and forlorn island. Just right for a few coastal fishing villages."

   "It's easily ten times the size of Montgren," observes the Marshall. "But neither the Nordlans nor the Hamorians were able to make their colonies pay. Montgren's claim was never disputed because no one ever wanted the place. The fact that the Duke has committed anything there is . . ." She breaks off the sentence.

   "I thought the Duke of Montgren was connected to the Tyrant of Sarronnyn," Creslin volunteers.

   Aemris and the Marshall rum toward him, both sets of eyes cold at his statement.

   "He is, lad," responds the minstrel, "but Sarronnyn looks down on him because he's a man with a tabletop kingdom, and he's angry because the Sarronese won't give him more than token support against Fairhaven. He claims that he's the only one left who hasn't caved in and joined the White Wizards."

   "Is that true?" asks Creslin.

   "Ah ..." smiles the minstrel, with an odd and wrong smile, "he is but a man, and who is to say what exactly is true? It is certain that he pays Sarronnyn no tribute, and it is also certain that he has increased his army and the tax levies, to the point that his peasants, those who can, are leaving their fields for Spidlar and Gallos."

   "It's that bad?" asks Aemris, turning her eyes from Creslin to Rokelle.

   The minstrel does not answer immediately but instead takes another long sip of the lukewarm wine. Llyse refills the empty cup. "Is it that bad?" repeats the guard captain. Rokelle shrugs. "You know what I know." The Marshall nods slowly and looks toward Aemris. "What about Jellico?" asks Llyse. "Last year a traveler said that the city was being rebuilt."

   "It is not as grand as Fairhaven, but far more welcoming to those who sing," observes Rokelle, between mouthfuls of cheese. "You should see the stonework ..."

   Creslin lets the man's words drift by as he considers what he has heard this night: the guards laughing at the frailties of men; the Duke of Montgren standing alone against the White Wizards and being mocked by his female relatives; the Black Wizards silent; the Marshall and Aemris displeased with his questions. Under the cover of the table, his fingers tighten on the carved arms of the chair even as he leans forward with a pleasant smile on his face.

   In time, the conversation dies and Creslin leans back, although the Marshall has already left, her face as impassive as Creslin has ever seen it.

   Aemris turns toward him. "You start working with Heldra tomorrow. With blades." Her voice is short, and she stands as she speaks. "You'll need it all." She bows to the minstrel and to the Marshalle.

   Llyse turns with a puzzled look toward her brother.

   Creslin shrugs. "You think they'd tell me? After all, I'm but a man."

   The minstrel sips the last of the wine as the consort and the Marshalle of Westwind rise. Llyse gestures to the guard at the end of the dais.

   Creslin takes the inside stairs to his quarters, leaving the sleeping arrangements for the minstrel to his sister.

 

 

VIII

 

THE RED-HAIRED woman wearing the iron bracelets glances into the mirror, her lips tight. The surface wavers, but no image appears. In time she loses her concentration and plunges her wrists into the bucket beside her chair.

   The hiss of the steam mingles with her sigh.

   Later, after pulling the combs from her long red hair, she looks over at the miniature portrait of herself where it rests atop the ornate wooden desk. Ryessa had insisted that the artist paint her hair short, even though she has never bowed to the military fashion sweeping Sarronnyn. Her sister the Tyrant has never let reality interfere with the images necessary for a successful reign.

   The redhead's fingers stray toward her left arm. She wills the itch to depart, as she has willed for too long. Imagination? Her blood swirls with the roar of the winds.

   "Still getting stronger, isn't it?" The voice coming from the woman who has just entered is cold, as cold as though her ice-blond hair were indeed fashioned partly from the winter ice.

   "I don't feel much of anything," the redhead lies.

   "You're lying."

   "So I'm lying. Hang me. You'd like to. You're just offering me another form of bondage . . . maybe one that's even worse than these." She holds up her arms, letting the silks draw back. The iron slides away from the welts and scars. She lowers her arms, and the silks again conceal the marks.

   "You still don't give up?"

   "How can I?" The redhead looks down. There is silence before she looks up. "I was thinking . . . remembering, really, back before . . . Anyway, you and I used to play in the old courtyard, and you used to get so mad because I could always find you, no matter where you hid. But then you'd laugh, at least some of the time-"

   "That was when we were children, Megaera."

   "Aren't we still sisters? Or did your ascension make me illegitimate?"

   "The White has never been legitimate under the Legend."

   "Am I any different now, because my talent is classified as White?"

   "That was never the question." The blonde shakes her head. "In any case, the negotiations with Westwind may offer you a way out."

   "A way out? By enslaving me to a mere man? How could a real sister do that?"

   "You think my choice is unfair?"

   "When have you ever been fair, Ryessa?"

   "I do what is best for Sarronnyn." The blonde shrugs. "In any case, this is fairer. I don't trust Korweil, and I especially don't trust Dylyss."

   "You don't trust the Marshall, deadliest fighter in Candar? How skeptical of you."

   "Not skeptical. Just practical. Dylyss fights hard, and I'll bet she loves as hard as she fights. He is her son."

   "You think she will turn you down?" Megaera laughs harshly.

   "After the way you set up Dreric? And Creslin's reaction?"

   "Creslin is good, almost as good as a guard."

   "From what I saw, he's better than some." The Tyrant smiles.

   "He doesn't think so."

   "You think Dylyss would let him know? It doesn't make any difference. From what I hear from Suthya, Cerlyn, and Bleyans, they're not likely to welcome such a wolf in lamb's clothing. They'll use the Legend as an excuse."

   "You believe it's only an excuse? You're a bigger hypocrite than Dylyss, or Korweil."

   "None of us were alive in the time of Ryba."

   "How convenient for you."

   The Tyrant smiles. "It's convenient for you as well. If I really believed in the Legend and the demons of light-"

   "Please don't remind me again."

   "Can you sense what he feels?"

   "I sense nothing. I told you that. Just go back to your scheming."

   "It's for your benefit too, sister. Who else could stand to your fury, to the power within you, bracelets or not?"

   "And how long will either of us last once I'm with child?"

   "You with child? Without your consent? Spare me."

   "Against a blade better than your best, sister dear? You act as if I really had a choice."

   There is no answer, for the blond woman has left.

   The redhead looks at the decorative but solid iron chair molding that encircles her quarters. Then her eyes flicker to the iron-bound door.

   Should she call for Dreric? That, at least, is within her purview. At the thought, her blood seems to storm, and she shakes her head. Two tears fall like rain from the storm within.

 

 

IX

 

IN THE SPACE before the largest window, Creslin strums the small guitar, cradling the crafted rosewood and spruce firmly in fingers that feel too square for a master musician, though he knows that the shape of his fingers has little enough to do with skill.

   The room contains a narrow desk with two drawers, a wardrobe that stretches nearly four cubits high-a good three cubits short of the heavy, timbered ceiling-two wooden chairs with arms, a full-length mirror on a stand, and a double-width bed, without canopy or hangings, covered with a quilt of green, on which appears silver notes. The heavy door is barred on the inside. The door and the furniture are of red oak, smooth with craftsmanship and age but without a single carving or adornment. The only reminders of softness are two worn green cushions upon the chairs. Thrum.

   A single note, wavering silver to his inner sight, vibrates in the chill air of the room, then crumples against the granite of the outer wall.

   Never can he touch the strings so that the music appears golden, the way the silver-haired guitarist did, the one whom he is forbidden to mention. Even the autumn before the fabled Sligan guitarists had not played solid gold, but only touched upon it.

   For the time, he places the instrument on the flat top of the desk and walks to the frosted window, touching his finger to the glass until the rime clears, melting away as though spring had touched the frozen surface of a lowland lake.

   Outside, the snow dashes against the gray walls of Westwind and strikes at the window, the window that is opened seldom, even if more often than most windows within Westwind. As the glass refrosts, he picks up the guitar.

   Thrap!

   With a sigh, he places the instrument in its case and slides it under the bed. While his mother and Llyse must certainly know about the guitar, neither of them ever mentions it. Nor does either mention music, for that topic is forbidden at Westwind, for all that it is a talent best cultivated by men.

   "By men!" he snorts softly. "Coming." His response is soft, like the green leathers that he wears within the castle, but it carries.

   Thrap!

   He frowns at his sister's impatience, lifts the bar, and opens the door. Llyse stands there.

   "Are you ready for dinner?" Her hair, silver like his, dazzles, though it barely reaches the back of her neck, a brief torrent of light flashing even in the dimness of the granite-walled corridor. Only by comparison to his short-cropped head does her hair seem long and flowing.

   "No." His smile is brief, lasting only the moment before his guts warn him of the dangers of even flippant untruths.

   "You never are. How you can stand to be alone so much?"

   He closes the heavy door as he steps out onto the bare stone floor.

   "Mother was not pleased-"

   "What is it this time?" Creslin does not mean to bark at his sister, and he softens his voice. "About the time alone, or-"

   "No. If you want to be alone, that doesn't bother her. She makes allowances for men being moody."

   "Then it must be the riding."

   Llyse shakes her head, grinning.

   "All right. What is it?"

   "She doesn't think your hair is becoming when you cut it that short."

   Creslin groans. "She doesn't like what I wear, what I do, and now ..."

   They pause at the top of the sweeping circular staircase, comprised of solid granite blocks that would carry the weight of all of the Marshall's shock troops. Then they begin the descent to the great hall.

   "Really," begins Llyse, and her voice hardens into an imitation of the Marshall's voice, "you must learn the proper manners of a consort, Creslin. You may simper over that guitar if you must, but riding with the guards is not suitable. Not at all. I am not pleased."

   Creslin shivers, not at the words but at the unconscious tone of command that already pervades his sister's voice, beyond and beneath the imitation of their mother.

   "She's never pleased. She wasn't pleased when I sneaked out and went on the first winter field trials with the junior guards. But I did better than most of them. At least she let me go on the later trials."

   "That's not what Aemris told her."

   "Aemris wouldn't cross her if the Roof of the World fell."

   They both laugh, but furtively, as their feet carry them into the main entry way of the castle.

   "How is the blade-work going with Heldra?" Llyse asks as they reach the bottom of the stairs.

   "I get pretty sore. She doesn't care how much she hurts either my pride or my body."

   Llyse whistles softly. "You must be getting good. That's what all the senior guards say."

   Creslin shakes his head. "I've improved, but probably not a lot."

   A pair of guards flanks the archway to the main hallway. The one on the left Creslin recognizes and nods to briefly, but she does not move a muscle.

   "Creslin ..." reproaches Llyse. "That's not fair. Fiera's on duty."

   Creslin knows his informal greeting was not fair. He shifts his glance to the far end of the great hall. The table upon the dais is vacant, except for Aemris, unlike the tables flanking the granite paving stones upon which the Marshalle and consort walk. At the lower-level tables have gathered most of the castle personnel, the guards, and their consorts. The children are seated to the rear with their guardians, near the doorway through which Creslin and Llyse have approached.

   Creslin concentrates on walking toward the dais, knowing he will hear too much as he nears the forward tables of the guards, the tables frequented by those yet unattached. "My, we are grim today," prods Llyse. "You aren't the one they examine like a prized stud," he murmurs between barely moving lips.

   "You might as well enjoy it," comes back her calm reply. "You don't have much choice. Besides, it's honest admiration."

   In the beginning,it might have been, when he insisted on joining the sub-guard exercise groups and on learning blades, and when he stole rides on the battle ponies. He knew, because he could not spend as much time at it, with all the demands for writing and logic placed on him by the Marshall, while he had the strength and basic skills, most of the guards he once held his own against could probably outride him in the field. Only with the blade could he continue to hold his own. Even Llyse, now, was receiving that concentrated field training he envied.

   He almost shrugged. Then again, that was the point of it. The guards of Westwind could outride, outendure and outfight virtually anyone. They were why his mother the Marshall ruled the Roof of the World and controlled the trade routes connecting the east and west of Candar. "... still a handsome boy."

   "... sharp like a blade. Cut your heart and leave it bleeding."

   "... not soft enough for me, thanks."

   Creslin can tell that Llyse is having trouble in refraining from smiling at his discomfort, and he tightens his lips.

   "I'd still try him ..."

   "The Marshall would have your guts for breakfast."

   As they step up to the dais, Aemris rises from her seat at the far right end of the table. Four places are set.

   "Your graces ..." The guard commander's voice is low and hard.

   "Be seated, please," indicates Llyse. Creslin only nods, since any words from him are merely decorative.

   Llyse raises her eyebrows. Neither she nor Aemris will seat themselves until he does. Then everyone will rise when the Marshall arrives. Creslin could keep all three of them standing. He has done it before, but tonight it is not worth the effort.

   He sits at the end opposite Aemris, and Llyse lets out her breath slowly, in turn sitting next to her brother but in one of the two chairs facing the hall and the tables below.

   Aemris turns to Llyse. "The winter field trials start the day after tomorrow."

   Llyse nods.

   Creslin had hoped to participate in the trials, using the skis and holding to the winds that howled off the Westhorns-those winds that might give him an edge-but Aemris is saying that Llyse will be there and he will not. Still, he looks toward Aemris.

   The Guard Commander ignores his glance, instead turning to the curtains behind Llyse and rising. Creslin and Llyse follow suit as their mother steps forward, raising her hands to prevent the assemblage from rising.

   The dark-haired woman in the black leathers with the square face and well-muscled shoulders that belie the intelligence behind the dark flint-blue eyes glances at her guard commander, her son, and her daughter. Then she sits without ceremony.

   A serving boy springs forward with two trays, and Creslin begins to pour the lukewarm tea from the heavy pitcher into the tumblers.

   "Thank you." His mother's voice is formal.

   "Thank you," echo Llyse and Aemris.

   He nods in return, pouring his own tea last and setting down the pitcher.

   A low, roaring whisper rises from the guards and those below as they are served the same food as that of those on the dais.

   Creslin's eyes flicker down to the front tables, glad that the meal has stopped the ogling for the time. Llyse holds one of the platters. He spears three thick slices of meat from one end of it and a heavy roll from the other.

   Another platter contains various honeyed and dried fruits and pickled vegetables. Though scarcely fond of the vegetables, Creslin takes his share, even if he will have to wash it down with tea.

   "Creslin?"

   "Your grace?"

   "Aemris has doubtless indicated in her best manner that it will not be possible for you to participate in the field trials. That was my order."

   "I'm sure you had the best of reasons."

   "I did, and I do. Which I will announce shortly. Do you know the Tyrant of Sarronnyn?" The Marshall waits.

   His stomach tightens as his mother speaks, but he keeps his gaze level upon her face. "We guested there last fall." He remembers most of it all too well, including the incident in the formal gardens, the one which the Marshall will not let him forget.

   The Marshall smiles. "Your expertise with a blade was noted."

   "I remember."

   "At the time, not much was said," she adds. "Apparently Ryessa was quite impressed. The negotiations were rather involved, since a proposal from the Marshall of Southwind had also been considered."

   Creslin does not understand. Throughout the fall and early winter, he has heard of how his rash action has destroyed any chance of his becoming a respected consort outside of Westwind. And he cannot stay much longer in the citadel of the winter. For his own sanity, at the very least, he must depart.

   Beside him, Llyse draws in her breath, like the whisper of the winds just before the mistral.

   "I'm somewhat in the dark. Are you indicating that-"• "Not exactly. You will be the consort to the sub-Tyrant, Ryessa's younger sister. Offhand, I cannot remember her name." A signal passes somewhere, and the serving boy brings forward a tray to Creslin. On the black enamel tray lies a sheet of blue velvet, and upon the velvet is a golden frame. Within the frame is the portrait of a red-haired woman, handsome despite the extraordinarily short-cut hair, the piercing green eyes, the strong, straight nose. The corners of her lips are upturned slightly with the same cynical smile as he had seen displayed by the Tyrant throughout the eight-day stay in Sarronnyn. She looks vaguely familiar, but Creslin knows he has seen no woman with red hair cut that short. "I see."

   "You will indeed. You could not have done better, and you're lucky that she prefers feminine men over the more traditional western man. She was intrigued after hearing of how you insisted on undertaking the field trials, and pleasantly amazed at your standing. She even applauded the ... incident in the formal garden, the Temple only knows why."

   Creslin swallows the sick feeling in his stomach as the Marshall stands. A silence radiates from her out into the great hall, a darkness sweeping from her proud, pale face and black working leathers.

   "We have an announcement."

   She waits.

   "Our consort-to-be has been honored, highly honored. He will be leaving Westwind within the eight-day as the consort-intend of the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn." A half-turn and a gesture toward Creslin follow.

   A pale smile pasted upon his face, he rises.

   "Creslin . . . CRESLIN . . . CRESLIN!" The chant builds as he stands there acknowledging it with a hand that turns the winds back, though gently, and waits for the words to fade away.

   As the sounds trail off, he sits down, wanting to wipe his damp forehead but refusing to show any weakness, other than the stiffness of his jaw caused by his clenched teeth.

   "Very nice, brother, considering you're ready to dispatch the sub-Tyrant with your blade."

   The breath hisses from him at Llyse's whispered remark.

   The Marshall indicates that all should resume eating, and most do, save the handful of single guards in the front tables, who regard Creslin directly.

   He takes a sip of tea, then refills his tumbler. He has not finished the last slice of meat upon his plate, and now he has no desire to. How can he escape becoming little more than a prize stud?

   His mother has reseated herself. "It might have been nice to have had a bit more warning," he tells her.

   "The sooner, the better . . . for your own protection."

   "My protection?"

   "Your peers-those who would consider you a consort- are scarcely appreciative of one who is both skilled in arms and tumbled by the most attractive guards of Westwind." Her laugh is throaty, the real laugh he has heard so seldom. The laughter leaves him speechless for a moment. "And, as you well know, you cannot stay here, not unless ..."

   He shivers, knowing what she has suggested.

   "I really didn't think that would meet your approval. And Ryessa's sister is handsome, perhaps too gentle ... too masculine."

   The Tyrant's sister? Had he met her? He takes another gulp of tea.

   "Is she as ... does she look like this?" asks Llyse, studying the portrait.

   "A bit softer than that," comments Aemris. "She'd do well to have a strong consort like Creslin. Sarronnyn's strictly by lineage, and Ryessa already has two daughters. A strong consort like Creslin," Aemris nods toward him as-though he could not hear the conversation, "protects her from those who would use the men's quarters against her."

   The Marshall looks at Creslin. "Tomorrow you need to consult with Galen to determine what you will take with you to Sarronnyn." She smiles. "It's for the best." Then she stands and is gone before Creslin can respond.

   As soon as she is past the hanging tapestries, Creslin stands, nods, and departs. His steps carry him through the back entrance and to the narrow old stairwell, the first one built within Westwind, the one with the hollowed stone risers and the rough edges of the outside wall stones. Upward he climbs, one quick step upon another, until he stands on the open wall and stares southward.

   As cold as the gale makes the parapets of Westwind, they are warmer than the atmosphere within the great hall. A thin line of white rises from the tall chimney set squarely at the north end of the hall, the smoke bending eastward into a flat line as it clears the shelter of the castle walls.

   Creslin looks out at the near-unbroken whiteness that sweeps across the snow bowl below the south tower and up toward the still-shimmering needle of Freyja, the sole peak yet lit by the sun that has already dropped behind the Westhorns. Even in the twilight, the snow glistens, unbroken, untouched except for the cleared gray stones of the high road leading to the forests below, and to the east.

   He wants to sing, or to scream. He will do neither, the former because now is not the time for song, and the latter because he refuses to give either Aemris or the Marshall any satisfaction, any hint that he might be a weakling like the other men.

   Instead, he reaches for the winds, weaves them and hurls them against the walls until his face smarts and sweat flows from his face to freeze upon his leathers. Until the walls are coated with a layer of ice as hard as rock. Until his eyes burn and he can see only with his thoughts. Until the winds slip from his thoughts and go where they will.

   Then, and only then, does he slowly trudge back toward the warmth of his room, ignoring the pair of guards who have watched, wide-eyed, as the consort of the sub-Tyrant flails against the destiny that others have arranged for him.

 

 

X

 

CRESLIN's STEPS CARRY him along the east wall to the covered passageway leading to the tower, called Black for all that it was built of the same gray granite as the rest of Westwind. Within the Black Tower are the fallback winter stores and spare equipment, the not-quite-discarded packs and oil cloths and old winter quilts. They will have to do, for the newer equipment is within the guard armory below, where is posted a live guard.

   His short silver hair blows away from his unlined face, and his strides are quick in the darkness of morning just before dawn. The gray-green eyes are set above dark circles, for he has not slept well, not after learning his future. Despite the snow film on the stones, his steps are firm, his boots clearing the risers mechanically.

   Creslin glances at the narrow white expanse that drops off into the sheer cliff defining one edge of the Roof of the World. Beyond the thousand-cubit drop, beyond the jumble of ice and rock below, the darkness of the high forest thrusts through the deep snow, massive spruces and firs that march both north and south toward the barrier peaks of the Westhorns, those peaks that separate the eastern lands from the civilized west. Between and upon the high forest giants, the snow glistens, untouched. Beyond the high forest lie the unseen trade roads.

   Creslin looks away from the dim vista, turning the corner into the darker shadows, more preoccupied with the past than the present.

   "Ooffff ..."

   He staggers from the impact and finds himself half-falling, half-drawn against a blond guard, nearly as tall as he, nearly as strong.

   "Fiera-"

   "Sshhhh!"

   Her lips burn his. Then they are standing separately, thrust apart by the practiced motions of her training as a Westwind guard. Creslin is sorry to lose the warmth he has so briefly held.

   "Greetings, honored consort."

   "I'd rather be a guard."

   "Everyone knows that, including the Marshall. It doesn't change things."

   "Fiera ..."

   Her eyes are level with his. "I could be sent to North-watch for years for what I just did."

   North watch? For a kiss?

   "Yes," she answers, her narrow face severe in the shadows. "For daring to kiss the Marshall's son, for leading him on."

   "What difference does it make? Llyse follows the Marshall, not me."

   Fiera frowns, but the expression is gentle. "Men. It matters. And the sub-Tyrant would not be pleased either, though a one-time love would be difficult to prove."

   Her words are meaningless, and Creslin has no response.

   "Good day, sweet prince."

   He reaches out but she is gone, battle jacket and sword, cold cap and helmet-down the inner staircase to the barracks below.

   Again he shakes his head.

   The covered section of the parapet is empty, and he fingers the key in his belt pouch. Fiera will not speak of their meeting, and he must obtain what he needs from the storeroom and return to his quarters before the day's formalities begin.

   He steps toward the lock. Better old supplies than none.

 

 

XI

 

"SEE? LIKE THAT." The arms-master adjusts Creslin's formal sword-belt. "It did some good to let you learn the basics. The Marshall should have stopped there. All you needed was enough to put up some defense." Her voice is impartial, stating facts.

   "Defense? Just defense?"

   "I'm not fond of armed men. The Legend dies hard, your grace. But I can't grudge you the right to take care of yourself. And the Marshall can't either, once you leave, you know." The arms-master's mouth puckers as if she has swallowed a bitter plum.

   Creslin has heard rumors about the western rulers and their stables of men and boys; he has even seen the men's quarters in Sarronnyn. But he has never considered that he might become part of such a stable. "Perhaps I should have learned more about knives."

   She says nothing.

   "How might I do against the easterners?"

   "You'd be a good blade there, maybe better than that. With their wizardry, they don't hold much stock in blades. If you ever go there, keep the cold steel blade. It's twice as strong as theirs."

   Since Creslin has had drummed into him the reason that no one wears steel in the eastern reaches-cold iron binds chaos-he only nods. Fairhaven may be his goal, but kays indeed, as well as the winter itself, lie between him and the White City, not to mention his mother's guards, and the Tyrant of Sarronnyn, whose sister's consort he will be, like it or not. The redhead in the miniature portrait within his pack, as striking as she appears, bears at least a half-decade more experience than he.

   "In the east, it's said that men-"

   "Barbaric." The arms-master steps back. "A patriarchal empire is what they're building, based on wizardry." The revulsion in her voice turns her formerly impartial tones acid. "They'll recreate the Legend, but worse. The whole western continent will look like Reduce."

   He has heard the same bitterness from his mother, and indirectly from most of the other western rulers.

   "You'll do," declares the arms-master, studying him. "A little too feminine probably, with your sword. At least it's not in a battle harness."

   Creslin keeps his expression polite. The battle harness is in the pack he has switched for the one that Galen packed.

   "You still ride like a trooper, not like a consort, but that's probably what intrigued the Tyrant. She doesn't care much for soft men, that one, and she's the one who asked for you. Someone was needed-"

   "For what?" Creslin has not heard this before.

   The arms-master's face closes like the castle gate before a storm. "I'll see you below, young Creslin. Her grace will see you after you pack up the sword and finery."

   Creslin is less than certain that he wishes to face his mother-or Llyse-right now. But he has little in the way of choice, not since his mother is the Regent of the Western Reaches and the ruler of Westwind and of all the peaks that can be seen from the high castle, not to mention the dozens more that cannot be seen.

   At the same time, he is more than eager to escape from the soft silks and leathers that have been fitted for him. Everything has been packed, including his guitar, except the sword and the last ceremonial outfit he wears. He has saved the Guard blade he has practiced with for the trip. His mother would not deny him the right to a solid blade for self-defense. He hopes.

   Even before the arms-master has left his room, he begins to strip off the green cotton shirt and matching thin leather trousers, ignoring the lingering look from Heldra as he flings them upon the green-and-silver coverlet and begins to pull on the guard leathers. Glancing up, he catches her stare.

   She turns brusquely.

   Creslin shakes his head. "Even Heldra . . . was Fiera right?" He does not wish to consider the tightness of his mother the Marshall's words, but he stuffs himself into the heavy leathers more violently than necessary.

   Then he starts to fold the ceremonial outfit before dropping it on the bed. Galen will scuttle in and pack it while he talks with his mother.

   His head still shaking, he opens the door and leaves it open, walking toward the opposite wing of the quarters, past Llyse's closed door. His sister will not be there but in the field, deep within the winter of the Roof of the World, trying to prove her right and skills to succeed the Marshall-a test she must undertake and overcome each and every year.

   Creslin must worry only about palace intrigue, and about pleasing the sub-Tyrant. He snorts. Not if he can help it. Yet he knows so little about real life beyond the guards, beyond the Roof of the World.

   Before the sound of his knock dies away, the door is opened by a guard, gray-haired and muscled. She lets him enter, glancing at his guard blade.

   He makes his way into the study.

   "Creslin!" The Marshall stands. "Even with those leathers, you look good. Except for the hair. Sooner or later you'll have to let it grow."

   "Perhaps. Then again, things may change."

   She laughs, her manner less formal in the study with only a pair of guards, and those a room away. "Still fighting destiny?"

   Creslin grins ruefully. "Since I have no idea exactly what my destiny will be, I couldn't say what I'm fighting."

   She touches his shoulder, then withdraws her hand. "You'll do well in Sarronnyn, son, if you remember that you can run to destiny, but not from it."

   "That sounds like a rationalization of fate."

   She shakes her head. "You need to be off. Shall we go?"

   They proceed back out into the hall and down the stairs. Outside the castle's front entry, an honor guard awaits.

   The consort swallows. An honor guard? Not including the armed-escort squad? He steps away from the Marshall and toward the single riderless battle pony. The parka he has not worn lies across the saddle, with the cold cap and gloves. Galen has forgotten nothing, except that being a man means more than expertise with domestic details.

   "Have a good journey."

   Creslin inclines his head as he pulls on the parka. The cap and gloves follow, and he swings into the saddle. The Marshall, in her normal black leathers, stands at the top of the stairs, the wind ruffling her short, gray-streaked black hair.

   Creslin raises his arm in a farewell salute, then flicks the reins.

   The sound of hooves is the loudest noise as the cavalcade heads out through the open gates onto the high stone road across the corner of the Roof of the World and toward the nations below.

 

 

XII

 

"NOW WHAT ARE you going to do? The last thing we need is an alliance between Westwind and Sarronnyn. It's bad enough that the Black weaklings are muttering again about our abuse of the Balance. With Ryessa's power and hold on the southern trade routes, and that mad bitch Dylyss and her guards-"

   "You still don't understand, do you?"

   "What is there to understand? Ryessa needs some way to keep that . . . that abomination, her sister, under control, and both Creslin and Megaera need the appearance of being forced into the alliance. We need to keep them apart, and you need a lever over Montgren. That's the clear part. But how on earth this mad scheme will promote anyone's ends but Westwind's and Sarronnyn's, or your feelings about ..." The heavy, white-clad man continues for many elaborate sentences.

   "Enough. Your words are interesting. You feel that Ryessa's sister is an abomination because she was born to the power and chose the White route. Yet the White is right for you? Or is that because she is a western woman who was born to the Legend?"

   "The Legend, that involuted rationalization!"

   "Who had the idea for the betrothal insinuated?" The older and thinner man cuts off the intricate phraseology.

   "You did."

   "And what will happen if the boy never makes it to Sarronnyn?"

   "Accompanied by Westwind guards? Who'd be fool enough to tackle them?"

   "You're assuming that the boy will go along with the bethrothal. That is a rather large assumption. What happens if he flees to escape his well-planned destiny?"

   "The Westwind guards will chase him and capture him."

   "And if he won't be taken, or if he dies? Or if the Black ones attempt to help him?"

   "Can you be sure of that?"

   The thin man shrugs. "The seeds have been planted. Carefully, and he's good soil. After all, Werlynn's music was never chained. That was too bad; no one could sing like he could. He was a Black, I'm certain, but too smart to admit it."

   "This is far too theoretical ..."

   "No, it is very practical, because our success rests on the failure of the improbable alliance. When it fails, the Tyrant will have to destroy the ... as you call it, the abomination. Either that or recognize the White way, and she and Dylyss will be at each other's throats." He laughs softly. "The Duke already has pulled some of his garrison from Recluce. None of them can win ... no matter what happens now."

   "I would still prefer something more direct."

   "Like chaos against cold iron? Be sensible."

 

 

XIII

 

CRESLIN HAS NOT memorized the road as well as he would have liked, but there are two likely points where his plan might work, provided he can reach the skis and the pack undetected.

   He rides, as any valued consort would, in the middle of his entourage, behind six fore guards who trail the outriders by nearly a kay, and before the rear guard. There are no sleighs or wagons, for neither are used by the guards of Westwind, only the battle ponies or the skis.

   For Creslin, the ponies offer no answer. He is but an average rider for the guards. On skis, with the slight chance of winds at his call, and if the conditions are right . . .

   He clamps his lips as Heldra rides up beside him.

   "You ride silently, Lord Creslin."

   It is the first time she has ever addressed him as "Lord," and he ponders the meaning before answering. "I suppose it is a time of reflection. I had hoped to ski the winter field trails."

   "Not everything happens as planned. Not even the winds control their own course, for all their powers."

   Creslin does not start at the veiled reference to the way the winds behave around him. Despite his care, some rumors have always surrounded him, and his thoughtless behavior on the night of his betrothal announcement scarcely helped quell them.

   Still, he has two other small advantages: sheer nerve, and his long hours of practice with the skis on open slopes. His night sight may help later, but not in the afternoon, which is the earliest they will reach a point where he can flee.

   He does not respond further to Heldra's presence, and after a time she rides ahead to check with the fore guards. As he rides, he visualizes that point where the road runs exposed along the ridge line between the Roof of the World and the shield range. There the wind always blows. Over long winters and too-short summers, it has driven the snow on the north side into ice covered with hardpack, covered in turn with shifting, drifting, and treacherous powder that flows downward for kays into the top of the forest below. The grade is not particularly steep, not for the Westhorns, but there has never been a reason to ski a slope that leads only northward into the winds. The guards do nothing without reason.

   "You do not seem pleased to be the consort of the sister of the most powerful ruler in the west." Heldra's voice rises to surmount the whistle of the wind as she drops back again to accompany him.

   Thin, dry flakes stream across the raised stone that leads from the Roof of the World back to the shield peaks. To the west of the shield peaks lie the warmer lands of Sarronnyn, Suthya, and Delapra.

   "Should I be?"

   "Does the Marshall have any choice? A dozen guards have tried to find a way to you." Her smile is brittle. "Sooner or later one of them would have succeeded. What would the Marshall do with an heir, particularly if anything happen to Llyse? How would the easterners have viewed it?"

   Creslin has lost the logic. Instead, he considers how many nights he has spent alone, wondering if Fiera had been one of those guards. How likely was it that a virgin such as he would provide a guard with a child? "That has to be an excuse," he says curtly. "No one can threaten the Marshall."

   "Does it really matter?" responds Heldra dryly.

   She has a point, he realizes. But he says nothing more, and in time Heldra rides ahead once more to check the fore guards.

   The sky remains filled with the shifting, dull-gray clouds of winter, and the wind has begun to pick up as they reach the long drop from the plateau that is the Roof of the World toward the ridge that will connect it to the shield peaks. There is no connection between that plateau and the barrier mountains that comprise the eastern half of the Westhorns, only the canyons and the howling winds.

   Creslin slows the battle pony slightly so that, in the descent, the pack ponies, those with the emergency skis, will close the gap. He also reaches out for the winds, catching a fragment, twisting it through his hair momentarily to ensure that he can before releasing the energy.

   Now he must ride and wait, ride and wait, and hope.

   The sky darkens, then lightens, as the guards and the consort they guard near the ridge that bridges the gap between the Regent of Westwind and the softer rulers of the lower world.

   The consort begins to lift those energies he can control to pull loose snow from the north side of the ridge until even Heldra can scarce see her hand before her face. Then he reaches out for his pack, pulls it clear and onto his back.

   His pony is barely ahead of the left-hand pack animal as he leans back. The skis are too tightly bound to wrench free. He drops lightly from his mount and slaps it on the flank, then slashes with his knife to free the skis, still walking quickly to keep up with the pack beast.

   His own mount stops, and he dodges to get around the beast, grasping the reins with one hand and threading them over the arm that holds the knife. The arrangement works, even as the blowing snow screens him. At least both ponies are moving, and no one has noticed his actions. Not yet.

   The first ski hangs loose. He leaves it hanging and works on the second until it too is loose. He pulls both skis free, almost sliding on the slippery stone underfoot, tottering for a second while trying to match steps with the pack pony and keep the wind whipping the snow.

   "Where's the consort?" bellows Heldra. Creslin looses his pony's reins, knowing the beast will stop and the rear guards will run into the empty-saddled animal. Then he clambers up on the low stone wall on the right side of the road and begins to tighten the thongs around his boots, first on the left ski, then on the right. As he tightens, he wills the wind to gust around him. "He's fallen off his mount!"

   "Find him!"

   "Can't see shit in this wind ..."

   ". . .the hell are you?"

   With the second ski as tight as he can make it, he yanks the heavy gloves from his belt and over his nearly numb fingers, then eases his weight off the stone and onto the skis, pushing away sharply so that he does not sink immediately into the deep powder.

   "Captain! He's off the road! The skis are missing!" Creslin wobbles, the powder piling to his knees before his desperate weight shift and downward momentum bring the ski tips upward. He is moving, the wind tearing at his face, his eyes, his body-reaching even through the heavy parka.

   He totters at a scraping on the right ski but leans left and back, slowly forcing his track at an angle to the slope. Heading straight downhill would be a death sentence, even for him.

   Scccttttccchhh . . .

   Once more he corrects, leaning into the hill, hoping he can maintain his balance at least until he is out of easy range of the guards. With only a few pair of skis left to them, he has a chance-more of a chance now, in the kind of terrain he knows-than in the intrigues of court life of the west.

   Rrrrrr . . . scttttt . . .

   A mass of rocks appears out of the lighter curtain of snow ahead, and he begins a sweeping turn, the only kind he dares.

   The wood vibrates under his boots; the thongs bite through the heavy boot leather; but he stays on the skis through the turn and into the narrow, snow-filled bowl downhill.

   Behind him stretch the twin tracks of his skis, arching down the snow that cover the rock and ice beneath, not that he can afford to look back. Instead, he concentrates on the powdered surface ahead: untouched, virgin like him, but with hidden depths he would rather not find at the moment.

   Also like him, he reflects with a grim smile, nearly frozen in place by the wind, for he still flies downhill too fast to control the air that slashes at his waterproofed and underquilted leathers and unprotected face.

   Frumppp . . .

   As he lurches, flying, he tucks the short skis as close to his body as possible and rolls into a .ball, flailing . . .

   When he comes to rest, his buttocks are smarting and one ankle is twisted sharply. Snow is wedged in improbable parts of his body, and his torso is lower than his legs.

   Slowly he twists around, levering the skis over himself and to the downhill, even though he cannot see. Cold snow is packed against his bare back where the quilted leathers and wool undershirt have ridden up.

   His footing semi-secure, Creslin wipes the snow from his face, studies the area around him. He has rolled nearly a kay downhill, stopped at last by a raised snow hummock through which poke a few thin branches of elder bushes.

   He pauses, wiping both the instant ice-sweat and snow from his forehead. Above the silver eyebrows, a single lock of silver hair falls across the unlined forehead from under the hood of his leather and quilted parka.

   His body, still too soft for what he is putting it through, let alone what must follow, rests on the threshed snow he has carried downhill with him.

   Less than a hundred cubits downhill, the evergreen forests begin. He takes a deep breath and checks his pack, relieved that it has clung to him. So has the short sword in its shoulder harness. Creslin struggles upright, ridding himself of the clinging snow, distinctly less powdery and dry than on the slopes where he began his wild descent.

   His ankle is sore, but not tender to the touch. He eases himself onto the skis and makes his way down toward the forest, careful stride after careful stride, knowing that he must keep moving to outdistance the determined guards who follow him as though their lives depend upon it.

   His skis swirl the powder like the wind. As he passes, the air congeals behind him, and the winterseed beneath the frost line draws deeper into the thin, stone-hard soil. He pushes onward until he is nearly a kay into the forest, panting with every sliding stride.

   After a time, he stops to concentrate, and the wind rises behind him. On the slopes above, the snow re-forms into an unbroken expanse, almost as pristine as before a fleeing consort crashed through it. His breath continues to rasp through his lungs like an ice saw, for brushing the winds across his tracks is more effort than physically moving himself.

   He rests, leaning against a dark-trunked fir whose branches do not spread until far above his head, trying to breathe deeply and evenly through his nose rather than gasping for breath, remembering the damage that air will do to his lungs with too much deep mouth-breathing.

   He cannot rest long, and he begins his strides once more even as the shadows of the twilight increase, even as he looks for a place of shelter and some way to conceal his tracks. While he can see in the depths of the looming snow-lit night, his legs ache, and his jaw is sore from the effort of keeping it closed so as to protect his lungs.

   In time, Creslin locates another clump of elder bushes, and, after removing the near-frozen thongs that hold boots to skis, he uses one ski to dig down into the natural hollow beneath a frozen overhang. Between the oil cloth, the winter quilt, and the protected space, he will be warm enough. Not comfortable, but warm enough to survive.

   As he pads the hollow where he will sleep with mostly dry needles over the fir sprigs he has carefully placed, a shadow flickers in the comers of his eye. Barely, just barely, he does not jump. Instead, he moves his head slowly around to view the pair of spruces where the figure might lurk. The trees stand perhaps ten cubits from his hollowedout den.

   Between the branches of the low, bluish-needled trees there is a distance of less than two cubits, an expanse untouched even by hare prints. Behind the spruces, the wind gusts shuffle and reshuffle the white powder that has already covered most of the lines left by Creslin's skis.

   Unmoving, he watches, his left hand ready to pull the sword from the scabbard set on the pack by his feet. The wind reshuffles the fine ice dust again, moaning without tone in the darkness that has dropped on the high forest.

   Creslin sinks into a lower profile within his hollow, drawing pack and sword within, still watching the silence.

   Wooooooooo . . .

   He ignores the bird of prey, wriggling only his toes to warm them within his still-dry boots.

   Click ...

   A frozen limb, or a pine cone, drops against a tree trunk.

   Wooooooo . . .

   The shadow is back, although it appears from nowhere.

   Creslin sucks in his breath silently, for the shadowy figure wears no parka, stands on the powdered snow crust without making a track, and stares across the space between them. She wears but thin trousers and a high-necked and long-sleeved blouse. She is clearly female. Her eyes burn.

   Creslin stares back, but says nothing.

   Then the shadow is gone as if it had never been. Creslin shivers, for he has never seen the woman before, nor one like her. Yet she hunts him. Of that he is certain.

   Although he is not cold, he draws his parka around him. The morning will be early, and he has hundreds of kays upon hundreds of kays to go before he can escape the regent of Westwind and the Marshall of the Roof of the World. And that is just the beginning.

   But first, he must escape. If he can ever escape. He purses his lips, studies the two spruces for a last time before leaning back into his den, fully out of the wind. Wooooooo ... Click . . .

 

 

XIV

 

EVEN BEFORE DAWN, Creslin wakes stiff, but pleased that no shadows await him, female or otherwise.

   Moving slowly in air so cold and still that the crystals of his breath fall like snow upon his parka sleeves, the would-have-been consort wriggles his toes to ensure they are still functional before he extracts the small packet of battle rations from his pack, chewing the dried-apple slices first. Each small bite is a chore for his dry mouth.

   He moistens his lips with a thin trickle of water from the melt bottle carried in his trousers. When he is finished, he scoops more snow into the bottle and replaces it, then nibbles on a piece of hard cheese from his pack. The remaining dried fruit and cheese he repacks.

   Silent is the high forest, except for the faintest whisper of branches and breeze stirring the dry powder snow that lies on the heavier whiteness.

   Creslin must also meet other needs, and before too long, despite the chill such necessities will entail.

   The night winds have swept clear his tracks, or enough that it would take far more guards than accompanied him to find him. With that thought he proceeds, beginning with physical necessities, then with packing, and covering his shelter. Standing on the skis, he brushes away as much as he can of his traces, trusting to the snows and winds to do the rest.

   His pace is measured; he takes even, long-sliding stride upon long-sliding stride. Before the cloud-shrouded sun has lifted dawn into gray day, he has covered another three kays or more through the high forest that falls and rises, falls and rises, as he heads toward the northeast and the eastern barrier peaks of the Westhorns.

   The dry whisper of wind through fir branches, loose snow sifting down from the trees, and the faint scraping of his skis: the sole sounds he hears as his legs drive him onward.

   No roads, no trails, mark the northeast route he takes, and it is for this reason he takes it, knowing that where lies a surface uncovered by snow, or by a road, there the guards would find him.

   Food? He has enough for an eight-day, in battle rations. Water? He has melted snow with body heat and drunk it before, in the winter training of the years before his mother declared such training unseemly.

   Slide, lift, slide . . . cubit after cubit, until it is time to rest. Then slide, lift, slide . . . slide, lift, slide.

   The gusts from the north rise with the day and rattle loose another frozen cone. Underneath the forest giants-spruces so enormous that his arm span would not circle even a third of the smaller trunks-the snow is uneven, the light muted.

   Creslin concentrates on following ridge lines, on holding toward the north, using the pyramidal peak in the distance as a guide when there are breaks in the trees sufficient to see the barrier peaks.

   Slide, lift . . .

   Frummmp . . .

   The cold powder sifts inside his parka, chilling his neck while relieving the heat of his exertion. He struggles to right himself in the waist-deep depression into which he has plowed. At first he slides in even more deeply, until he is engulfed nearly chest-deep by the heavy powder. A fir limb offers hope, and he pulls on it gently, trying to lever himself upward. The limb breaks, and more snow sifts against his chest, no longer even half-welcome in its chill.

   With a sigh, Creslin begins the slow process of easing himself out of the deeps, realizing that no quick pullouts are possible. Inching the skis-now bearing stones' worth of snow above their tips-sideways, he pauses, takes a deep breath. Again he inches the unseen skis toward his right, until finally he can feel the frozen ground against his leg and hip.

   Once more, he rests. Then he grasps the narrow trunk of the spruce sapling. It bends but does not break as he draws his boots and skis out of the deeper snow.

   In time, his wool-lined leather trousers damp from snow and pressure, he lies draped on more solid snow, his breath rasping as the wind rises and icy flakes drift through the high branches and down upon his woolen cap and dampened soul.

   He sips from the narrow bottle that he soon refills with snow and places in the special trouser pocket, gnaws upon hard, half-frozen cheese, and takes a deep breath.

   "Onward, Creslin, you noble idiot ..."

   Noon, or its approximation, and dusk fall too close together. In the growing dimness, despite ever more frequent rests, Creslin's legs ache continually. He falls frequently, even on the gentle downhills.

   The barrier mountains look to be no closer, and the wind continues to rise, driving harder and thicker whiteness into Creslin's face.

   Slide, lift, slide . . .

   Is that a shadow behind the tall fir? Or behind the slender spruce?

   Slide, lift, slide . . .

   Frummmmppp . . .

   "Enough ... is ... enough."

   Creslin sits upon the snow, untwining the leather thongs, knowing that he cannot get back on the skis.

   Twenty cubits downhill, through nearly waist-deep snow and the falling white curtain, he finds a fallen trunk. It will have to do.

   In time, with frozen needles, the crushed branches beneath the trunk, and the striker in his belt pouch, he manages a small fire to warm himself as he prepares another hollow, one which, when lined with small branches and ample needles, may prove warmer than the last. He forces himself to eat and drink, and then not to sleep immediately, but to carve small branches with the knife and feed the small fire that helps warm him against wind and snow.

   The snow hides the shadows; the flakes fall so furiously that no traces of a trail can survive.

   Creslin wonders, not for the first time, whether he will either.

 

 

XV

 

"THERE is STILL no word from either the road posts or our sources at Westwind. The Marshall refuses to declare mourning, but half the guards are wearing black on their sleeves when they're not around her."

   "It is as though he vanished. How could she have let that happen? She doesn't even realize what he is." Frewya looks perplexed.

   "Do you know that for a fact?" asks Ryessa.

   "What do you mean?"

   "Westwind must always be held by the daughter. That does not mean she does not love her son. Or that she is blind to what he is." The Tyrant frowns. "There was a rumor that Dylyss also had the talent."

   "That would be horrifying, if true."

   "Why? She's bound not to use it. Besides, that's not the issue, although it would explain-"

   "Why did she let him ski into the winter storms?"

   "Frewya, the boy was allowed to train with the guards, at least until I inquired. He could out-ski most of them. Our sources indicate that when he was refused permission to work out with them, he copied their workouts on his own. He was taught blade-work, or so we were told, in order to protect his honor and to deflect any criticism by the easterners. You saw what he did with a blade here. Yet after that, the Marshall had him taught more by the guard arms-master. I'm sure that the rationale was that after the episode here, he needed even greater skill. How convenient. He was also taught the traditional skills of numbers and rhetoric, and the old Temple tongue." She smiles a smile that is colder than most women's frowns. "And he does have some mastery of the winds, or so Megaera has assured me."

   "But the guard source insisted he was not up to guard standards with blades. That is what you told me."

   The older woman shrugs. "That may be true. How many men, even easterners, are up to guard standards?" Her face turns colder. "But I suspect he is better than most Westwind guards, given his parenting. Dylyss tends to omit the important details."

   "You're saying that she had him taught enough to survive on his own?"

   "Only if he wishes-she could not teach desire. He is bound to be naive about the ways of the world. Experience cannot be taught. She saw more than she was supposed to here, but even then, she refused to make it easy for him. She makes it easy for no one." Ryessa pauses. "Still, our turn will come."

   "Insist that she find him!"

   "How?" asked the Tyrant dryly. "How would we force the Marshall? With our might of arms?"

   "What if he died on the mountain? Or what if he makes it across the Westhorns? Or even the Easthorns?"

   "I don't think he died. After all, Megaera is still alive. I'm tempted to take her to Bleyans and strike the bracelets. She has to find him, you know, like the Furies. As for the easterners-if he makes it that far, and if Megaera finds him, in time they will regret it."

   "You aren't planning to take on the magicians?"

   "Why should I? Let us see what he can do, especially once Megaera is after him." "Would the guards ..."

   The woman in the high chair shrugs. "Ask them, or find him, if you can. If not-"

   "That is a dangerous game."

   "Do we have any choice? Each year the wizards drive their road that much nearer us." The woman with the cold green fire in her eyes that complements the white-blond flame of her hair watches as her advisor departs.

   In another room, a red-haired woman stares into the mirror that brings forth no reflection, only swirling gray.

   Just one image, one clear moment-that is all she has glimpsed, the image of a man buried in snow-before the pain had become too great to hold the link.

   Each time she reaches out, the bracelets burn, but she only bites her lips when they glow red-hot and when she can no longer bear the heat. Now her eyes flicker toward the iron-bound door, and they burn with a heat deeper than the iron on her wrists.

 

 

XVI

 

As HE SEES the clearing on the hillside, Creslin pushes slightly harder, despite the drudgery of forcing the skis through snow that has become steadily heavier and wetter as he has moved eastward and gradually lower. He has followed the ridge lines as much as possible.

   The warm weather of the past two days has made sleeping damp and uncomfortable and the traveling slow. Outside of the several deer, a handful of snow hares, a few scattered birds, he has seen no living creatures. No other travelers, not even a trail. Through the trees, the eastern barrier peaks appear less than another range of hills away.

   Now, nearly an eight-day after escaping the Roof of the World, he is almost through his meager supplies, and his jacket and trousers hang noticeably looser on his frame.

   "Even Heldra would feel that I'm not carrying extra weight . . ." Talking to himself helps, at least some of the time.

   The massive spruces and firs of the high forest have given way to thinner-trunked pines and firs, interspersed with oaks and other bare-limbed trees he does not recognize.

   His skis almost catch on a branch scantly covered by the heavy snow, and he lurches, but regains his balance. He listens. He hears nothing except the whispers of the wind, and those whispers bear no news. He studies the opening in the trees ahead but discerns no tracks, no structures.

   Then he wipes his forehead. Even with his parka strapped to his pack, even in the shadows of the hill forests, travel during the day is hot.

   Finally he slides the skis between the gaps in the trees and through a scattering of sparse branches poking up through the snow until he stands in unshadowed winter sunlight. The line of blackened trunks marching downhill bears witness to the reason for the clearing.

   Creslin smiles. While the fire may have burned unchecked, the path of the devastation is to the northeast, and the snow, while heavy, is mainly open. He squints through the brightness of the mid-morning sun, a glare to which his eyes are unaccustomed. A narrow line of brown winds around the base of a hill and toward the barrier peaks and the east.

   He shakes his head in wonder. Somehow, in some way, he has managed to find the trade road to Gallos. At least that is what he thinks it is. After withdrawing his hand from his heavy glove, he finds the melt bottle and takes a drink, careful to kneel on his skis and to replace what he has drunk with some of the cleaner snow.

   After straightening up, Creslin brushes his finger across his uneven growth of beard; silver like his hair, he suspects, but he has brought no mirror. With a sigh, he puts the glove back on.

   One way or another, he will reach the trade road by evening. Then his problems will really begin. While the road is beyond the control of the Marshall, he will have to avoid any guards she may send looking for a silver-haired youth. For he knows only too well that he is not a man . . . not yet.

   With a glance behind him at the distant clouds overhanging the Roof of the World, he glides forward and begins the descent toward the valley and the road beyond.

   Leaning, shifting his weight, he peers ahead, trying to anticipate the rough patches, seldom even having to turn because the heavy snow is so slow under the wooden skis. With each instant, he is farther from Westwind and from the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn. In time, through turns, lurches, and one fall-which leaves a damp stain on his leathers from his left leg to his shoulder-he glides, strides, and puffs his way through the snow and thicker underbrush until he can once again see the lower line of trees that marks the road.

   By now the skis are heavy, the snow heavier, and the scraping of the branches, needles, and other debris beneath the snow more frequent. He slows to a halt and wipes his forehead with the back of his glove. His wool undershirt is damp, more from sweat than from snow. The lack of wind in and among the trees makes the day seem unusually warm.

   The ground before him slopes gradually uphill toward where he believes the road to be. With a sigh, he starts out again, plodding uphill. Here the trees are farther apart, creating patches of ice and frozen, exposed branches and bushes.

   Creslin eases himself along and begins to unthong his skis, wiggling his toes and stretching first one foot, then the other, as the tension from the leather straps is lifted. Deciding to carry the skis until he can see whether the road in fact lies over the hill crest, he marches across snow that barely covers the toes of his boots and plunges through white-crusted surfaces into powder nearly to his knees.

   After all his uneven progress, he arrives, breathing hard, on a level stretch. Less than two dozen cubits away is the road he had observed from the hills behind him. Creslin sets down the skis and ponders.

   He first strips off the leather thongs, winds them into a ball, and places them in his pack. Then he hides the skis in a deadfall, for they would be a giveaway. The sword he leaves in the scabbard strapped across the pack.

   Less than ten cubits from the road, he stands in snow halfway to his knees, snow that would have melted were it not shaded by the pines. Terwhit . . . terwhit.

   The call of a bird he does not know, for there are few birds indeed upon the Roof of the World, whispers through the bare branches of the oaks and the green needles of the pines.

   Terwhit ...

   With the gentle echo of the unseen bird still in his ears, he steps toward the road, if he dares to call it a road-more like two clay tracks surrounding a center space of dirty white. The clay lanes represent the sun's light upon the two wagon wheel tracks, melting them outward until each is nearly a cubit wide. The center snow is marked with irregular holes remaining from earlier footprints.

   Creslin studies the road and the prints-just a single wagon and one rider, perhaps a pair of travelers walking, all of them heading to the west several days ago.

   At least the day is pleasant, and walking on the cold and packed clay of the road will be a welcome change from slogging through the damp snow of the lesser mountains. He does miss the crisp cold of the Roof of the World and the easier strides across dry power.

   "Do you?" he asks himself, recalling the powder-filled pits he had tumbled into. "Maybe not everything ..." He glances back along the winding road to the west. Nothing. His footsteps carry him from the snow that is little more than ankle-deep by the roadside onto the dark surface. Underfoot, the clay gives way, as if the mud is neither fully frozen nor completely loose.

   He turns to the east, the sun at his back, and stretches out his legs. After so much time on skis, it will be good to walk for a while. The novelty will pale quickly, he knows, especially as the sun stands low in the western sky.

   Are there any way stations on this road that should lead to Gallos? He does not know, nor does he know whether it would be wiser to use them or to avoid them. He does know that the coins in his belt pouch will not go far and that the heavy gold chain concealed within the belt itself is too valuable to display. Even a single link would betray his origin and make him a target. More of a target, he corrects himself.

   At least the guards have not reached this far east. Not yet.

 

 

XVII

 

CLUNUNNNG . . . CLUNNGGG . . .

   The impact of hammer and heavy steel chisel on cold iron echoes through the near-deserted smithy.

   A red-haired woman kneels on the stone pavement, one wrist extended onto the anvil.

   "That's one, your grace." The smith holds the heavy hammer and glances from the woman in traveling woolens kneeling before the anvil to the blond woman wearing the white of the Tyrant.

   "Go ahead. Strike the other," orders Ryessa.

   The kneeling woman extends her other wrist to the iron, her lips tightly pressed together.

   "As you wish, your grace." But the smith shakes her head. The hammer falls.

   "Thank you." As she rises, the redhead's words are addressed to the smith. She turns to the Tyrant. "And you also, sister."

   "An escort awaits you, Megaera."

   "An escort?"

   "To Montgren. I thought it would make your task somewhat easier. I prevailed upon the Duke-"

   "What did it cost you?" Megaera's fingers touch the heavy scars on her wrists, almost as if she cannot believe that the iron bonds are gone.

   "Enough." The Tyrant's tone is sardonic. "I hope you and your lover are worth it."

   "He's not my lover, and he never will be." The Tyrant shakes her head. "Who else could there be?"

   "You think that I intend to let you and Dylyss dictate my life? I may have to keep Creslin alive to save myself, but that doesn't mean I have to turn my body over to a mere man as if I were . . . a bond slave."

   "That's not what I meant. Besides, you'll repay me, in oh-so-many ways."

   Megaera raises her hands, and the Tyrant steps back involuntarily.

   "Yes, my sister dear," the redhead responds, "you are right to fear me, but I pay my debts, and I'll pay this one."

   "Don't try to repay me until you have left the western lands. There are three watches upon you."

   "I scarcely expected less." Megaera has dropped her hands. "And in a strange way, I do owe you." She pauses. "Unlike you, I have never forgotten that we are sisters." She walks toward the stone stairs that lead to the stables. Unseen bands of fire still encircle her wrists, and her breath rasps in her throat. She swallows, but her head is held high.

 

 

XVIII

 

TERWUT . . .

   The echo of the unknown bird vibrates through the near dark as Creslin peers into the gloom before him, seeing only empty road and bare-limbed trees between the thin evergreens.

   The sun has dropped behind the still-looming shadows of the mid-ranges of the Westhorns far earlier, not long after Creslin had set foot upon the scarce-traveled trade road to Gallos. In the lingering light, he has walked perhaps another four kays along the gently turning road.

   Real evening descends, and no inn appears out of the gloom. Despite his sturdy boots, his feet feel the hardness of the frozen road clay with each step. For all his tiredness, Creslin keeps his tracks well within the hard clay patches upon the road rather than in the snow, determined not to leave a betraying trace for the guards should they have . pushed this far eastward.

   Has it been that far? How many kays has he covered in the more than eight days since he threw himself off the Roof of the World?

   His thoughts drift back to his lessons, back to the Legend. Why did the angels come to the Roof of the World? Were men really so blind? How could anyone believe that either men or women had the right to rule by their sex?

   He continues to put one foot before the other, looking all the while for a sheltered place in which to spend the night. Somehow, beyond his flickering vision, he can sense a structure. Not an inn, for there is no warmth to surround it, but ... something.

   Through three long turns of the road he trudges, feeling the strength of the mental image increase, until his eyes confirm his senses. The way station, half-buried in snow, has a solid roof and a squared arrangement of timbers and planks that can be tugged to cover the entrance.

   Creslin approaches and steps over the drift in the stone-framed opening and peers inside. A small stack of dust-covered logs rests by the narrow hearth under the blackened chimney stones.

   "Good enough ..."

   Setting his pack on the cold stones, he begins to peel slivers of wood from the thinnest log until he has a pile at the back of the hearth. He steps back outside, breaks off several green fir branches and carries them within. His efforts with the striker are successful, and soon a small fire warms the hut. Later, he enjoys hot tea and nearly the last of his field rations. In time, he sleeps, his body relaxing in the comparative warmth.

   Before dawn, he awakes with a shudder. Has something been searching for him: a white bird flying in a blue sky? Or a mirror filled with swirling white? For those are what he remembers, and the memories are stronger than a mere dream.

   "A white bird ..." Still within the winter quilt, he shakes his head. First a shadowy woman, and now a white , bird? Guilt? Is that what he feels? For leaving his sister? For thwarting his mother the Marshall? Or is he suffering from exposure and hunger so that his mind is creating such illusions? And the mirror? What does the mirror mean?

   Creslin takes a deep breath. The image of the woman he saw, long before exposure or hunger could have affected him. But the bird, the white bird, and the mirror-they could only have been a dream.

   Is his whole life based upon dreams? Is everyone's? Dreams of a Legend? Dreams of a better time, and of a better place named Heaven? What really is he . . . besides a youth not yet a man who seems to fit nowhere?

   His stomach growls. He draws himself from the quilt and into his boots and parka.

   Outside the rough door barrier, in the gray darkness just before dawn, the wind moans. Creslin reaches into that grayness and touches the wind, samples the chill, and nods slowly. A dark day will dawn, leaden and windy but without snow, at least not until later.

   After refolding and packing his cloak, he eats the remaining honey grain bar and a small lump of rock-hard yellow cheese, washing down the cheese with water from his melt bottle.

   After sealing his pack, he brushes the ashes of the fire into a pile at the back of the hearth with an evergreen branch. He uses the same branch to obscure his steps through the snow from the road. With a few gusts of wind and a day or so, no one will know when the hut was last employed.

   A hint of pink tinges one corner of the heavens, then fades into the dull gray of a cloudy day. Creslin's legs stretch out toward the eastern barrier peaks of the West-horns, whose less-angled slopes rise not more than a handful of kays from where he walks.

   A twinge in his shoulders reminds him of how far he has already carried his pack, although it is lighter now. With a deep breath that billows white fog before his face, he continues, even step upon even step, toward the east, his boots following the wagon tracks that have melted and refrozen, melted and refrozen.

 

 

XIX

 

"There were in Heaven in those days rulers of the angels, and the rulers had rulers above them, and, in turn, those rulers had rulers over them.

   "More than half of the angels of Heaven were women, yet only some of the lowest of the rulers were women; fewer yet of those rulers of rulers were women; and none of the highest rulers were in fact women, nor even the Cherubim nor the Seraphim.

   "The angels of Heaven were each like unto gods, and each could throw thunderbolts from a hammer held in her hand; each could travel vast leagues in chariot drawn by fire, either over the ground or through the skies.

   "So when it came to pass that the angels of Heaven girded themselves for the battle with the demons of the light, those who were women asked this thing: For what reason do we fight the demons?

   "The rulers of the rulers of the angels replied: We fight the demons of the light because they opposeth us.

   "And the angels who were women asked again: For what reason do we fight the demons?

   "They revere the light of chaos and they opposeth us, responded the Cherubim; and the rulers were sore affronted at the question.

   "Still a lower ruler, an angel, yet a woman, bearing the name of Ryba, called for an answer from the Seraphim: The demons seeketh not our lands nor our lives, yet you would sacrifice our children, and our children's children, because the demons are not as we are.

   "There can be no peace between angels and demons, not in the firmament of Heaven, not in the white depths of Hell, answered the Seraphim, girding up their loins and clasping unto themselves the swords of the stars that are suns and the dark lances of winter that shatter lands with their chill.

   "You declare there can be no peace, when there has been peace, and you cannot yet answer why that peace mayest not continue. Thus persisted Ryba of the angels.

   "And the Seraphim and the Cherubim were most wroth, and they gathered unto them all the angels that were men, and the white mists that tell of the truths that are within men and within women, be they angels or mortals. And they encircled all of the angels within the white clouds.

   "Yet Ryba and lesser of the angels who were women broke from the circle and gathered themselves, their possessions, and their children unto themselves and unto their chariots, and they departed Heaven in their own way.

   "The Cherubim and the Seraphim drew unto themselves all the angels that remained and armed all with the swords of the stars and the lances of winter, and carried destruction and night unto the demons of light.

   "Across the suns that are stars, and even through the depths of winter between stars, the remaining angels pursued both the demons of light and the angels who had fled.

   "But the demons of light drew unto their own ways and resources and builded for themselves the mirror towers of blinding light that dispersed back unto the angels the energies of the swords of the stars and the lances of winter.

   "The stars dimmed, and the firmament that contained Heaven and all the stars and even the darkness between stars shook under the powers of the Cherubim and the Seraphim, and the change winds roared across the faces of the waters and blotted out the lights.

   "Yet the demons were not dismayed, and mounted into their towers and hurled them against the angels, and again the firmament trembled and tottered, and this time, the stars fell into winter, and Heaven was rent in many places, and smoke that poisoned even the angels rose from that burning, and the Cherubim and the Seraphim, and the host of the angels perished, as did all but the strongest of the demons of light.

   "Ryba, the least of the rulers of angels, thus became the last of the rulers, and the angels, having fallen from the stars after the time of the great burning, came unto the Roof of the World, where they gathered the winds for shelter and abided until the winter should lift.

   "Yet upon the Roof of the World, as a memory of the fall of the angels, winter yet remains.

   "So in that time, Ryba sent forth her people unto the southlands and the western ways, and told them: Remember whence you came, and suffer not any man to lead you, for that is how the angels fell ..."

-BOOK of RYBA

Canto 1, Section II

(Original text)

 

 

XX

 

THE INN BARELY distinguishes itself from the trampled ice and heaped snow. It squats in the center of what might be meadows in the summer, its low stone walls not more than eight or nine cubits high, topped with a steep-pitched roof of gray slate tiles.

   Creslin, his silver hair concealed by the oiled-leather parka hood he has tied tight as protection against the winds that have swirled around him for the past several kays, stands where the road widens out onto the flat valley holding the inn.

   From the structure's two chimneys-one at the right end and one in the middle-white and gray smoke forms a thin line, flattened by the wind and barely visible against the overhead clouds and the snow-covered slopes behind the inn.

   The sound of a horse's neigh echoes across the ice and the packed snow. Why would a horse be in .the stables so soon after midday? Unless the beast was part of the party that had preceded him to the inn. With a shrug, Creslin takes a deep breath and starts toward the long building. Smoke continues to rise, but no figures brave the gusting winds.

   A wooden door, braced with timbers, swings wide at the left side of the inn, and a bulky shape lumbers out and stops under the overhang of the eaves, facing Creslin and waiting.

   Creslin continues along the stone road until he is less than two rods from the hitching rail that is nearly buried with snow shoveled from the two clear paths at the front of the building. One path, wide and filled with frozen hoofprints, leads leftward to the heavy door behind the solitary man. The other, narrow and covered with boards, leads straight to the inn itself.

   Creslin glances to the left of the covered walkway, from where the odors of animals waft, and then to the right, where peeling paint on a battered board above a closed double door bears the imprint of a cup and a bowl.

   "Who's the traveler?" asks a voice from behind the doors.

   "Sort of thin to be out in the Westhorns alone. Bet he's a plant for Frosee's band." The heavy man grunts from before the stable door, his voice rumbling, his accent on the first syllables of the Temple tongue, a sure sign of a free trader, according to Creslin's former tutor. The trader's hand rests loosely on the hilt of a belt knife.

   The inn door opens, then closes as a thin man wearing a sheepskin vest steps out.

   "Nan. Clothes are his, but they're loose, like he's lost weight." The thin man wears a hand-and-a-half sword across his shoulders, much the way Creslin wears his shorter blade.

   Creslin looks from the heavy man to the thin man and back again.

   "Doesn't look all that strong," rumbles the big man as he steps forward.

   Not knowing exactly what to do, Creslin nods politely.

   "You're right. The clothes are mine. But who is Frowsee?"

   "Frosee," corrects the big trader. "He's a bandit." Creslin steps onto the boardwalk. The thin man does not move.

   "I beg your pardon," Creslin states quietly.

   "Boy has manners, at least," observes the big man.

   The thin man studies Creslin without speaking.

   Creslin returns the study, noting the mustached narrow face, the hard gray eyes, the heaviness in chest and gut that may signify a mail or plated leather vest, and the short knife that complements the long sword.

   "Younger son?"

   Creslin considers the question, then nods. "It was a little more complicated than that, but I had to leave." Even the incomplete truth gnaws at his guts, but he fights back the feeling and continues to watch the thin man, for he is the more dangerous of the two.

   "The blade?"

   "Mine."

   The thin man looks at Creslin again before turning.

   "You just going to let him in, Hylin?" grumbles the trader.

   "You stop him if you want. He's no danger to you, unless you meddle." The thin man opens the inn door.

   "So, boy . . . why are you here?" The trader waddles toward Creslin.

   "Because it's on the way east. Now, if you will excuse me . . ." He steps around the trader toward the inn door.

   "I was talking to you!" A heavy hand grasps his shoulder.

   Creslin finds that he has reacted, that the guard drills have fulfilled their purpose in a way not intended by Aemris or Heldra. He finds himself looking over the prone figure of the trader.

   "I'll have your head ..."

   "I think not," interrupts a new voice. A woman, gray-haired and heavyset, stands in the open doorway. "The young fellow was trying to be polite, and you grabbed him. Besides, Derrild, you haven't got sense enough to come out of the west-blows. Your man told you not to mess with the young fellow. He could see a fighting man, even if you couldn't. Young doesn't mean unskilled." She turned to Creslin. "And you, young fellow, looks and skill are fine, but coins are what buy hospitality."

   "I did not mean trouble, lady." Creslin inclines his head and upper body. "The tariff?" he asks in the Temple tongue, knowing that his accent differs from the innkeeper's.

   "The tariff?" The woman looks bewildered.

   "The amount for food and lodging."

   "Oh, the charges. Four silvers for a room, another silver for each meal."

   While Creslin can afford such charges, at least for a time, he knows the numbers are high and tries to let his face show some astonishment. "Five silvers?"

   " Tis high, but we must pay dearly for the food and spirits."

   "Three would be larceny, kind lady, but five is high extortion. And that would be for a room fit for a queen."

   A smile crosses her face, perhaps at his language. "For a fine face such as yours, I would settle for mere larceny, and even throw in a hot tub. With so little trade, you can even sleep alone, though ..." Her eyes rake over him.

   "Humph," rumbles the trader, who has lurched to his feet. "Baths. A nuisance designed by women."

   "And a meal?" pursues Creslin, ignoring the innuendo.

   "And a meal. Without high spirits, though." Her voice turns harder as she lifts the broom. "You pay in advance."

   Creslin looks at the clouds overhead, then nods.

   "Come on in, before we lose all the heat from the fires."

   Once inside, with both doors firmly shut, the woman waits as Creslin fumbles out three silvers. He is thankful that the larger coins are concealed within the heavy travel belt.

   The room she leads him to contains one double-width bed, a table scarcely more than two hands wide, and a candle lamp. The stone floor is uncovered and the window barely more than a slit.

   "Even a pillow and a proper coverlet!" exclaims the gray-haired innkeeper.

   "You mentioned a bath?"

   "Ah, yes. The bath comes with the room."

   "And a good towel, I'd wager," Creslin adds cheerfully.

   "You will break us yet, young sir."

   "Perhaps we should just head for the bath," Creslin suggests, catching a whiff of himself.

   "As you wish."

   Creslin continues to carry both pack and sword, oblivious to the unspoken suggestion that he leave them in the room.

   When he sees the bath, Creslin understands the snort from the heavy trader. The small room contains two stone tubs into which hot mineral waters slowly flow from a two-spouted fountain. Despite the faint odor of sulfur, the hot water is more than welcome, and Creslin uses his straight razor to remove his sparse beard, nicking himself only once or twice.

   After the innkeeper leaves him by himself, he washes out his underclothes, wringing them as dry as possible before pulling on the spare undergarments from his pack and re-donning his leathers. Then he returns to his room.

   The towel and damp clothes he smoothes out across the footboard. After barring the door, he drops on the bed. Within moments, he is asleep.

   Cling . . . cling . . .

   At the sound of the bell, Creslin jerks upright. How long has he slept? All night? The darkness outside the window could mean either early evening or predawn. He sits up, fumbles the striker from his belt, and coaxes the candle into light. The clothes on the footboard remind him of his garb, and he rises and touches the garments. Too damp for morning, he decides.

   Finally he pulls on his boots, slings the pack across one shoulder, and unbars the door, stepping into the dimly lit hall.

   Four of the dozen tables in the Common Room are occupied. After taking a small table for two, Creslin eases the pack under the table and ignores the looks from the heavy trader and from a red-bearded man who sits at a circular table with a woman and three male blades.

   Another gray-haired woman, even thinner than the innkeeper, wipes her hands on a once-white apron as she eases up to Creslin's table. "We have a bear stew or a crusty fowl pie, and either ale or red wine. The wine is extra."

   "What would you eat?"

   "They're about the same. For another silver, there's a pair of lamb cutlets."

   The silver-haired youth smiles faintly, wondering if he could have bought the entire lamb for a silver. "Stew and ale."

   "Will that be all?"

   Creslin nods. As she scuttles past the hearth toward the kitchen, he glances toward the red-bearded man, who has returned to the meat before him, presumably the lamb. One of the blades, a grizzled man with a short salt-and-pepper beard and a single ear, glares back at Creslin, who returns the hostile look with a polite smile.

   The blade who had studied Creslin earlier at the inn's entrance begins to talk to the trader. Derrild shakes his head. Once, twice. Finally he nods, and the blade stands up.

   He steps over to Creslin's table. "Mind if I sit for a moment? Name is Hylin. Road guard for Derrild. He's a trader."

   Still waiting for the stew, Creslin gestures to the battered chair across from him.

   "You handled Derrild pretty easy there."

   "Rather stupidly," admits Creslin, still not comfortable with the Temple tongue. "I did not think."

   "You're from the far west, I take it?"

   Creslin raises his eyebrows, not wishing to admit anything.

   Hylin shrugs. "You talk Temple like some fellows I knew from Suthya, but you're fair, and I never saw anyone with real silver hair before."

   "Nor I, either," laughs Creslin, though he has to quell his turning stomach as it reminds him of Llyse and a silver-haired man.

   "We're headed to Fenard, and then to Jellico. Derrild wouldn't be adverse to having another blade. He's tight. Probably wouldn't pay more than a copper a day, but he's got a spare mount. Berlis stayed in Cerlyn." The thin man looked at the floor. "Could be better than walking. Faster anyway."

   "You are worried?" Creslin senses the uneasiness in the other man, like a dark fog hovering behind his eyes.

   "Me? Devils be damned, I'm worried. A cart, two pack mules, and a fat trader, with just one blade?"

   Creslin nods. "Two would be the right number?"

   "Right. Three says Derrild's carrying jewelry and perfumes, and one and an empty saddle says that we're hurting."

   While he does not follow the logic, Creslin understands the feelings. "I am interested."

   "Show up at the second bell in the morning." Creslin raises his eyebrows again.

   "You are from a long ways away. Second bell is right after the early breakfast for the hard travelers. Same in all the road inns, leastwise from the Westhorns east. Cerlyn's as far west as I've been."

   "Second bell, then," Creslin affirms.

   The thin man starts to rise, then pauses. "You can ride?"

   "Better than I walk," Creslin responds with a chuckle.

   Hylin nods and walks back to Derrild's table, where he resumes his seat and begins talking in a low voice to the trader.

   Creslin shifts his attention to the tall man seated alone at another table for two in the far corner, dark-haired and with a mustache, but wearing no beard. After a glance, the silver-haired youth looks away from the white mist that looms unseen around the single figure.

   He almost laughs as he wonders what he would see were he to look at himself. Would the naivete be as obvious to others as it is to himself?

   "The white bird and the shadow woman . . . trouble for someone tonight ..."

   Creslin's ears burn at the low words, but he cannot distinguish from whose lips they issued, save that a man spoke them.

   With a thud, a chipped gray mug filled with a soapy-looking liquid lands on the table. The thin serving woman is already two tables past him, unloading the rest of the meal from her wooden tray onto the table of the largest group: the man and woman with the three male blades, clearly an eastern party, beyond the impact of the Legend.

   As he surveys the public room through the smoky haze from the fire and the kitchen, Creslin realizes that he is the only totally clean-shaven male in the inn. Most are bearded. Only Hylin and the dark man in the corner have no beards-only mustaches, and both seem clearly hired blades.

   Is that coincidence? And what does being clean-shaven mean?

   He takes a sip of the warm ale, carefully. His caution is rewarded as he is able to swallow that bitter sip rather than choke it down. As he waits for the stew, he listens, picking up fragments that those who spoke would not have believed could be overheard.

   "... swear those are leathers of the Westwind guard . . . woman playing at being a man?"

   "... heard him speak . . . doesn't sound like a woman."

   "... weather witch says a cold blow coming out of the north ..."