L. E. Modesitt - The Towers of the Sunset

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.