The Towers of the Sunset by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Read Free Book Online Page A

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