The Towers Of the Sunset by L.E. Modesitt Jr. Read Free Book Online

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