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

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