The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [10]
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 Recluce?” 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