The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [11]
Aemris and the Marshall turn toward him, both sets of eyes cold at his statement.
“He is, lad,” responds the minstrel, “but Sarronnyn looks down on him because he’s a man with a tabletop kingdom, and he’s angry because the Sarronese won’t give him more than token support against Fairhaven. He claims that he’s the only one left who hasn’t caved in and joined the White Wizards.”
“Is that true?” asks Creslin.
“Ah . . .” smiles the minstrel, with an odd and wrong smile, “he is but a man, and who is to say what exactly is true? It is certain that he pays Sarronnyn no tribute, and it is also certain that he has increased his army and the tax levies, to the point that his peasants, those who can, are leaving their fields for Spidlar and Gallos.”
“It’s that bad?” asks Aemris, turning her eyes from Creslin to Rokelle.
The minstrel does not answer immediately but instead takes another long sip of the lukewarm wine.
Llyse refills the empty cup.
“Is it that bad?” repeats the guard captain.
Rokelle shrugs. “You know what I know.”
The Marshall nods slowly and looks toward Aemris.
“What about Jellico?” asks Llyse. “Last year a traveler said that the city was being rebuilt.”
“It is not as grand as Fairhaven, but far more welcoming to those who sing,” observes Rokelle, between mouthfuls of cheese. “You should see the stonework . . .”
Creslin lets the man’s words drift by as he considers what he has heard this night: the guards laughing at the frailties of men; the Duke of Montgren standing alone against the White Wizards and being mocked by his female relatives; the Black Wizards silent; the Marshall and Aemris displeased with his questions. Under the cover of the table, his fingers tighten on the carved arms of the chair even as he leans forward with a pleasant smile on his face.
In time, the conversation dies and Creslin leans back, although the Marshall has already left, her face as impassive as Creslin has ever seen it.
Aemris turns toward him. “You start working with Heldra tomorrow. With blades.” Her voice is short, and she stands as she speaks. “You’ll need it all.” She bows to the minstrel and to the Marshalle.
Llyse turns with a puzzled look toward her brother.
Creslin shrugs. “You think they’d tell me? After all, I’m but a man.”
The minstrel sips the last of the wine as the consort and the Marshalle of Westwind rise. Llyse gestures to the guard at the end of the dais.
Creslin takes the inside stairs to his quarters, leaving the sleeping arrangements for the minstrel to his sister.
VIII
THE RED-HAIRED woman wearing the iron bracelets glances into the mirror, her lips tight. The surface wavers, but no image appears. In time she loses her concentration and plunges her wrists into the bucket beside her chair.
The hiss of the steam mingles with her sigh.
Later, after pulling the combs from her long red hair, she looks over at the miniature portrait of herself where it rests atop the ornate wooden desk. Ryessa had insisted that the artist paint her hair short, even though she has never bowed to the military fashion sweeping Sarronnyn. Her sister the Tyrant has never let reality interfere with the images necessary for a successful reign.
The redhead’s fingers stray toward her left arm. She wills the itch to depart, as she has willed for too long. Imagination? Her blood swirls with the roar of the winds.
“Still getting stronger, isn’t it?” The voice coming from the woman who has just entered is cold, as cold as though her ice-blond hair were indeed fashioned partly from the winter ice.
“I don’t feel much of anything,” the redhead lies.
“You’re lying.”
“So I’m lying. Hang me. You’d like to. You’re just offering me another form of bondage . . . maybe one that’s even worse than these.” She holds up her arms, letting the silks draw back. The iron slides away from the welts and scars. She lowers her arms, and the silks again conceal the marks.
“You still don’t give up?”
“How can I?” The redhead looks down. There is silence before she looks up.