The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [130]
“This is the best I can do . . .” Hyel sets a rough-sawn, four-legged stool by the table.
“That’s fine.” Creslin carries it into the empty space between the tables, perhaps six cubits across. Then he returns to the small table and takes the guitar from its case and carries it to the stool, where he seats himself.
The whispers and mumbles die away.
Creslin lets his fingers caress the strings of the guitar, wishing that he had practiced more, but who has had time for practice? Finally he settles himself on the stool and looks out to the rough tables . . . to the Westwind detachment sitting on the near-windowless shoreward side, and to the Montgren keep soldiers gathered at the four trestle-style tables before the unshuttered open windows that carry in the chill breeze, salt, and the odor of fish from the harbor.
He smiles raggedly. No one smiles back, not even Megaera, who is seated next to Shierra. “I don’t know too many songs that don’t favor one group or another. So enjoy the ones you like, and ignore the ones you don’t,” he announces quietly. His fingers touch the strings.
Up on the mountain
where the men dare not go,
the angels set guards there
in the ice and the snow.
The guards they are women,
with blades out of steel,
and their hearts they are colder
than any ice you can feel.
Up on the mountain
where the trees do not grow,
the sun seldom shines
nor the rivers do flow.
From out of the Westhorns,
guards march from the stone.
Their blades are the fires,
that slice to the bone.
They’ll cut you and leave you
all bleeding and cold,
and no one will find you,
till the mountains grow old.
The rocks they will splinter,
and the snows will fall deep,
and the guards of the mountains
will hold to their keep.
Their castle will stand, dear,
till the whole world is white,
till the Legend’s forgotten,
with the demons of light.
Till my songs have been buried
in the depths of the nights,
and all the young men shun
the mountain’s chill heights.
Up on the mountain
where the men dare not go,
the angels set guards there
in the ice and the snow.
And there they will stay, dear,
till the whole world is white,
till the Legend’s forgotten,
with the demons of light.
Till my songs have been buried
in the depths of the night,
and none of the young men
seek out that cold height;
and none of the young men
seek out that cold height.
There is silence as Creslin finishes the song. Not muttering, just silence. The notes had been silver, with only a few traces of copper.
Rather than talk, he touches the strings and begins again.
. . . white was the color of my love,
as bright and white as a dove,
and white as he, as fair as she,
who sundered my love from me. . .
He pauses after finishing, stretching fingers that are already sore from lack of practice and hoping that he has recalled truly the words.
“Another one . . .”
The request is whispered, but the whisper carries even against the rustling of the breeze. He shrugs, resettling himself on the stool.
. . . sing a song of gold coins,
a pack filled up with songbirds,
a minstrel lusting after love,
and yelling out some loving words . . .
Finally a few faces smile as he finishes the silly song he learned so long ago, but the Westwind guards seem a bit chill. Creslin thinks, then takes a deep breath and begins, picking through the words.
Ask not what a man is,
that he scramble after flattery as he can,
or that he bend his soul to a woman’s wish . . .
after all, he is but a man.
As not what a man might be,
that he carry a blade like a fan,
and sees only what his ladies wish him to see . . .
after all, he is but a man . . .
He exaggerates the phrases and is rewarded with sardonic smiles from the Montgren soldiers and a chuckle or two from the older Westwind guards.
His fingers are sore, and he needs at least another song or two. But he stands for a moment, looking around for something