The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [14]
“My, we are grim today,” prods Llyse.
“You aren’t the one they examine like a prized stud,” he murmurs between barely moving lips.
“You might as well enjoy it,” comes back her calm reply. “You don’t have much choice. Besides, it’s honest admiration.”
In the beginning, it might have been, when he insisted on joining the sub-guard exercise groups and on learning blades, and when he stole rides on the battle ponies. He knew, because he could not spend as much time at it, with all the demands for writing and logic placed on him by the Marshall, while he had the strength and basic skills, most of the guards he once held his own against could probably outride him in the field. Only with the blade could he continue to hold his own. Even Llyse, now, was receiving that concentrated field training he envied.
He almost shrugged. Then again, that was the point of it. The guards of Westwind could outride, outendure and outfight virtually anyone. They were why his mother the Marshall ruled the Roof of the World and controlled the trade routes connecting the east and west of Candar.
“. . . still a handsome boy.”
“. . . sharp like a blade. Cut your heart and leave it bleeding.”
“. . . not soft enough for me, thanks.”
Creslin can tell that Llyse is having trouble in refraining from smiling at his discomfort, and he tightens his lips.
“I’d still try him . . .”
“The Marshall would have your guts for breakfast.”
As they step up to the dais, Aemris rises from her seat at the far right end of the table. Four places are set.
“Your graces . . .” The guard commander’s voice is low and hard.
“Be seated, please,” indicates Llyse.
Creslin only nods, since any words from him are merely decorative.
Llyse raises her eyebrows. Neither she nor Aemris will seat themselves until he does. Then everyone will rise when the Marshall arrives. Creslin could keep all three of them standing. He has done it before, but tonight it is not worth the effort.
He sits at the end opposite Aemris, and Llyse lets out her breath slowly, in turn sitting next to her brother but in one of the two chairs facing the hall and the tables below.
Aemris turns to Llyse. “The winter field trials start the day after tomorrow.”
Llyse nods.
Creslin had hoped to participate in the trials, using the skis and holding to the winds that howled off the Westhorns—those winds that might give him an edge—but Aemris is saying that Llyse will be there and he will not. Still, he looks toward Aemris.
The Guard Commander ignores his glance, instead turning to the curtains behind Llyse and rising. Creslin and Llyse follow suit as their mother steps forward, raising her hands to prevent the assemblage from rising.
The dark-haired woman in the black leathers with the square face and well-muscled shoulders that belie the intelligence behind the dark flint-blue eyes glances at her guard commander, her son, and her daughter. Then she sits without ceremony.
A serving boy springs forward with two trays, and Creslin begins to pour the lukewarm tea from the heavy pitcher into the tumblers.
“Thank you.” His mother’s voice is formal.
“Thank you,” echo Llyse and Aemris.
He nods in return, pouring his own tea last and setting down the pitcher.
A low, roaring whisper rises from the guards and those below as they are served the same food as that of those on the dais.
Creslin’s eyes flicker down to the front tables, glad that the meal has stopped the ogling for the time. Llyse holds one of the platters. He spears three thick slices of meat from one end of it and a heavy roll from the other.
Another platter contains various honeyed and dried fruits and pickled vegetables. Though scarcely fond of the vegetables, Creslin takes his share, even if he will have to wash it down with tea.
“Creslin?”
“Your grace?”
“Aemris has doubtless indicated in her best manner that it will not be possible for you to participate in the field trials. That was my order.”
“I’m sure you had the best of reasons.”
“I did, and I do. Which I will announce shortly. Do you know the Tyrant of Sarronnyn?