The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [17]
“Ooffff . . .”
He staggers from the impact and finds himself half-falling, half-drawn against a blond guard, nearly as tall as he, nearly as strong.
“Fiera—”
“Sshhhh!”
Her lips burn his. Then they are standing separately, thrust apart by the practiced motions of her training as a Westwind guard. Creslin is sorry to lose the warmth he has so briefly held.
“Greetings, honored consort.”
“I’d rather be a guard.”
“Everyone knows that, including the Marshall. It doesn’t change things.”
“Fiera . . .”
Her eyes are level with his. “I could be sent to Northwatch for years for what I just did.”
Northwatch? For a kiss?
“Yes,” she answers, her narrow face severe in the shadows. “For 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 Recluce.”
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