The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [19]
“You still don’t understand, do you?”
“What is there to understand? Ryessa needs some way to keep that . . . that abomination, her sister, under control, and both Creslin and Megaera need the appearance of being forced into the alliance. We need to keep them apart, and you need a lever over Montgren. That’s the clear part. But how on earth this mad scheme will promote anyone’s ends but Westwind’s and Sarronnyn’s, or your feelings about . . .” The heavy, white-clad man continues for many elaborate sentences.
“Enough. Your words are interesting. You feel that Ryessa’s sister is an abomination because she was born to the power and chose the White route. Yet the White is right for you? Or is that because she is a western woman who was born to the Legend?”
“The Legend, that involuted rationalization!”
“Who had the idea for the betrothal insinuated?” The older and thinner man cuts off the intricate phraseology.
“You did.”
“And what will happen if the boy never makes it to Sarronnyn?”
“Accompanied by Westwind guards? Who’d be fool enough to tackle them?”
“You’re assuming that the boy will go along with the bethrothal. That is a rather large assumption. What happens if he flees to escape his well-planned destiny?”
“The Westwind guards will chase him and capture him.”
“And if he won’t be taken, or if he dies? Or if the Black ones attempt to help him?”
“Can you be sure of that?”
The thin man shrugs. “The seeds have been planted. Carefully, and he’s good soil. After all, Werlynn’s music was never chained. That was too bad; no one could sing like he could. He was a Black, I’m certain, but too smart to admit it.”
“This is far too theoretical . . .”
“No, it is very practical, because our success rests on the failure of the improbable alliance. When it fails, the Tyrant will have to destroy the . . . as you call it, the abomination. Either that or recognize the White way, and she and Dylyss will be at each other’s throats.” He laughs softly. “The Duke already has pulled some of his garrison from Recluce. None of them can win . . . no matter what happens now.”
“I would still prefer something more direct.”
“Like chaos against cold iron? Be sensible.”
XIII
CRESLIN HAS NOT memorized the road as well as he would have liked, but there are two likely points where his plan might work, provided he can reach the skis and the pack undetected.
He rides, as any valued consort would, in the middle of his entourage, behind six fore guards who trail the outriders by nearly a kay, and before the rear guard. There are no sleighs or wagons, for neither are used by the guards of Westwind, only the battle ponies or the skis.
For Creslin, the ponies offer no answer. He is but an average rider for the guards. On skis, with the slight chance of winds at his call, and if the conditions are right . . .
He clamps his lips as Heldra rides up beside him.
“You ride silently, Lord Creslin.”
It is the first time she has ever addressed him as “Lord,” and he ponders the meaning before answering. “I suppose it is a time of reflection. I had hoped to ski the winter field trails.”
“Not everything happens as planned. Not even the winds control their own course, for all their powers.”
Creslin does not start at the veiled reference to the way the winds behave around him. Despite his care, some rumors have always surrounded him, and his thoughtless behavior on the night of his betrothal announcement scarcely helped quell them.
Still, he has two other small advantages: sheer nerve, and his long hours of practice with the skis on open slopes. His night sight may help later, but not in the afternoon, which is the earliest they will reach a point where he can flee.
He does not respond further to Heldra’s presence, and after a time she rides ahead to check with the fore guards. As he rides, he visualizes that point where the road runs exposed along the ridge line between the Roof of the World and the shield range. There the wind always blows. Over long winters and too-short summers, it has driven