The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [2]
In turn, the silver-haired toddler hanging on to the stone arm of the chair bearing the green cushion glances from the silver-haired guitarist to the black-haired woman, and back again.
“Play another song of summer,” she orders.
“As you wish.”
As the notes cascade from the strings of the guitar, an unseen fire lifts the chill from the stone walls of the room, and even the guitarist’s breath no longer smokes in the dim afternoon of the Westhorns’ endless winter.
The toddler sees the notes as they climb from the strings into the air, lets go of the stone support and clutches at a single fragment as it passes beyond his grasp.
Neither the woman nor the guitarist remark upon his sudden drop to the gray granite beside the chair he has released. Nor do they notice the glimmer of gold he clutches within his pink fingers and how he turns to seek the light it bears.
Nor do they see the wetness in his eyes when the gold dissipates from within his grasp even as he watches.
His jaw set, the chubby-legged child struggles upright until he stands next to the chair that is his, his hands reaching out once more toward the order behind the sounds he sees and hears.
But the song of summer has come to an end, with tears unshed in the eyes of the guitarist.
Beyond the gray granite walls, the wind howls and . . . again . . . the snow falls.
IV
“I HAVE TO wear this?” Against the warm light that floods from the open double-casement window through the thin, close-woven silksheen of the flimsy dark trousers, the young man can see the outline of the man who stands holding the garment at the foot of the bed. “Galen, you can’t be serious.”
The older, round-faced man shrugs helplessly. “The Marshall ordered . . .”
The youngster takes the trousers and tosses them onto the bed next to an equally thin white silksheen shirt. His image— that of a slight, silver-haired youth in a light-gray flannel shirt and green leather vest and trousers—is framed in the full-length, gilt-edged mirror that hangs against the blond wood paneling. His eyes are a steady gray-green. The silver hair and fine features overshadow the wiry muscles beneath the flannel and the weapons calluses upon the strong, squarish hands.
“Why did she even bother to bring me? I’m no consort to be paraded around.”
Galen straightens out the clothes so they lie neatly upon the green-and-white-brocaded bedcover. “The Marshall thought that you should learn about Sarronnyn firsthand. And like it or not, you are a consort.”
“Ha. She has more in mind than that. Llyse will be the one who must deal with Sarronnyn.”
Galen shrugs again, almost helplessly, and his shoulder-length white curls bob. “Your grace, I can but follow the Marshall’s orders.”
The oak door connecting the spacious single room with the suite provided to the Marshall by the Tyrant swings open. A tall woman, slender and deadly as a rapier despite the flowing green silks that cover her figure, steps into the room. A single guard, her short-cut brown hair shot with gray, followers the Marshall, a pace behind.
The youth looks from the silksheen clothes to the Marshall and back to the clothes upon the brocaded spread.
The woman smiles faintly, but her eyes do not mirror her lips. “Creslin, if I am wearing silksheen, then you certainly can. The garments are a gift from the Tyrant, and spurning them will only make the negotiations that much more difficult. Unlike you, I prefer to save my resistance for those times when the issue matters.”
Her blue eyes are as hard as the dark stones of Westwind. The contrast between their adamancy and the green silks that flow around the lithe muscles—muscles she has developed and maintained over nearly four decades of training and warfare—reminds Creslin of the snow leopards that skulk the edges of the Roof of the World.
He inclines his head as he removes his green-leather sleeveless vest and lays it on the bed. “I will be ready in a moment.”
“Thank you.” She steps back through the entry to her suite but does not close the heavy oak door behind her.
Creslin tosses his flannel shirt