The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [20]
“You do not seem pleased to be the consort of the sister of the most powerful ruler in the west.” Heldra’s voice rises to surmount the whistle of the wind as she drops back again to accompany him.
Thin, dry flakes stream across the raised stone that leads from the Roof of the World back to the shield peaks. To the west of the shield peaks lie the warmer lands of Sarronnyn, Suthya, and Delapra.
“Should I be?”
“Does the Marshall have any choice? A dozen guards have tried to find a way to you.” Her smile is brittle. “Sooner or later one of them would have succeeded. What would the Marshall do with an heir, particularly if anything happen to Llyse? How would the easterners have viewed it?”
Creslin has lost the logic. Instead, he considers how many nights he has spent alone, wondering if Fiera had been one of those guards. How likely was it that a virgin such as he would provide a guard with a child? “That has to be an excuse,” he says curtly. “No one can threaten the Marshall.”
“Does it really matter?” responds Heldra dryly.
She has a point, he realizes. But he says nothing more, and in time Heldra rides ahead once more to check the fore guards.
The sky remains filled with the shifting, dull-gray clouds of winter, and the wind has begun to pick up as they reach the long drop from the plateau that is the Roof of the World toward the ridge that will connect it to the shield peaks. There is no connection between that plateau and the barrier mountains that comprise the eastern half of the Westhorns, only the canyons and the howling winds.
Creslin slows the battle pony slightly so that, in the descent, the pack ponies, those with the emergency skis, will close the gap. He also reaches out for the winds, catching a fragment, twisting it through his hair momentarily to ensure that he can before releasing the energy.
Now he must ride and wait, ride and wait, and hope.
The sky darkens, then lightens, as the guards and the consort they guard near the ridge that bridges the gap between the Regent of Westwind and the softer rulers of the lower world.
The consort begins to lift those energies he can control to pull loose snow from the north side of the ridge until even Heldra can scarce see her hand before her face. Then he reaches out for his pack, pulls it clear and onto his back.
His pony is barely ahead of the left-hand pack animal as he leans back. The skis are too tightly bound to wrench free. He drops lightly from his mount and slaps it on the flank, then slashes with his knife to free the skis, still walking quickly to keep up with the pack beast.
His own mount stops, and he dodges to get around the beast, grasping the reins with one hand and threading them over the arm that holds the knife. The arrangement works, even as the blowing snow screens him. At least both ponies are moving, and no one has noticed his actions. Not yet.
The first ski hangs loose. He leaves it hanging and works on the second until it too is loose. He pulls both skis free, almost sliding on the slippery stone underfoot, tottering for a second while trying to match steps with the pack pony and keep the wind whipping the snow.
“Where’s the consort?” bellows Heldra.
Creslin looses his pony’s reins, knowing the beast will stop and the rear guards will run into the empty-saddled animal. Then he clambers up on the low stone wall on the right side of the road and begins to tighten the thongs around his boots, first on the left ski, then on the right. As he tightens, he wills the wind to gust around him.
“He’s fallen off his mount!”
“Find him!”
“Can’t see shit in this wind . . .”
“. . . the hell are you?”
With the second ski as tight as he can make it, he yanks the heavy gloves