The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [3]
“Where did you get that?” asks Galen, pointing to a thin line of red down the consort’s left arm.
“Blade exercises. Where else?”
“Your grace, does the Marshall—”
“She knows, but she can’t object to my wanting to be able to take care of myself.” Creslin frowns as he holds up the dark green silk trousers, then begins to ease his well-muscled legs into them. “I keep telling her that if I’m too emotional I must need the training even more. She just shakes her head, but so far she hasn’t actually forbidden it. Once in a while I have to smile, but most of the time I can appeal to reason. I mean, how would it look if the son of the most feared warrior in the Westhorns doesn’t even know which edge of the blade is which?”
Galen shivers, although the room is not cold.
Creslin pulls on the shirt and arranges it as he looks in the mirror.
“Your grace . . .” ventures Galen.
“Yes, Galen? Which fold did I do wrong?”
Galen’s hands deftly readjust the collar, then add the silver-framed emerald collar pin provided by the Marshall.
“Do I have to wear that, too? I feel like property.”
Galen says nothing.
“All right, I am property, courtesy of the damned Legend.”
“Your grace . . .” mumbles Galen, his hands not quite going to his mouth.
“Are you ready, Creslin?” The voice comes from beyond the door.
“Yes, your grace. As soon as I retrieve my blade.”
“Creslin—”
“Galen, would not any eastern male wear a blade?”
There is no response, and a faint smile crosses Creslin’s lips as he buckles the soft leather of the formal sword-belt into place. The blade, the short sword of the guards of Westwind, remains securely sheathed therein.
Creslin steps through the connecting door. The guard follows him with her eyes, but he ignores her as he joins his mother the Marshall.
They walk out through the carved doorway of the guest-wing entrance. Creslin moves to the Marshall’s left, a half-pace back, knowing that is as far as he can push.
“Creslin,” begins the Marshall in the hard-edged soft voice that is not meant to carry, “do you understand your role here?”
“Yes, your grace. I am to be charming and receptive and not to volunteer anything but trivia. I may sing, if the occasion arises, but only a single song, and an . . . inoffensive one. I am not to touch steel unless I am in mortal danger, which is rather unlikely. And I am not to comment upon the negotiations.”
“You did listen.” Her voice is wry.
“I always listen, your grace.”
“I know. You just don’t always obey.”
“I am a dutiful son and consort.”
“See that it stays that way.”
During their exchange of words, their steps have carried them down the hall and into a wider hallway leading to the dining room of the Tyrant’s palace. A herald, scarcely more than a boy, has appeared to escort them into the Tyrant’s presence.
As they turn into an even broader corridor, wide-glassed windows on the left show a garden with a hedge of short, green-leaved bushes cut into a maze centering on a pond with a central fountain. From around the fountain’s statue—an unclothed man well-endowed in all parts—shoot jets of water that arch upward before cascading into the pond.
The wall to the right of the two from Westwind is of pale pink granite, smoothed and polished. Gold-fringed tapestries depicting life in ancient Sarronnyn hang against the stone, a space perhaps equal to three paces between each scene.
Creslin, having studied the hangings earlier in the afternoon, ignores them, instead fixing his eyes on the doorway ahead, where a pair of armed women guard the entrance to the dining room.
The Marshall waits as the herald steps into the hall. Creslin waits with her, still a half-pace back.
“The Marshall of Westwind!” announces the young herald. “Accompanied by the consort-assign.”
The Marshall nods and they step inside, following the herald toward the long table upon the dais.
“. . . handsome lad.”
“. . . a blade yet . . . but can he use it?”
“. . . like to see his work with the other blade.”
“. . . too feminine. Looks like he trained as