The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [51]
Ask not the song to be sung,
or the bell to be rung,
or if my tale is done.
The answer is all—and none.
The answer is all — and none.
Oh, white was the color of my love,
as bright and white as a dove,
and white was he, as fair as she,
who sundered my love from me.
Ask not the tale to be done,
the rhyme to be rung,
or if the sun has sung.
The answer is all — and none.
The answer is all — and none.
Oh, black was the color of my sight,
as dark and black as the night,
and dark was I, as dark as sky,
whose lightning bared the lie.
Ask not the bell to be rung,
or the song to be sung,
or if my tale is done.
The answer is all — and none.
The answer is all—and none.
He lets the words of the short song die away, and stands. He places the guitar on the high table, then resumes his seat on the edge of the bed.
Lorcas leans forward. “Where are you from, really?”
Creslin decides to discourage her by telling the truth. “The Roof of the World. Westwind.”
“I thought the women were the fighters there.” Her forehead wrinkles in perplexity. Then she brushes a stray wisp of hair back over her ears and smiles.
“They are.”
“But you’re a blade. Hylin said that you’re the only blade he’d run from. He never runs. Father watches you like a vulcrow.”
“It’s a long story.”
She edges from where she sits and slips over next to him. “We have time. Hylin won’t be back, and Vierdra won’t say anything.”
“Your father?”
“Mother has him in hand.”
Creslin smiles wryly. Some things don’t seem to be much different in the east.
“My name is Creslin, and I was born in the Black Tower . . . the trials? Now . . . I suppose they knew—” He answers her questions. “Aemris never liked teaching me the blade. Heldra, I know, had her own reasons—One whom I liked? There was Fiera, but she was a guard first . . . mostly,” he amends, thinking of that single kiss outside the Black Tower.
Lorcas continues to sit next to him, warm and soft, as he details his rather short life. She still wears the blue tunic she had worn to dinner, although now her hair is completely unbound.
He finds that his arm has gone around her waist as they have leaned back to rest against the pillows and the wall. Some things he had not mentioned, like Sarronnyn, or the midnight visit of Megaera.
“You really are a prince?”
He laughs gently, glad for the moment to lie next to someone who will listen. “No. It doesn’t work quite like that. Only Llyse can be the next Marshall, if she has the ability. She needn’t have the best blade, but she has to be as good as any senior guard, and she has to know trade, tactics . . . everything.”
“You like your sister?”
“Sometimes, and sometimes she’s just like the Marshall.”
“Why don’t you ever call her mother?”
“She never let me.”
“But . . . it sounds like she risked a lot to get you trained.”
“If you look at it that way.” Creslin pauses, leans his head against Lorcas’s cheek, closes his eyes for a moment, then forces them open. “I don’t think I can talk much longer.”
“Don’t.” She turns to him, her arms going around him as he slides back, enjoying her softness against him, her lips on his, his arms around her.
That time comes when he must release her, and he does.
She draws away gently. “If you hadn’t promised . . .”
His mouth drops open.
“You think we don’t know what Father’s up to?” Her words are gentle, but not mocking. Then she kisses him again before speaking. “Besides, there’s a princess out there for you, and you deserve her.”
“But—”
“Think about me. Often . . .”
Lorcas is gone almost as quietly as she has come, and Creslin understands the phrase “women . . .,” delivered with a headshake, just a little better.
He manages to get his boots and trousers off before he collapses. The lamp snuffs out with a tongue of the breezes he calls, and he sleeps, dreamlessly.
XXVIII
CRESLIN PICKS UP his pack, slings it over one shoulder.
“Well, young fellow, I wish I could afford your like,” Derrild rumbles softly. “But trading’s a thin business.”