The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [59]
He wipes his suddenly dripping forehead with his sleeve. Wizardry indeed, and it seems to underlie everything around him, for all that the stonework appears laid by the most skillful of masons and the trees and grasses fully natural.
With another deep breath and another attempt at wiping the moisture from his brow, he pushes forward, one cautious step at a time.
XXXII
“REPORT.” THE DARK-HAIRED woman’s face is as impassive as always, despite the circles under her eyes and the long, strong fingers of the left hand resting on the knife hilt.
“He made it off the Roof, down the Demon’s Slide on skis—”
“How do you know?”
“We found enough traces in the high forest, and the patterns were all guard patterns. No tracks remaining, of course. In that respect, he was careful.” The senior guard stands before the Marshall.
“You couldn’t catch up to him—a mere man?”
The senior guard lowers her eyes. “He had somewhat of a head start, and we didn’t know where he was going. Once we could estimate his direction, it got easier.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” The Marshall’s voice remains cool, distant, as if she were discussing troop deployments.
“Because you ordered us not to enter Fenard or to cross the Easthorns.” The guard swallows. “By now, he’s probably in Fairhaven. At least, that’s where all the signs point.”
“He traveled quickly,” observes the Marshall.
The guard lowers her eyes even farther. “Will you require my departure?”
The Marshall laughs, a harsh sound that echoes brittlely against the stone walls. “For what? You did what I asked. You could have caught him only if he had failed or been injured. Have you asked the arms-master about his abilities?”
“No, ser.”
“Don’t bother. You’d find that he meets all of the guard standards, and most of the senior-guard levels. He doesn’t know that, and it was difficult indeed to ensure that few guards knew it.”
“Oh. Why are you telling—”
“I sent you out under a deception. I don’t want your performance hampered by false feelings of failure. Ask Aemris. No son of mine would be helpless, yet I may have played him false by allowing him such training.”
“Ser . . . why?” The guard refuses to look to the black leathers, but her back is straight.
The Marshall stands, turns, and looks at the heavy flakes beating against the leaded windowpanes of her study. “In his place, would you have wanted to stay here, or to have been a pampered pet in Sarronnyn?”
There is no answer.
“Of course you cannot answer that. It was an unfair question.” She continues to watch the whiteness outside the citadel. “I only hope he finds something to run to . . . in time.”
She stares at the falling snow long after the guard has left, watching as the thick flakes cover the tops of the parapets, watching as the night drops to enfold that impenetrable whiteness.
XXXIII
IN THE GOLDEN light of the pre-twilight sun, a handful of people gathers around three carts in the paved open space. From the closest cart, the one painted green, a woman plucks something off the grill at the rear, wraps it deftly within a flat pastry and hands it to a bearded man. She repeats the process with the next customer, then slaps two more slabs of meat on the grill.
The smell of roasted fowl drifts toward Creslin. His mouth waters. He has had nothing to eat since an early breakfast many, many kays westward, and now it is late afternoon.
He steps toward the green cart and takes his place behind a stout man dressed in green trousers and a sleeveless green tunic with no shirt beneath.
“Grilled fowl pie.” The voice drifts back.
“That’s two.” Two coppers change hands.
Two younger women and the husky man stand between Creslin and the woman serving the food.
“. . . Father thinks that he’s so upright.”
“Ha! Should see him on Winden Lane, or ask why Reeva went to live with her aunt and uncle in