The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [7]
“She said that even the wizards of Fairhaven could not stand against them.”
“I don’t know about that. Wizards don’t like cold steel, but the eastern wizards are supposed to be able to split mountains.”
“Each year they move a little closer, they say.”
Creslin shrugs. The affairs of a kingdom ruled by wizards on the eastern side of the Easthorns—two mountain ranges east of the Roof of the World—scarcely seem urgent. “Is this the entrance to the gardens?”
“This is the east door. There’s another door from the men’s quarters.”
“The men’s quarters?” Creslin steps onto the white gravel path. The shadow that has darkened the garden lifts as a small white cloud drifts away, revealing the white-gold sun, and as the blue-green of the sky brightens like a fire emerald.
“You know, where the unattached consorts and the other . . . male guests . . .”
Creslin raises his eyebrows. “Hostages for good behavior? Sons of suspect houses?”
The herald looks down at the fine and polished white pebbles.
“Never mind. Tell me about the garden.”
“It’s nearly as old as the palace. The tales say the second Tyrant built it in memory of her consort. That was Aldron, the last consort to ride in battle. He was killed at Berlitos when the Tyrant crushed the Jerans.”
“Jera is southern Sarronnyn now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, your grace. Very loyal. This maze is sculpted from just one creeping tarnitz.”
“Just one?”
“That’s right. If you look down, you can see how the roots intertwine.”
Creslin kneels to study the base of the tarnitz.
“Very clever gardening. We couldn’t do this sort of thing at Westwind.”
“Oh?”
Creslin laughs briefly. “Only the evergreens grow there, and not well. Show me some more of the garden.”
The herald leads Creslin around a series of turns through the maze until they emerge near the statue in the midst of the marble-walled pond.
“Aldron?” asks Creslin, gesturing toward the well-endowed male figure.
“So it’s said, your grace, but no one knows for certain.”
Creslin turns at the sound of footsteps and a voice saying, “Ah, I do believe it is the honorable consort-design of Westwind. You know, Nertyrl, the one who had nothing to say at the banquet.”
The speaker is Dreric, the broad, blond companion of the unnamed redheaded woman. He wears matching royal-blue silks that under the white-gold sun set off his tan and his flowing golden hair. Beside him is an older man, wearing gray silks, a pointed and drooping mustache, and a long blade.
Although he smiles faintly, Creslin has nothing to say to either man, particularly since he has no doubt that any wit he might display would be far less practiced than that of two men who have spent a lifetime mastering the innuendo.
“Good day, I say.” Dreric’s voice oozes from his lips, honey-coated.
“A pleasant day, indeed,” agrees Creslin, knowing that he cannot refuse to respond to a direct greeting.
“He wears a blade, you see,” comments Dreric, with a pronounced look at the older man. “Perhaps because his other blade is less than adequate, you think, Nertryl?”
“That would be for the . . . women . . . to decide, your grace.”
“Ah, yes . . . assuming that women are even—No matter . . .”
Creslin swallows as Dreric halts perhaps four paces away. Dreric turns his back on Creslin and begins to study a miniature pink rose set in a waist-high box of white marble.
“Your grace,” whispers the herald, tugging at Creslin’s sleeve.
Creslin remains immobile.
“Do you think he really merits the title, Nertryl? Grace? Ah, well . . . what we must put up with to obtain a little more security. We could do him a favor, I suppose. Maggio likes boys, the thin ones like this mountain . . . lordlet. Do you suppose we could manage an introduction?”
Creslin can feel his face flush, not from the direct sunlight.
“I do believe he shows some interest, your grace.” Nertryl’s voice is simultaneously flat and languid.
“One must be so dreadfully direct with . . . mountain . . . nobility.”
Creslin