The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [84]
He dons the leathers, obviously sewn from measurements taken while he was ill, then gapes at the gray-leather boots beneath the chair: Westwind riding boots. He looks again, and smiles. The style is the same, but the waterproofing has not been applied and the toes are a touch too square.
Boots on, Creslin smoothes the coverlet on the bed before sitting down in one of the chairs. He waits for whatever might come next. He does not wait long, for the door opens almost immediately.
Aldonya stands there. Behind her are two guards, each wearing the same gold-and-green livery as those who had . accompanied the mysterious lady on the ride from Andre’s lands.
“Her ladyship is waiting for you. You are strong enough for a ride?”
“A short one, I suspect.”
Creslin rises and follows her, ignoring the guards. The corridor is of solid stone, and windowless. Upon reaching the staircase, Aldonya does not hesitate, but continues downward. The guards remain at the top of the stairs.
Creslin nods to himself. This is the family wing of the castle, keep, whatever it is. Clearly, he is more than a prisoner, and just as clearly the Duke is not exactly happy about it. He hurries to catch up with Aldonya and succeeds just as they reach another heavy door.
“This is to the inside court. The Duke’s stables are on the far side.”
Before Aldonya can turn away, he touches her arm. “Who is she?”
“You don’t know?”
“I feel that I ought to know, but I have yet to see her when I’ve been even halfway healthy. She seems to have been avoiding me.”
“She does things for her own reasons, but she is good at heart.”
“Good at heart?”
Aldonya stiffens.
“I don’t really know her.” Creslin wonders why he is trying to mollify the girl.
“Perhaps you should, ser . . .” The girl inclines her head, turns, and starts back up the stairs.
Creslin’s mouth quirks. The girl is loyal, oddly loyal, to the mysterious woman, and she wears an unfamiliar livery, if it is livery at all. He reaches for the iron door handle. The door closes as quietly as it opens, and he steps onto the well-swept, flat stones of the inner courtyard. In the shadows where he pauses, the day is cool, cool enough to indicate that the summer and the warmth of the eastern harvest season have indeed fled. White, puffy clouds dot the sky. He is reminded yet again that he has lost more than half a year, although his memories of that time are present, in a way, as those of the struggling silver-top.
On the other side of the courtyard, less than thirty cubits away, stand two horses. The reins of the chestnut are held by a guard wearing the green and gold; he sits astride a black mare.
Silent steps carry Creslin toward the horses.
“Lord Creslin?”
He nods.
“Her . . . grace . . . awaits you outside the castle.”
The black mare punctuates the statement by lifting her tail and dropping an offering onto the stones. Both the guard and Creslin ignore the impact as Creslin mounts the chestnut. Across the pommel of the cavalry saddle lies a Westward short sword and the shoulder harness Creslin favors. He loses no time in donning them. The guard’s right hand touches his own belt-carried saber.
The two men ride through the archway leading into the main courtyard of the castle. As they near the gate, a guard on the wall gestures to a figure within the gate house.
The massive, iron-bound portal rumbles open. The sound of hooves echoes off the granite as the two riders pass under the stone arches and past the recently reinforced outer walls. Behind them, a guard again gestures and the gate rumbles closed. Iron-banded bars as thick as a man’s waist drop back into place, and bolts slide into stone sockets.
Four mounted guards, plus the woman, wait beyond the end of the causeway. As Creslin approaches, the woman nudges her horse into motion along the ridge road that slowly drops away from the heights the castle commands.
All of the brush on the slopes has been cut back; tree stumps, some recently cut and as much as a cubit wide, spread across the slopes surrounding the gray granite walls of Vergren.
A light, cool