"L. E. Modesitt - Recluce 05 - The Towers of the Sunset" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

laughing at the frailties of men; the Duke of Montgren standing alone against the White Wizards
and being mocked by his female relatives; the Black Wizards silent; the Marshall and Aemris
displeased with his questions. Under the cover of the table, his fingers tighten on the carved
arms of the chair even as he leans forward with a pleasant smile on his face.
In time, the conversation dies and Creslin leans back, although the Marshall has already left,
her face as impassive as Creslin has ever seen it.
Aemris turns toward him. "You start working with Heldra tomorrow. With blades." Her voice is
short, and she stands as she speaks. "You'll need it all." She bows to the minstrel and to the
Marshalle.
Llyse turns with a puzzled look toward her brother.
Creslin shrugs. "You think they'd tell me? After all, I'm but a man."
The minstrel sips the last of the wine as the consort and the Marshalle of Westwind rise. Llyse
gestures to the guard at the end of the dais.
Creslin takes the inside stairs to his quarters, leaving the sleeping arrangements for the
minstrel to his sister.


VIII

THE RED-HAIRED woman wearing the iron bracelets glances into the mirror, her lips tight. The
surface wavers, but no image appears. In time she loses her concentration and plunges her wrists
into the bucket beside her chair.
The hiss of the steam mingles with her sigh.
Later, after pulling the combs from her long red hair, she looks over at the miniature portrait
of herself where it rests atop the ornate wooden desk. Ryessa had insisted that the artist paint
her hair short, even though she has never bowed to the military fashion sweeping Sarronnyn. Her
sister the Tyrant has never let reality interfere with the images necessary for a successful


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reign.
The redhead's fingers stray toward her left arm. She wills the itch to depart, as she has
willed for too long. Imagination? Her blood swirls with the roar of the winds.
"Still getting stronger, isn't it?" The voice coming from the woman who has just entered is
cold, as cold as though her ice-blond hair were indeed fashioned partly from the winter ice.
"I don't feel much of anything," the redhead lies.
"You're lying."
"So I'm lying. Hang me. You'd like to. You're just offering me another form of bondage . . .
maybe one that's even worse than these." She holds up her arms, letting the silks draw back. The
iron slides away from the welts and scars. She lowers her arms, and the silks again conceal the
marks.
"You still don't give up?"
"How can I?" The redhead looks down. There is silence before she looks up. "I was thinking . .
. remembering, really, back before . . . Anyway, you and I used to play in the old courtyard, and
you used to get so mad because I could always find you, no matter where you hid. But then you'd
laugh, at least some of the time-"
"That was when we were children, Megaera."
"Aren't we still sisters? Or did your ascension make me illegitimate?"