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

As the notes cascade from the strings of the guitar, an unseen fire lifts the chill from the
stone walls of the room, and even the guitarist's breath no longer smokes in the dim afternoon of
the Westhorns' endless winter.
The toddler sees the notes as they climb from the strings into the air, lets go of the stone
support and clutches at a single fragment as it passes beyond his grasp.
Neither the woman nor the guitarist remark upon his sudden drop to the gray granite beside the
chair he has released. Nor do they notice the glimmer of gold he clutches within his pink fingers
and how he turns to seek the light it bears.
Nor do they see the wetness in his eyes when the gold dissipates from within his grasp even as
he watches.
His jaw set, the chubby-legged child struggles upright until he stands next to the chair that
is his, his hands reaching out once more toward the order behind the sounds he sees and hears.
But the song of summer has come to an end, with tears unshed in the eyes of the guitarist.
Beyond the gray granite walls, the wind howls and . . . again . . . the snow falls.


IV

"I HAVE TO wear this?" Against the warm light that floods from the open double-casement window
through the thin, close-woven silksheen of the flimsy dark trousers, the young man can see the
outline of the man who stands holding the garment at the foot of the bed. "Galen, you can't be
serious."
The older, round-faced man shrugs helplessly. "The Marshall ordered . . ."
The youngster takes the trousers and tosses them onto the bed next to an equally thin white
silksheen shirt. His image- that of a slight, silver-haired youth in a light-gray flannel shirt
and green leather vest and trousers-is framed in the full-length, gilt-edged mirror that hangs
against the blond wood paneling. His eyes are a steady gray-green. The silver hair and fine
features overshadow the wiry muscles beneath the flannel and the weapons calluses upon the strong,
squarish hands.
"Why did she even bother to bring me? I'm no consort to be paraded around."
Galen straightens out the clothes so they lie neatly upon the green-and-white-brocaded
bedcover. "The Marshall thought that you should learn about Sarronnyn firsthand. And like it or


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not, you ate a consort."
"Ha. She has more in mind than that. Llyse will be the one who must deal with Sarronnyn."
Galen shrugs again, almost helplessly, and his shoulder-length white curls bob. "Your grace, I
can but follow the Marshall's orders."
The oak door connecting the spacious single room with the suite provided to the Marshall by the
Tyrant swings open. A tall woman, slender and deadly as a rapier despite the flowing green silks
that cover her figure, steps into the room. A single guard, her short-cut brown hair shot with
gray, followers the Marshall, a pace behind.
The youth looks from the silksheen clothes to the Marshall and back to the clothes upon the
brocaded spread.
The woman smiles faintly, but her eyes do not mirror her lips. "Creslin, if I am wearing
silksheen, then you certainly can. The garments are a gift from the Tyrant, and spurning them will
only make the negotiations that much more difficult. Unlike you, I prefer to save my resistance