The Towers of the Sunset Read Online Free PDF Page A

North Bay, where the town of Lydiar used to be."
    "What happened to the Duke of Lydiar?"
    "What happens to anyone who defies the White Wizards? Chaos . . . destruction." The minstrel takes a smaller sip of the wine and reaches for a slice of the white cheese on the plate before him.
    "And those who supposedly revere order? The Black ones?"
    Rokelle shrugs. "Who can say? Destruction is so much easier than order."
    A number of the older guards have left the tables below, but the younger women at the front tables continue to pour from the wine pitchers. Creslin glances across the tables, hoping for a glimpse of Fiera's short blond hair, but he does not see the junior guard. His ears miss the next few sentences, until he realizes that Fiera is no longer in the hall, if indeed she has been there at all.
    "Ah, yes . . . well, the wizards and the Duke of Montgren seem to have come to some sort of agreement, now that the Duke has completed his fortification of Vergren and Land's end-"
    "Land's End? Out on Reduce?" asks the Marshall. "Montgren has claimed Recluce for generations, your grace."
    "An empty claim," snorts Aemris. "A huge, dry, and forlorn island. Just right for a few coastal fishing villages."
    "It's easily ten times the size of Montgren," observes the Marshall. "But neither the Nordlans nor the Hamorians were able to make their colonies pay. Montgren's claim was never disputed because no one ever wanted the place. The fact that the Duke has committed anything there is . . ." She breaks off the sentence.
    "I thought the Duke of Montgren was connected to the Tyrant of Sarronnyn," Creslin volunteers.
    Aemris and the Marshall rum toward him, both sets of eyes cold at his statement.
    "He is, lad," responds the minstrel, "but Sarronnyn looks down on him because he's a man with a tabletop kingdom, and he's angry because the Sarronese won't give him more than token support against Fairhaven. He claims that he's the only one left who hasn't caved in and joined the White Wizards."
    "Is that true?" asks Creslin.
    "Ah ..." smiles the minstrel, with an odd and wrong smile, "he is but a man, and who is to say what exactly is true? It is certain that he pays Sarronnyn no tribute, and it is also certain that he has increased his army and the tax levies, to the point that his peasants, those who can, are leaving their fields for Spidlar and Gallos."
    "It's that bad?" asks Aemris, turning her eyes from Creslin to Rokelle.
    The minstrel does not answer immediately but instead takes another long sip of the lukewarm wine. Llyse refills the empty cup. "Is it that bad?" repeats the guard captain. Rokelle shrugs. "You know what I know." The Marshall nods slowly and looks toward Aemris. "What about Jellico?" asks Llyse. "Last year a traveler said that the city was being rebuilt."
    "It is not as grand as Fairhaven, but far more welcoming to those who sing," observes Rokelle, between mouthfuls of cheese. "You should see the stonework ..."
    Creslin lets the man's words drift by as he considers what he has heard this night: the guards 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