Read Online The Towers of the Sunset by L. E. Modesitt Jr. - Free Book Online Page A

melted snow with body heat and drunk it before, in the winter training of the years before his mother declared such training unseemly.
    Slide, lift, slide . . . cubit after cubit, until it is time to rest. Then slide, lift, slide . . . slide, lift, slide.
    The gusts from the north rise with the day and rattle loose another frozen cone. Underneath the forest giants-spruces so enormous that his arm span would not circle even a third of the smaller trunks-the snow is uneven, the light muted.
    Creslin concentrates on following ridge lines, on holding toward the north, using the pyramidal peak in the distance as a guide when there are breaks in the trees sufficient to see the barrier peaks.
    Slide, lift . . .
    Frummmp . . .
    The cold powder sifts inside his parka, chilling his neck while relieving the heat of his exertion. He struggles to right himself in the waist-deep depression into which he has plowed. At first he slides in even more deeply, until he is engulfed nearly chest-deep by the heavy powder. A fir limb offers hope, and he pulls on it gently, trying to lever himself upward. The limb breaks, and more snow sifts against his chest, no longer even half-welcome in its chill.
    With a sigh, Creslin begins the slow process of easing himself out of the deeps, realizing that no quick pullouts are possible. Inching the skis-now bearing stones' worth of snow above their tips-sideways, he pauses, takes a deep breath. Again he inches the unseen skis toward his right, until finally he can feel the frozen ground against his leg and hip.
    Once more, he rests. Then he grasps the narrow trunk of the spruce sapling. It bends but does not break as he draws his boots and skis out of the deeper snow.
    In time, his wool-lined leather trousers damp from snow and pressure, he lies draped on more solid snow, his breath rasping as the wind rises and icy flakes drift through the high branches and down upon his woolen cap and dampened soul.
    He sips from the narrow bottle that he soon refills with snow and places in the special trouser pocket, gnaws upon hard, half-frozen cheese, and takes a deep breath.
    "Onward, Creslin, you noble idiot ..."
    Noon, or its approximation, and dusk fall too close together. In the growing dimness, despite ever more frequent rests, Creslin's legs ache continually. He falls frequently, even on the gentle downhills.
    The barrier mountains look to be no closer, and the wind continues to rise, driving harder and thicker whiteness into Creslin's face.
    Slide, lift, slide . . .
    Is that a shadow behind the tall fir? Or behind the slender spruce?
    Slide, lift, slide . . .
    Frummmmppp . . .
    "Enough ... is ... enough."
    Creslin sits upon the snow, untwining the leather thongs, knowing that he cannot get back on the skis.
    Twenty cubits downhill, through nearly waist-deep snow and the falling white curtain, he finds a fallen trunk. It will have to do.
    In time, with frozen needles, the crushed branches beneath the trunk, and the striker in his belt pouch, he manages a small fire to warm himself as he prepares another hollow, one which, when lined with small branches and ample needles, may prove warmer than the last. He forces himself to eat and drink, and then not to sleep immediately, but to carve small branches with the knife and feed the small fire that helps warm him against wind and snow.
    The snow hides the shadows; the flakes fall so furiously that no traces of a trail can survive.
    Creslin wonders, not for the first time, whether he will either.
     
     
    XV
     
    "THERE is STILL no word from either the road posts or our sources at Westwind. The Marshall refuses to declare mourning, but half the guards are wearing black on their sleeves when they're not around her."
    "It is as though he vanished. How could she have let that happen? She doesn't even realize what he is." Frewya looks perplexed.
    "Do you know that for a fact?" asks Ryessa.
    "What do you mean?"
    "Westwind must always be held by the daughter. That does not