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

knows no answers except those of his music, and of his heart, which lies colder than the strings
of the guitar he bears with him.
Suffice it to say that the castle is called Westwind . . . founded by a long-dead captain:
Ryba, from the swift ships of Heaven.
Her many-time daughter's son-but that is the story to come.


II

"REMOVE WESTWIND's CONTROL of the Westhorns, and Sarronnyn and Suthya will fall like overripe
apples."
"If I recall correctly, that kind of thinking cost the prefect of Gallos most of his army."
"Light! We're not talking about arms." The skeletal man in white jabs a finger skyward, the
mouth in his young face smiling. "We are talking about love."



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"What does love have to do with removing Westwind?"
"I have sent Werlynn to Westwind. Do you not like the sound of that? Werlynn to Westwind?"
"But . . . how? Werlynn never comes here; his music ruins the work of the White brethren. What-
"
"That's the beauty of it. One little charm . . . to ensure that he will bring the Marshall a
son . . . first. And the charm was even order-based."
"You've never liked Werlynn, have you? Ever since-"
"That's not the question. The question is the Marshall. Just think-think-she is a woman. She
won't kill her firstborn, male or not, Legend or not."
"You seem certain of that. But she has no children, nor even a consort."
"Werlynn will see to that."
"Even if he does, that's a long time from now."
"We have time. The road is still not through the East-horns."
The other man shakes his head, but does not speak further.


III

THE GUITARIST STRUMS an ordered cadence, almost a march, so precise are the notes, so clear are
the tones. He does not sing.
A single look, underlined with a brief flare of light from the middle stone seat, the one
upholstered with the black cushion, stops the guitarist. He nods toward the woman. "Your pardon,
grace." His voice is as musical as the strings he plays, evoking a sense of dusky summer that has
yet to come to Westwind, even in the centuries since its construction.
"Perhaps you should consider a trip to Hydolar, or even to Fairhaven."
"Perhaps I should, if that is your wish." His eyes darken as he looks toward the boy.
In turn, the silver-haired toddler hanging on to the stone arm of the chair bearing the green
cushion glances from the silver-haired guitarist to the black-haired woman, and back again.
"Play another song of summer," she orders.
"As you wish."