Free The Towers of the Sunset by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

eight-day after escaping the Roof of the World, he is almost through his meager supplies, and his jacket and trousers hang noticeably looser on his frame.
    "Even Heldra would feel that I'm not carrying extra weight . . ." Talking to himself helps, at least some of the time.
    The massive spruces and firs of the high forest have given way to thinner-trunked pines and firs, interspersed with oaks and other bare-limbed trees he does not recognize.
    His skis almost catch on a branch scantly covered by the heavy snow, and he lurches, but regains his balance. He listens. He hears nothing except the whispers of the wind, and those whispers bear no news. He studies the opening in the trees ahead but discerns no tracks, no structures.
    Then he wipes his forehead. Even with his parka strapped to his pack, even in the shadows of the hill forests, travel during the day is hot.
    Finally he slides the skis between the gaps in the trees and through a scattering of sparse branches poking up through the snow until he stands in unshadowed winter sunlight. The line of blackened trunks marching downhill bears witness to the reason for the clearing.
    Creslin smiles. While the fire may have burned unchecked, the path of the devastation is to the northeast, and the snow, while heavy, is mainly open. He squints through the brightness of the mid-morning sun, a glare to which his eyes are unaccustomed. A narrow line of brown winds around the base of a hill and toward the barrier peaks and the east.
    He shakes his head in wonder. Somehow, in some way, he has managed to find the trade road to Gallos. At least that is what he thinks it is. After withdrawing his hand from his heavy glove, he finds the melt bottle and takes a drink, careful to kneel on his skis and to replace what he has drunk with some of the cleaner snow.
    After straightening up, Creslin brushes his finger across his uneven growth of beard; silver like his hair, he suspects, but he has brought no mirror. With a sigh, he puts the glove back on.
    One way or another, he will reach the trade road by evening. Then his problems will really begin. While the road is beyond the control of the Marshall, he will have to avoid any guards she may send looking for a silver-haired youth. For he knows only too well that he is not a man . . . not yet.
    With a glance behind him at the distant clouds overhanging the Roof of the World, he glides forward and begins the descent toward the valley and the road beyond.
    Leaning, shifting his weight, he peers ahead, trying to anticipate the rough patches, seldom even having to turn because the heavy snow is so slow under the wooden skis. With each instant, he is farther from Westwind and from the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn. In time, through turns, lurches, and one fall-which leaves a damp stain on his leathers from his left leg to his shoulder-he glides, strides, and puffs his way through the snow and thicker underbrush until he can once again see the lower line of trees that marks the road.
    By now the skis are heavy, the snow heavier, and the scraping of the branches, needles, and other debris beneath the snow more frequent. He slows to a halt and wipes his forehead with the back of his glove. His wool undershirt is damp, more from sweat than from snow. The lack of wind in and among the trees makes the day seem unusually warm.
    The ground before him slopes gradually uphill toward where he believes the road to be. With a sigh, he starts out again, plodding uphill. Here the trees are farther apart, creating patches of ice and frozen, exposed branches and bushes.
    Creslin eases himself along and begins to unthong his skis, wiggling his toes and stretching first one foot, then the other, as the tension from the leather straps is lifted. Deciding to carry the skis until he can see whether the road in fact lies over the hill crest, he marches across snow that barely covers the toes of his boots and plunges through white-crusted surfaces into powder nearly to his