Free The Towers Of the Sunset by L.E. Modesitt Jr. Page B

concealed within the belt itself is too valuable to display. Even a single link would betray his origin and make him a target. More of a target, he corrects himself.
    At least the guards have not reached this far east. Not yet.

XVII
    CLUNUNNNG… CLUNNGGG…
    The impact of hammer and heavy steel chisel on cold iron echoes through the near-deserted smithy.
    A red-haired woman kneels on the stone pavement, one wrist extended onto the anvil.
    “That’s one, your grace.” The smith holds the heavy hammer and glances from the woman in traveling woolens kneeling before the anvil to the blond woman wearing the white of the Tyrant.
    “Go ahead. Strike the other,” orders Ryessa.
    The kneeling woman extends her other wrist to the iron, her lips tightly pressed together.
    “As you wish, your grace.” But the smith shakes her head. The hammer falls.
    “Thank you.” As she rises, the redhead’s words are addressed to the smith. She turns to the Tyrant. “And you also, sister.”
    “An escort awaits you, Megaera.”
    “An escort?”
    “To Montgren. I thought it would make your task somewhat easier. I prevailed upon the Duke-”
    “What did it cost you?” Megaera’s fingers touch the heavy scars on her wrists, almost as if she cannot believe that the iron bonds are gone.
    “Enough.” The Tyrant’s tone is sardonic. “I hope you and your lover are worth it.”
    “He’s not my lover, and he never will be.” The Tyrant shakes her head. “Who else could there be?”
    “You think that I intend to let you and Dylyss dictate my life? I may have to keep Creslin alive to save myself, but that doesn’t mean I have to turn my body over to a mere man as if I were… a bond slave.”
    “That’s not what I meant. Besides, you’ll repay me, in oh-so-many ways.”
    Megaera raises her hands, and the Tyrant steps back involuntarily.
    “Yes, my sister dear,” the redhead responds, “you are right to fear me, but I pay my debts, and I’ll pay this one.”
    “Don’t try to repay me until you have left the western lands. There are three watches upon you.”
    “I scarcely expected less.” Megaera has dropped her hands. “And in a strange way, I do owe you.” She pauses. “Unlike you, I have never forgotten that we are sisters.” She walks toward the stone stairs that lead to the stables. Unseen bands of fire still encircle her wrists, and her breath rasps in her throat. She swallows, but her head is held high.

XVIII
    TERWUT…
    The echo of the unknown bird vibrates through the near dark as Creslin peers into the gloom before him, seeing only empty road and bare-limbed trees between the thin evergreens.
    The sun has dropped behind the still-looming shadows of the mid-ranges of the Westhorns far earlier, not long after Creslin had set foot upon the scarce-traveled trade road to Gallos. In the lingering light, he has walked perhaps another four kays along the gently turning road.
    Real evening descends, and no inn appears out of the gloom. Despite his sturdy boots, his feet feel the hardness of the frozen road clay with each step. For all his tiredness, Creslin keeps his tracks well within the hard clay patches upon the road rather than in the snow, determined not to leave a betraying trace for the guards should they have . pushed this far eastward.
    Has it been that far? How many kays has he covered in the more than eight days since he threw himself off the Roof of the World?
    His thoughts drift back to his lessons, back to the Legend. Why did the angels come to the Roof of the World? Were men really so blind? How could anyone believe that either men or women had the right to rule by their sex?
    He continues to put one foot before the other, looking all the while for a sheltered place in which to spend the night. Somehow, beyond his flickering vision, he can sense a structure. Not an inn, for there is no warmth to surround it, but… something.
    Through three long turns of the road he trudges, feeling the strength of the