"Cecilia Dart-Thornton - The Bitterbynde 02 - The Lady of the Sorrows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dart-Thornton Cecilia)

"She rejoins her flock at a remote mountain lake," she said at last. "She could not bear to be
enclosed any longer within walls. The limb is not yet properly healed but it might be she will return for my
ministrations, now and then, until it is whole. They always know where to find me, in my wanderings. And
soon I must wander againтАФI have stayed here long enough and Imbroltide draws nigh."
Consideringly she looked at the long black feather, before swathing it in a swatch of linen.
"Now it is but sixteen days until the turn of the year, the most significant time of allтАФLittlesun Day.
There is much to be done."
She set a fiery eye on her other visitor. "Take this swan's plume with you. The swans of eldritch
sometimes give a feather in token of payment. When the feather's holder is in need, the swan is bound to
help, but once only. Her calling-name, potent only for the duration of the bitterbynde, is Whithiue. This is
a gift of high value."
A bitterbynde. Imrhien-Rohain recalled hearing that term when she dwelled in the House of the
Stormriders. The betrothal of a daughter of that House, Persefonae, had been pledged on the day she
was born. A vow, or geas, laid upon a subject willing or not; a decree that imposed bitter sanctions upon
its breaking, and demanded stringent, almost impossible conditions for its removalтАФthat was a
bitterbynde. In the swan-girl's case, she was bitterbound to come to the aid of whomsoever grasped the
feather and summoned her.
"Now," said Maeve earnestly, folding the linen package firmly into the hand of Imrhien-Rohain, "it is
your turn to go forth."
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So it was that on the fifteenth of Nethilmis, before the early gathering of morning, a cloaked and
taltried figure, mounted sidesaddle, rode swiftly from Maeve's door. White stars arrayed a fretwork of
black boughs, and the green star of the south was a shining leaf among them. Thin chains of mist fettered
the trees. Every leaf and twig seemed carved from stone. The rider, awkward and uncertain, continually
glanced from right to left. The long skirts kept tangling with the stirrups, but, as if in haste, the rider urged
the pony on. Not far from the house of the carlin, dark figures sprang from among the trees as the steed
cantered past. The rider cast a glance backward, then, with surprising alacrity, threw one leg over the
pony's back and, giving a shrill cry, surged forward. As the pony's hooves clattered away, other figures
ran from the trees bringing up horses with muffled hooves. Soon they were galloping in vigorous pursuit.
The pony, although swifter than an ordinary mount of its kind, could not outmatch the long strides of
the horses. Yet for a time it seemed the pursuers did not want to catch up, but merely to follow from a
distance and mark their quarry, as though biding their time. Suddenly they rounded a bend and were
forced to rein in their horses so sharply the steeds reared on their hind legs and screamed their
indignation. Right in their path, the pony had halted. It wheeled, then, and faced them. The rider flung
back the hood, revealing the face of a dark-eyed lad. His hand dipped beneath his cloak and he flung out
a powder that exploded in the faces of the pursuers with a dazzling flash, followed by billowing smoke.
When they finally fought free of the thick fog, he was gone.
Back, then, they rode like a storm. When they returned to the house of the carlin, the windows and
doors stood open, sightless. No smoke wisped from the chimney. The place was empty and all trails
were cold.
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 A quarter-moon danced overhead. The Greayte Southern Star hung like an emerald set in onyx, and
falling stars peppered the night sky.
Imrhien-Rohain ran along a narrow woodland path leading northwest, clutching her purse of coins to
prevent them from clashing together. She had the advantage of a secret start, and carried a potent tilhal of
Maeve's as protection against things of the night that dwelt around White Down Rory. A Stray Sod had
been let fall behind her at the beginning of the path to mislead any mortal who stepped thereon, and a
sudden, temporary thicket of brambles camouflaged the path's entrance. Despite these precautions,
terror spurred her pulse as she fled through the black trees. The glimmering footpath seemed
enchantedтАФno root reached across to trip her up, no wight crossed it or started up alongside. Without