"Dart-Thornton,.Cecilia.-.Bitterbynde.02.-.Lady.Of.The.Sorrows.V2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dart-Thornton Cecilia)

"To this, McKeightley blithely agreed."
The storyteller paused. Having recovered her composure, Rohain smiled and nodded.
"Wily as McKeightley was," said Ercildoune, "Huon was craftier. The game lasted for three days and three nights, and at the end of it the unseelie wight was the winner. 'Now I shall devour you,' he said."
"But McKeightley jumped up and fled to his house, locking the rowan-wood doors and windows with iron bolts. It was no ordinary house, built as it was of stone, with walls four feet thick. Every kind of charm was built into it."
"The Antlered One came to the door like a dark thundercloud, with eyes of lightning, and said, 'McKeightley your iron bars will not stay me. You have pledged me your life, both outside your house and within it. I will devour you.'"
"With that, he struck a mighty blow on the door. Every hinge and lock in the place shivered to pieces and the door burst apart. But when the mighty Huon strode in, McKeightley was nowhere to be seen."
"'You cannot hide,' laughed the unseelie lord. 'My servants will sniff you out.'"
"'Oh, I am not hiding,' said a voice from somewhere near the chimney. After such a long game I am hungry. I am merely sitting down to dinner.'"
"'Not before I eat,' said the Antlered One."
"'I fear I cannot invite you to join me,' said the voice. 'There is not enough room for a big fellow like you here in the walls where I now dwell, neither within my house nor without it.'"
"Huon gave a howl of rage and disappeared with a thunderclap!"
"But how clever!" said Rohain with a smile. "Did McKeightley spend the rest of his days living in his walls?"
"No, for he had in fact outwitted the Antlered One and so had won the contest. He had a sort of immunity from the creature from then on, and his boastfulness became legendary. He infuriated a good many more folk of many kinds, but surprisingly, lived to a ripe old age; overripe, really, almost rotten."
"The wrath of Huon was, however, formidable, and upon other mortals he wrought vengeance for this trick. I always air this geste when Roxburgh wishes to dispute my tenet that the brain is mightier than the thew. Do you not agree the tale indicates, my lady, that wit wins where muscle fails?"
"Why yes. The wallsЧhow astute!"
"Yea, verily," said the Bard, nodding his head. "Walls and borders and marches are strange situationsЧneither of one place nor the other."
Rohain looked up at the sky, now colorless. To the west, cumulus clouds converged, boiling in some disturbance of the upper atmosphere. She half-expected to see dark shapes sweep across them, howling for blood.
"Pray, tell me of the Unseelie Attriod," she said in a low voice. "Where I come from, they will not even speak of it, believing that the mere mention brings ill fortune."
"They may be right," replied Thomas of Ercildoune, "under some circumstances; for things of eldritch mislike being spoken of and have ways of listening in. But I'll vouch we are safe enough here, mark you! In times past the Unseelie Attriod was the anathema of the Royal Attriod, of which I am currently a member, as you must be aware. An Attriod, of course, consists of seven members, one of whom leads and two of whom are the leader's second-in-command."
He slid a jeweled dagger from a sheath at his belt and with the point scratched a pattern on the upright panels of the poop deck.
"This is how an Attriod is shaped. If the leader is placed at the top and the others in a triangle, with four along the base, a very strong structure will be createdЧa self-supporting, self-contained framework with the leader at the pinnacle, at the fulcrum, from which he can see afar. It may be seen as an arrowhead, if you like. Each member must contribute particular talents to the whole, such that when locked into position, the structure lacks nothing. As Roxburgh and I now stand at the left and right shoulders of the King-Emperor, so, in macabre travesty, Huon the Hunter and the Each Uisge, the most malign of all waterhorses, once long ago flanked their leader."
"Who were the others?"
"They were four terrible princes of unseelie: Gull, the Spriggan Chieftain; the Cearb who is called the Killing OneЧa monster who can shake the ground to its roots; Cuachag of the fuathan; and the Athach, the dark and monstrous shape-shifter. That isЧor rather, was the Unseelie Attriod, whom some called the Nightmare Princes."
"What of their leader?"
"The Waelghast was struck down. They are leaderless now, and scattered. Many centuries ago, the Waelghast made an enemy of the High King of the Faъran, but eventually it was a mortal who struck the deciding blow, putting an end to the power of that Lord of Unseelie."
For a few moments a thoughtful silence hung between them. "Yet these Hunters are not the only scourges of the skies, sir," said Rohain at last. "Mortal men can be as deadly. Do pirates frequent these regions?"
"None have been seen. If we encounter them 'twill be they who have the worst of it, for this frigate is heavily armed and those who sail in her are not unskilled in warriorship."
"There is a place . . ." Rohain hesitated.
"Aye?" prompted the Bard.
"There is a place in the mountains, a deep and narrow cleft. The sun rises over a peak shaped like three standing men. To the west stands a pile of great, flat stones atop a crag. As the sun's light hits the topmost stone, it turns around three times. Pirate ships shelter in that place."
Ercildoune revealed no reaction to this astonishing news, not by the merest facial twitch.
"A ravine, you say, between the Old Men of Torr and one of those unlorraly formations in stone they call a cheesewring," he replied, "of which there are said to be several in the Lofties. This knowledge may prove to be of great use. How you came by it is your own affair, my dear. Be assured, it will be acted upon. But let us speak no more of wickedness. Let us to the cabinЧthe night grows cold."
Just before they bent their heads to pass though the low door, Rohain saw the Bard glance over his shoulder, to the northern horizon. It was a gesture that was becoming familiar to her since her arrival at Court. The awareness of strange and hostile forces gathering in Namarre was never far away. It was always felt, even if not voiced.
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Besides Captain Heath of the thriesniun, another Dainnan captain sailed aboard the frigate Peregrine. He was the ship's captain, a skyfarer with the Dainnan kenning of "Tide." These two took supper with Ercildoune and their lady guide, dining in the Ertish manner, with total disregard for forks.
Conversation in the captain's mess was dominated by the kindly Bard, who was never at a loss for words. As she grew to know him better, Rohain noted some indefinable similarity between him and the Duke of Roxburgh.
"How describe they us, in the Sorrow Isles?" he asked her.
"With words of praise, sir. The name of Thomas, Duke of Ercildoune, is well-known and highly regarded."
"And no doubt many an anecdote is told thereof."
"All are tales of chivalry."
"And musicianship?"
"Most assuredly!"
"Since Thomas of Ercildoune is spoken of, perhaps you are aware of the geas he carries with him," subjoined Sir Heath.
"Is it true, then?" asked Rohain, recalling one of Brinkworth's histories concerning the Royal Bard. "I feared that to ask about it would appear discourteous."
"Yes, 'tis true," answered the Bard. "I never utter a lie. This virtuous practice, if virtuous it can be called, is a bitterbynde I have sworn to, and shall never break."
"Such a quality," said Rohain, "must be as a two-edged sword, for while His Grace's word is trusted by all, he likely finds himself in an unenviable position when obliged to comment upon the charms of a noblewoman whose aspect has not been graced by nature."
The Dainnan captains grinned.
How glibly the words came to Rohain's lips! By rights, she thought, her tongue ought to have rusted from disuse. Word-smithing came very easily, considering that she had been for so long mute. With the birth of a new persona, she could become whomsoever she pleased. But what manner of woman was she, this Rohain of the Sorrows? Given the power of speech, she had already used it to lie and flatter, to vent anger. Could this be the character that memory had suppressed?
"Zounds, you are sympathetic!" The Bard smiled broadly at his demure guest. "Indeed, when it comes to flattery, I am not in the contest. As for hawking my own wares, exaggerated boasting is impossibleЧonly in song and poesy have I license to give rein to fancy. Over the years, I have learned to avoid awkward dilemmas. Never was I a liar or a braggart, but I have come to be of the opinion, since I was gifted with this bitterbynde, that a little white lying, like a little white wine, can be good for one's constitution. Unfortunately, I am incapable of it." He reached for the rosewood lute, and as an afterthought added, "Of course, there is a curb on truth as there is on every facility of man. That is, one can only speak the truth as one believes it oneself. If you were to tell me a lie and I were to believe it, I should repeat it to another as a veracity." He plucked a string of the instrument. "I am for some songЧwhat say you? I have one that I think shall please you."
"I should like to hear it!" exclaimed Rohain.