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

1
WHITE DOWN RORY
Mask and Mirror


Cold day, misty gray, when cloud enshrouds the hill.
Black trees, icy freeze, deep water, dark and still,
Cold sun. Ancient One of middle Wintertide,
Old wight, erudite, season personified
Sunset silhouette, antlers branching wideЧ
Shy deer eschew fear while walking at her side.
Windblown, blue-faced crone, the wild ones never flee
Strange eyes, eldritch, wiseЧthe Coillach Gairm is she
ЧSONG OF THE WINTER HAG

It was Nethilmis, the Cloudmonth. Shang storms came and went close on each other's heels, and then the wild winds of Winter began to close in. They buffeted the landscape with fitful gusts, rattling drearily among boughs almost bare, snatching the last leaves and hunting them with whimsical savagery.
The girl who sheltered with the carlin at White Down Rory felt reborn. All seemed so new and so strange now, she had to keep reminding herself over and over that the miraculous healing of her face and voice had indeed happened; to keep staring into the looking-glass, touching those pristine features whose skin was still tender, and saying over and over, until her throat rasped: "Speech is mine. Speech is mine." But she would discover her hands moving, as she spoke.
Surrounding the unfamiliar face, the hair fell thick and heavy, the color of gold. Lamplight struck red highlights in the silken tresses. As to whether all this was beauty or not, she was unsure; it was all too much to take in at once. For certain, she was no longer uglyЧand that, it seemed for the moment, was all that mattered. Yet there was no rejoicing, for she lived in fear, every minute, that it would all be taken away, or that it was some illusion of Maeve's looking-glassЧbut the same image repeated itself in placid water and polished bronze, and it was possible, if not to accept the new visage, at least to think of it as a presentable mask that covered the old, ugly oneЧher true countenance.
"I kenned you were mute as soon as you fell through my door," said the carlin, Maeve One-Eye. "Don't underestimate me, colleen. Your hands were struggling to shape some signsЧwithout effect. And it was obvious what you were after, so I lost no timeЧno point in dilly-dallying when there's a job to be done. But 'tis curious that the spell on your voice was lifted off with the sloughed tissue of your face. If I am not mistaken you were made voiceless by something eldritch, while the paradox poisoning is from a lorraly plant. Very odd. I must look into it. Meanwhile, do not let sunlight strike your face for a few days. That new tissue will have to harden up a bit first, 'tis still soft and easily damaged."
"Tom Coppins looks after me, don't you, Tom?"
The quick, cinnamon-haired boy, who was often in and out of the cottage, nodded.
"And he will look after you as well, my colleen. Now, start using your voice bit by bit, not too much, and when 'tis strong you can tell me everything: past, present, and future. No, the glass is not eldritch. Come away from itЧthere is too much sunlight bleeding in through the windowpanes. And there's shang on the wayЧthe Coillach knows what that would do to your skin!"
ЧЧЧл╗ЧЧЧЧЧЧл╗ЧЧЧЧЧЧл╗ЧЧЧ
Not a day, not an hour, not a moment passed without thoughts of Thorn. Passion tormented the transformee. She whispered his name over and over at night as sleep crept upon her, hoping to dream of him, but hoping in vain. It seemed to her that he was fused with her blood, within her very marrow. Ever and anon her thought was distracted by images of his countenance, and conjecture as to his whereabouts and well-being. Longing gnawed relentlessly, like a rat within, but as time passed and she became accustomed to the pain, its acuteness subsided to a constant dull anguish.
Late in the evening of the third day, the howling airs of Nethilmis stilled. Maeve dozed in her rocking-chair by the fire with a large plated lizard sleeping on her lap. Imrhien was gazing at her own reflection by candlelight, twin flames flickering in her eyes. Tom Coppins was curled up in a small heap on his mattress in a corner. All was still, when came a sound of rushing wind and a whirring of great wings overhead, and a sad, lonely call.
Quickly, Maeve roused and looked up. She muttered something.
Not long afterward, a soft sound could be heard outside the cottage, like a rustling of plumage. Maeve lifted the lizard down to the hearthrug and went to open the door. A girl slipped in silently and remained in the shadows with the carlin. Her face was pale, her gown and the long fall of hair were jet-black. She wore a cloak of inky feathers, white-scalloped down the front. A long red jewel shone, bright as fresh blood, on her brow. Maeve spoke with her, in low tones that could not be overheard, then began to busy herself with preparations, laying out bandages and pots on the table.
The carlin's activities were hidden in the gloom beyond the firelight, but a sudden, whistling, inhuman cry of pain escaped the newcomer, waking Tom Coppins. Maeve had set straight a broken limb and was now binding it with splints. When all was finished, the swanmaiden lay quivering in the farthest corner from the fire, hidden beneath the folds of her feather-cloak.
"Pallets everywhere," muttered Maeve, leaving the dirty pots on the table. "I shall have to take a bigger cottage next year."
"You heal creatures of eldritch, madam?" Imrhien's voice was still soft, like the hissing of the wind through heather.
"Hush. Do not speak thus, when such a one is nigh. I heal who I can where and when I am able. It is a duty of my callingЧbut by no means the beginning and end of it." Maeve fingered the brooch at her shoulder; silver, wrought in the shape of an antlered stag.
"Carlins are not merely physicians to humankind. The Coillach Gairm is the protectress of all wild things, in particular the wild deer. We who receive our knowledge from her, share her intention. Our principal purpose is the welfare of wild creatures. To protect and heal them is our mandateЧcare of humans is a secondary issue. Go to bed."
"I have another affliction. You are powerfulЧmayhap you can help me. Beyond a year or two ago, I have no memory of my past."
"Yes, yes, I suspected as much. Do you think I haven't been scratching my head about that? But it's a doom laid on you by something far stronger than I, and beyond my power to mend. For the Coillach's sake, come away from the mirror and go to bed. You're wearing out my glass. Don't go near her, that feathered oneЧshe is afraid of most people, as they all are, with good reason."
The saurian jumped back onto the carlin's lap. She scratched its upstanding dorsal plates as it circled a couple of times before settling.
"I would have liked something less armored and more furry," she murmured, looking down at it, "but bird-things would not come near, if I had a cat. Besides, Fig gave me no choice. He chose me."
ЧЧЧл╗ЧЧЧЧЧЧл╗ЧЧЧЧЧЧл╗ЧЧЧ
It was difficult to sit still inside the house of the carlin, within walls, and to know that Thorn walked in Caermelor, in the Court of the King-Emperor. Now the renewed damsel was impatient to be off to the gates of the Royal City. At the least, she might join the ranks of Thorn's admirers, bringing a little self-respect with her. She might exist near him, simultaneously discharging the mission she had taken upon herself at Gilvaris Tarv: to reveal to the King-Emperor the existence of the great treasure andЧit was to be hopedЧto set into motion a chain of events that would lead to the downfall of those who had slain Sianadh, Liam, and the other brave men of their expedition.
Maeve, however, was not to be swayed.
"You shall not leave here until the healing is complete. Think you that I want to see good work ruined? Settle downЧyou're like a young horse champing at the bit. Even Fig's getting ruffled." The lizard, dozing fatly by the fire, adeptly hid its agitation. In the shadows the swanmaiden stirred and sighed.
Three days stretched to five, then six. The weather raged again, battering at the walls of the cottage.
At nights a nimble bruney would pop out from somewhere when it thought the entire household asleep, and do all the housework in the two-roomed cot with amazing speed, quietness, and efficiency. Under Maeve's instructions the girl feigned sleep if she happened to waken and spy it. Its clothes were tattered and its little boots worn and scuffed. When it had finished, it drank the milk set out for it, ate the bit of oatcake, and disappeared again, leaving everything in a state of supernatural perfection.
Tom Coppins, the quiet lad with great dark eyes, was both messenger and student to the carlin, performing errands that took him from the house, aiding her in preparing concoctions or helping her treat the ailments and vexations of the folk who beat a path to her door: everything from gangrene and whooping cough to butter-churns in which the butter wouldn't "come," or a dry cow, or warts. Someone asked for a love potion and went away empty-handed but with a stinging earful of sharp advice. From time to time Maeve would go outside to where her staff was planted in the ground and come back carrying leaves or fruit plucked from itЧpotent cures. Or she would tramp out into the woods and not return for hours.
More and more, the carlin allowed Imrhien to wield her voice; it was exhilarating to converse freely; such a joy, as if the bird of speech had been liberated from an iron cage. Little by little she told her story, omittingЧfrom a sense of privacy if not shame for having been so readily smittenЧher passion for Thorn.
When the tale had been recounted, the old woman sat back in her chair, rocking and knitting. ("I like to be busy with my hands," she had said. "And it sets folk at ease to see an old woman harmlessly knitting. Mind you, my needles are anything but harmless!")