"Denning, Troy - Forgotten Realms - Black Wizard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

"I've told you a hundred times, Newt. This is the sacred grove of the Great Druid of Gwynneth, and she is training me in the ways of our order. Part of my training is to obey her instructions and to aid in caring for the grove."
The explanation sounded a little hollow even to Robyn, who had, for nearly a year, dutifully followed the instructions of her aunt and tutor, Genna Moonsinger. Today was not the first time the Great Druid had rested peacefully in the shady comfort of the cottage while her erstwhile student toiled away in the summer heat.
Still, Robyn was a devout pupil. She paused and drew a
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deep breath, relaxing as she exhaled. She repeated the process as her teacher had shown her, and soon she felt the annoyance pass away. Robyn turned again to the thick vines that threatened to strangle the trunk of an ancient oak. She even felt guilty about her doubts. Genna always works so hard, she reminded herself. She certainly deserves the rest.
Robyn's job was near the periphery of the enchanted area that was the Great Druid's grove. Near her were the tall hedges that bordered much of the grove, and she was surrounded by massive oaks. Closer to the heart of the grove sprawled a wondrous garden and its placid pond, and within these areas stood Genna's simple cottage.
Behind the cottage stood the grove's dominant physical feature, and also its spiritual heart: the Moonwell. The deep pool was surrounded by a ring of tall stone columns covered in bright green moss. The tops of several pairs of pillars were capped with stone crosspieces, raised by the earthpower of great druids in ages past.
It was to learn the secrets of this earthpower that Robyn studied her craft so diligently. She had proven, both to herself and to her teacher, that she had the innate talent to perform druid magic. This was the legacy of the mother she had never known. Inherited power was one thing; it was another matter to learn the skills and discipline necessary to control that power.
Robyn pulled on a thick root, bending it away from the trunk until it snapped free. She tossed it onto the pile and grasped another tendril with a hand that had grown strong and calloused during her training. That vine, too, came reluctantly away from the oak tree, but it required most of her strength to pull against the tension of the plant.
"Well, I'll help too, if that's what it'll take to get done with this. HereЧI'll pull on this one and you grab thatЧ"
"No!" cried Robyn, but before she could stop him, the little dragon had seized a loose end of vine and pulled it with a strength that belied his small size. The vines she had so carefully untangled burst free and instantly twisted back around the tree trunk.
The springing mass of vines caught the faerie dragon in their coils, pinning him against the tree. A short, wriggling
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stretch of red tail and a tiny, clawed foot stuck from the tangle of vines.
"That serves you right!" she chided him as she began to pull the vines from the tree once again. "You should pay attention to what you're doing!"
Newt finally forced his head from the tangle and shook it quickly. "That's the last time I try to help you," he huffed as he crawled free. Flexing his gossamer wings, he buzzed into the air and hovered before her.
"Why don't you just use your magic on these vines and be done with the job?" he asked, eying the tree belligerently.
"The tending of the grove is a matter for a druid's hands and heart," replied Robyn, reciting one of her lessons. "The grove is the source of her magic, and thus cannot be maintained with it, or the magic would lose its potency."
"I should think it would be very boring to do all these studies and silly jobs, day after day, forever and ever. Don't you miss Tristan? And don't you ever want to go home?"
Robyn caught her breath sharply, for the questions were painful ones. She had come to the Vale nearly a year before and had had no contact with her previous home. Genna insisted that such diligence was the only way Robyn could properly develop her skills. She thought carefully before answering, more for her own benefit than Newt's.
"I miss him very muchЧmore, each day, it seems. And I want to be with him. Perhaps, someday, I will be. But for now, I must learn what I can of the order of the druidsЧ find out for myself if I am destined to serve, as my mother did and my aunt does, as a druid of the isles. This is something I have to do, and if Genna tells me that the only way I will learn is by performing mundane tasks around her grove, then so be it."
"Of course," N,ewt said nonchalantly. "Tristan's probably got plenty to do at Caer Corwell, anyway. Festivals and hunts ... all those pretty country lasses and barmaids. I don't imagine for a minute that a prince of the Ffolk would waste his hot summer afternoons in a cool alehouse, of course, but just supposing he. . . ."
"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Robyn, more harshly than she intended. Newt had an uncanny ability to aggravate her.
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She did miss Tristan. But, she reminded herself, she was doing the right thing by following in the footsteps of the mother she had never knownЧthe mother that had left her a book and a staff as proof of her druidic legacy.
Wasn't she?
She remembered the sense of awe and wonder with which she had opened her mother's book, only a year ago. It had been given to her by her stepfather, King Kendrick of CorwellЧTristan's father. Through its pages, Robyn had begun to understand the nature of the work she was capable of doing. She saw that she had the power to serve the goddess, Earthmother, and to use druidic magic to maintain the balance of nature in the islands that were her home.
Now she recalled the smooth ashwood staff, plain and unadorned, that had nonetheless become her most treasured possession. Crafted by her mother's own hands, it was both a receptacle and a tool for the earthpower of druidic magic. Not only had it saved her life, but it had been instrumental in rescuing the kingdom itself from the terror of the Darkwalker, Now it stayed safely within the Great Druid's cottage, awaiting her need.
Wistfully, she wondered about her motherЧas she did so often. Her Aunt Genna had described her to Robyn in such detail that she now seemed completely familiar. Sometimes Robyn felt as though she had indeed known her mother. As always, a great sadness washed over her at the thought that she would never truly know the woman who had brought her into the world.
A sudden soundЧthe snapping of a dry twigЧcracked through her thoughts, and Robyn froze. She knew every creature that visited the grove, and none of them would make such a careless noise. Even Grunt, the cantankerous brown bear who lived with them in the grove, moved his bulk silently among the plants.
The cracking was repeated, and Robyn located its source in a clump of bushes behind her. A sharp prickle of fear ran along her spine, and she reached for the stout stick leaning against a nearby stump. Slowly, she turned.
The bushes rustled, indicating that a large creature was moving toward her. Suddenly, they parted to reveal the
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staggering figure of a man. At least, she thought it was a manЧthe shaggy, matted hair and beard, the filthy, spindly limbs, and the dazed, sunken eyes looked more beastly than human. The creature shuffled forward like an ape, clad only in a tattered rag tied with a crude belt.
Hut a sound croaked from an unmistakably human throat as the figure collapsed on the ground at her feet.
The boat's slim prow slipped through the black waters of Corwell Firth. The boat blended perfectly into the moonless night, as did the eight cloaked figures within. Each of them used a narrow paddle to move the craft away from a huge galleon that sat quietly in Corwell Harbor.
The port was silent, for the hour was past midnight. No splashing disturbed the boat's graceful movement as it glided slowly toward the overhanging protection of a high pier. Here, six paddles were withdrawn into the boat, while the remaining two pushed the narrow craft carefully between the pilings.
The shadowy figures lashed the boat to the pilings. One after another, they sprang to the pier and slipped quietly onto shore.
The figures moved carefully up the street of Corwell Town, darting from building to building with perfect stealth. The leader of the group, taller and stockier than the rest, paused to let the others pass while he watched for any sign of danger.
A silken black mask concealed the face of each of them, but this one pulled his aside to peer more effectively through the darkness. While manlike, he was not a man. A broad nose with wide, flared nostrils spread across his face, and his teeth were gleaming and sharp. Quickly, he pulled his mask into place and slipped after his band.
Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell, was a little drunk. Perhaps more than a little, he decided, as a swelling of nausea rose within his stomach. His head hurt, and he wanted to go to bedЧall of which made this argument seem that
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much more unpleasant.
"You don't act like a prince! You don't look like a prince! You'll never be fit to be a king of the Ffolk!" His father's harsh voice boomed behind him and cut through Tristan's weariness. The prince whirled to face the king.
"A year ago I routed an army of Northmen from these very walls!" he growled, resisting the urge to shout. "I fought the Beast that stood within our courtyard. Father, I even found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh!"
Tristan gestured at the mighty weapon, hanging in its place of honor above the hearth, crossed with his father's favorite boar spear. The sword was a treasured relic of his people and had been missing for centuriesЧuntil he and his friends had discovered it in the depths of a firbotg lair.
"All deeds very fine and heroicЧand dramatic," the king sneered. "You've enjoyed the adulation of the ladies and the drinks of the aleman on those merits.
"But there is more to being a king than heroism. What do you know of our lawЧof the administration of this realm? Could you sit in Judgement over shepherds who argued about a shared pasture, or fishermen who quarreled over rights to a berth? Until you change this, you are not fit to rule. You know the customsЧyou can only be granted the kingship if a majority of the lords think you capable! I doubt they would, were the vote taken tomorrow!"
Tristan clenched his hands into fists, and for a moment he was so angry he could scarcely keep from striking his father. He walked away in frustration, finally flopping heavily into the largest chair in the study. Already the fog of alcohol was dissipating.
But his father would not abandon the attack. "It's amazing that the houndmaster even got you home," he said scornfully. "And where is Daryth now?"