"Kerr, Katharine - Dragon Mage 01 - Red Wyvern" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

The spirit rolled his eyes.
СOh come now, surely you can think of a better boon than that! Something that would please you and bring you joy.Т
СWell, then, I love with all my heart the Lady Jehan, but IТm far beneath her notice.Т
СThatТs a better wishing.Т The fellow smiled in a lazy sort of way. СVery well, Domnall Breich. You shall have the Lady Jehan for your own true wife. In return, I ask only this, that you tell no one of what you see here tonight except for your son, when heТs reached thirteen winters of age.Т The fellow suddenly frowned and drew his hands out from the folds of his cloak. For a moment he made a show of counting on his fingers. СWell, thirteen will do. Numbers and time mean naught to the likes of me. Whenever you think him grown to a man, anyway, tell him what you will see here tonight, but tell no one else.Т
СGood sir, I can promise you that with all my heart. No one but his own son would believe a man who told of things like this.Т
СDone, then!Т The fellow raised his hands and clapped them three times together. Turn your back on the tree, Domnall Breich, and tell me what you see.Т
Domnall turned and peered through the thin fall of snow. Not far away stood a tangle of ordinary trees, dark against the greater dark of night, and beyond them a stretch of water, wrinkled and forbidding in the gleam of magical fire.
СThe shore of the loch. Has it been here all this while, and I never saw it?Т
СIt hasnТt. ItТs the shore of a loch, sure enough, butТs not the one you were hoping to find. Do you see the rocks piled up, and one bigger than all the rest?Т
СI do.Т
СOn top of the largest rock youТll find chained a silver horn. Take it and blow, and youТll have shelter against the night.Т
СMy thanks. And since I canТt ask God to bless you, IТll wish you luck instead.Т
СMy thanks to you, then. Oh, wait. Face me again.Т
When he did so, the fellow reached out a ringed hand and laid one finger on DomnallТs lips.
СTill sunset tomorrow youТll speak and be understood and hear and understand among the folk of the isle, but after that, their way of speaking will mean naught to you. Now youТd best hurry. The snowТs coming down.Т
The fellow disappeared as suddenly as a blown candle flame. With a brief prayer to all the saints at once, Domnall hurried over to the edge of the loch - not Ness, sure enough, but a narrow finger of water that came right up to his feet rather than lying below at the foot of a steep climb down. By the light of the magical tree he found the scatter of boulders. The silver horn lay waiting, chained with silver as well. When he picked it up and blew, the sound seemed very small and thin to bring safety through the rising storm, but after a few minutes he heard someone shouting.
СHola, hola! Where are you?Т
СHere on the shore!Т Domnall called back. СFollow the light of the fire.Т
Out of the tendrilled snow shone a bobbing gleam, which proved to be a lantern held aloft in someoneТs hand. The magical fire behind cast just enough light for Domnall to see a long narrow boat, with its wooden prow carved like the head of a dragon, coming toward him. One man held the lantern while six others rowed, chanting to keep time. As the boat drew near, the oars swung up and began backing water, holding her steady as her side hove to.
СItТs a cold night to ask you to wade out to us,Т the lantern bearer called, Сbut weТre afraid to run her ashore with the rocks and all in the dark.Т
СBetter I freeze seeking safety than freeze standing here like a dolt. IТm on my way.Т
He hitched his plaid up around his waist and bundled the cloak around it, then stepped into the lake. The cold water stole his breath and drove claws into his legs, but it stood shallow enough for him to reach the dragon boat, where hands of flesh and blood reached down to pull him aboard.
СSwing around, lads! LetТs get him to a fireside.Т
Shivering and huddling in the dry part of his plaid, Domnall crouched in the stern of the boat as they headed out from shore. In the yellow pool of lantern light he could see the man who held it, a fellow on the short side but stocky. He wore a hooded cloak, pinned with a silver brooch in the shape of a dragon. In the uncertain light Domnall could just make out his lined face and grizzled beard.
СWhere are we going, if I may ask?Т Domnall said.
СThe isle of Haen Marn.Т
СAh.Т Domnall had never heard of the place in his life, and heТd spent all twenty years of it in this corner of Alban. СMy thanks.Т
No one spoke to him again until they reached the dark island, looming suddenly out of falling snow, a muffled but precipitous shape against the night. A wooden jetty appeared as well, snow-shrouded in the lantern light, and with a chant and yell from the oarsmen, the boat turned to. One man rose, grabbed a hawser, and tossed it over one of the bollards on the jetty to pull them in. With some help Domnall managed to scramble out, but his feet and legs had gone numb and clumsy. The man with the lantern hurried him along a gravelled path and up a slope, where he could see a broad, squarish manse. Around the cracks of door and shutter gleamed firelight.
СWeТll get you warm soon enough,Т the lantern-bearer said, then banged upon the door. СOpen up! WeТve got a guest, and all by EvandarТs doing.Т
СEvandar? Is that the man of the Seelie Host? You know him?Т
СBetter than I wish to, IТll tell you, far far better than that. Now come in, lad, and letТs get you warm.Т
The door was creaking open to flood them with firelight and the smell of resinous smoke. They brushed past the servant woman whoТd opened it and hurried into a great hall where fires crackled in two hearths of slabbed stone, one on either side of the square room. The walls were made of massive oak planks, scrubbed down and polished smooth, then carved in one vast pattern of engraved lines rubbed with red earth. Looping vines, spirals, animals, interlace - they all tangled together in great swags across each wall, then swooped up at each corner to the rafters before plunging down again in a riot of carving...
Domnall followed his rescuers across the carpet of braided straw to the hearth at the far side. At a scatter of tables sat a scatter of men, all short and bearded, and in a carved chair right up near the fire a lady, wearing a pair of drab loose dresses and heavy with child. Like the men around her, she was not very tall, more like the grain-fed Sassenach far to the south in stature, and since her pale hair hung in a single braid, Sassenach is what he assumed her to be. Domnall knelt at her feet.
СMy lady,Т he said. СMy thanks and my blessing to you, for the saving of my life.Т
СMy men saved you, not me,Т she said in a low, musical voice. СBut youТre welcome in my hall.Т She glanced round. СOtho! Fetch him a tankard and some bread, will you?Т
СAs my lady Angmar commands.Т One of the men, a bare four feet tall, and white of hair and beard, rose from a table. СSit in the straw by the hearth, lad, and spread that bit of cloth youТre draped in out to dry.Т
They had to be Sassenach, all of them, because they wore trousers and heavy shirts instead of proper plaids and tunics, but he wasnТt about to hold their birth against them after the way theyТd rescued him. Since the hearth was a good ten feet long, Domnall could move a decorous distance away from the lady to sit near a brace of black and tan hounds. He unwound his plaid, stretched it out on the straw to dry, and sat in his tunic by the fire to struggle with the wet bindings of his boots. By the time he had them off, Otho had returned with the promised tankard and a basket of bread.
СA thousand thanks,Т Domnall said. СSo, this is Haen Marn, is it? IТve never seen your isle before.Т
СHah!Т Otho snorted profoundly. СAnd I wish I never had either.Т
СUncle!Т A young man sprang up from his seat at a table. СHold your tongue!Т
СShanТt! I rue the day that ever we travelled to this cursed place. I just get myself home and what happens? Hah! Wretched dweomer and -Т
СUncle!Т The young man hurried over. СHush!Т
СYou hold your tongue, young Mic, and show some respect for your elders.Т
The two glared at each other, hands set on hips. During all of this Lady Angmar never moved or spoke, merely stared into the fire. Behind her, shoved against the wall, stood another carved chair, fit for a lord but empty. Domnall wondered if sheТd been widowed; it seemed a good guess if a sad one.
СWell, now,Т Domnall said. СDo you all hail from the southern lands?Т
СWho knows?Т Otho snapped. СIt could have been any wretched direction at all!Т
СYouТll forgive my uncle, good sir,Т Mic said. СHeТs getting old and a bit daft.Т He grabbed OthoТs arm. СCome and sit down.Т
Muttering under his breath, Otho allowed himself to be dragged away. Domnall had the uneasy feeling that the old man wasnТt daft in the least but speaking of grammarie. Yet his mind refused to take that idea in. He found it easier to believe in a lady sent away by her brothers after a husbandТs death, or perhaps even a lady in political exile, allowed to take a small retinue away with her. The Sassenach chiefs were always fighting among themselves, and heТd heard that their women could do what they wished with their bride-price if their husbands died. The welcome fire, the warm straw, the steamy reek of his drying cloak and plaid, the taste of ale and bread Ч it all seemed too solid, too normal to allow the presence of magic. As he found himself yawning, he wondered if heТd merely imagined the man named Evandar and the blazing tree. They might merely have been the mad visions of a man come near death by cold.
At length Lady Angmar turned and considered him with eyes so sad they were painful to look upon.
СI can have the servants give you a chamber,Т she said, Сor would you prefer to sleep here by the banked fire?Т