"McKenna,.Juliet.E.-.Einarinn.02.-.Swordsman's.Oath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

esteem in which I held him. I ash you to communicate this to his parents once
more.
You are no longer required to attend me in Toremal when your visit is concluded.
I have received a request from the Archmage of Hadrumal, Planir the Black, that
you travel to Caladhria and join with one Shivvalan Ralsere, mage. You will find
him with a recluse called Viltred Sern who dwells in the forests to the north of
Cote, seat of one Lord Adrin, on the highroad to Abray.
This mage requests your assistance in continuing the pursuit you shared in at
the end of For-Winter past. At such time as the Wizard Ralsere no longer has
need of you, return to Toremal with all best speed. In the interim, keep me
apprised of your movements with letters by Imperial Despatch or such other
discreet means as you judge secure.
I am confident that you will perform this commission with your usual capability.
It was smoothly written in the fluent hand of MessireТs personal scrivener. I
could just picture the Sieur, sat with a pile of documents, disposing of each
with terse commands. My spirits rose; IТve worked for Messire long enough to
read what wasnТt written into the letter. I was to be his eyes and ears, his
link to the ArchmageТs plans for foiling the Ice Islanders. This offered better
prospects of vengeance for Aiten than chasing garbled reports of foreigners in
the backwoods of the ocean coast, which is what IТd spent the latter half of
winter doing.
IТd had no real dealing with wizards before getting caught up with Shiv the year
before and we generally prefer to keep them at armТs length in Formalin. I
wondered what Shiv was up to; he and I owed each other a measure of our lives
after that cursed trip to the Ice Islands. Still, his loyalties to his Archmage
meant a different lodestone from mine governed his course, I reminded myself.
I ate and headed for the river. The false hope of the noonday sun faded, fine
rain mizzling down like exhausted tears. I passed the remnants of a sacked
village, reeking with the smell of burned wood rotting after the long winter and
weeping black stains into the scorched earth. So much for the Dukedom of
Marlier, where life was supposed to be safer than most. I found myself longing
for the clean scent of salt on the wind from the ocean at home.
I looked across the valley with its coppices of hazel and ash, past the sprawl
of a turf-roofed village amidst a striped patchwork of open fields and over the
rough common grazing to the stark crag where the local Baron had his reddish
stone castle. Formalin villages cluster close to the protections of their patron
and have done since the Chaos when lordless and landless men ransacked the ruins
of the Old Empire. Lescari peasants grub a living from the land as best they can
and hope the battles pass them by. I noted the battlements were being raised,
straw and clay that had protected the half-built fortifications from frosts
stripped away; that could be useful intelligence for Messire. What threat did
Marlier see waiting now the Equinox had opened the fighting season? I knew the
Duke of Triolle had fouled his own nest comprehensively after heavy losses in
the previous yearТs fighting with Parnilesse. Did he have ambitions here?
Arriving at the river in the mid-afternoon, I found a silent line of grim-faced
peasants waiting by the bridge, salvaged possessions in bundles and handcarts,
little children all unknowing smiles, older ones wide-eyed and glancing at
parents for reassurance seldom forthcoming. IТd been passing pitiful groups like
this all through Lescar, trudging along, heads down, locals stopping their work
to watch as the strangers passed, hoes and plow-staves in hand, ready to keep