"Rawn, Melanie - Dragon Star 2 - Dragon Token" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

"So does Elisel," Chadric said. "She's circling outside Sioned's windows."

"As if she knows something's wrong?" Audrite tapped a fingernail against her cup. "I think I'd like to read that dragon book."

Walvis smiled. "I think Feylin will have to revise it."

*

From his camp, the top two floors of the Flame tower had been visible. Here in the rocky defile that led to a natural tunnel, only the uppermost windows with their pointed arches were within his view. He reined in his restive horseЧa fine Radzyn stallion captured at WhitecliffЧand let his gaze roam the canyon walls. Firelight picked out the niches where archers had been, and the footpaths no wider than his spread fingers that gave access to them.

It was just about here that the Azhrei had waited for the battle to come to him, calling out curses and fearsome threats. Or so the soldiers had said. He didn't believe it. A man like that wouldn't waste his breath. No, he would sit his saddle in silent dignity like the prince he was, secure in the protection of his Sunrunner witch of a princessЧuntil iron defeated her.

The stallion shifted between his thighs, nostrils flaring. There was no smoke; there was nothing left to burn. Yet Fire lit the defile, and beckoned teasingly from the darkness of the tunnel. Defeated? Not she.

He was used to horses that required a hard hand and harder heels. He kept forgetting that the mount he now rode was used to a far gentler touchЧand was abruptly reminded as the Radzyn stud reared in protest, ears flattening and teeth bared. Easing the pressure, he guided the horse up the sloping road.

The tunnel was high enough to ride through without stooping. It bent slightly to the left, sometimes wider and sometimes narrower, but always adequate for at least three riders abreast. About fifty paces in, he saw the source of the lightЧa trickle of flames like a tiny stream that ended quite suddenly, as if draining into a hole. The horse shied and snorted. This time when he dug his heels in, he was more careful. He wondered if this marked the boundary of her Fire. NoЧhe could smell a faint wisp of smoke here, oil smoke. Peering down, he nodded as he saw the shine below the flames. These, at least, burned honestly, and would burn themselves out.

The Fire in the outer courtyard, bright as sunlight, was another matter. No trickle this, but a red-gold flood that flowed over the walls from the inner ward, cascaded down the stone keep from the very top of the Flame-tower. And it would go on burning, called to a Sunrunner's work, answering to her will.

The stallion, oddly enough, had no fear of this Fire. Trained to recognize it by the faradhi lord who had owned him? Interesting thought, and one he would have to remember. Should such flames be used against them in battle, he would make sure the only horses that encountered them were Radzyn- and Whitecliff-bred.

The middle of the courtyard was the limit of the Fire, then. He skirted around it, past the outbuildings and stables that had burned to charcoal by other means. The gatehouse behind him was the exception; cut out of the stone above the tunnel, no kind of fire had reached it. Stone access stairs were littered with collapsed and blackened wood railings, but the gatehouse itself had not burned.

This pleased him; that it had not been reported and the place investigated did not. His commanders would have much to answer for when he returned. Fear was a useful thing, even healthy on occasion, but it must be fear of him, not of the enemy.

There had been a wooden gate in the wall near the stables. All that was left of it was an interlocking iron framework. He rode near to inspect it. The hinges were

particularly fine, cast in the shape of outspread dragon wings. But they groaned like dead spirits denied fire and the sea as he hauled the gate open, and the horse gathered his muscles to rear again.

In the inner ward, Fire poured from the open doors of the castle to cover the cobbles like a shallow lake. Still the horse showed no fear, but after a moment's thought the man dismounted anyway and tethered the reins to the iron hinges. He wanted to cross the courtyard, and there was no sense risking the stallion's hooves. His own boots would withstand FireЧfor a little while, anyway. He smiled slightly, recalling that the faradh'im had tried to burn his sails at Radzyn and his long-arms at Remagev. They gave up so easily; the sign of a weak people who did not understand war.

Even with the protection of treated leather, he made haste crossing to the garden gates. He chucked softly at the thought of what his warriors would think if they saw him. Not a dignified picture of their High Warlord. He lost his smile as he pushed open the gate where roses had lately climbed the walls, and saw the rest of Stronghold.

Leaves brittle with autumn had crisped to ash around the trees. The branches still burned. So did the charred grasses and the gravel pathways and even the water itself, though the footbridges had collapsed. Over to his right, what had been a willow tree dripped Fire into the blazing stream.

An exclamation left his lips, the sound of his own voice startling him. Even knowing what he'd see here, it was a shock to see it with his own eyes.

All at once the Fire flared, as if it knew somehow that its enemy had come. He could not keep himself from jumping back, but there was nowhere to go. New flames plunged down from the castle windows, a deluge of crimson and gold that rose to his boot tops, past his knees to the vulnerable material of his clothes. A cry clotted in his throat as heat engulfed him. He forced the sound back until he could control it and his fear, then shaped all the air in his lungs into a curse against the one whose Fire this was.

*

"It's no use. Absolutely no use at all." Chayla sat and brought one fist lightly down on the table before her, frustrated by Sioned's resistance. She glanced up at Meath. His face was haggard and old by the light of the candle branch. "I even drugged her taze earlier on. It's not working any more than the sleep-weave is."

"But why is she fighting so hard?" he murmured. "She pretends, she drifts off, she seems to be asleep. ..."

"She's not. I don't know why. Perhaps I'm just no good at it."

"You know betterЧand so do your patients." Meath was gazing at the large coffer of medicines on the table. A gift from Chayla's grandparents, it was a lovely thing made of fruitwood with brass fittings. Enameled plaques on the sides and bottom insulated the medicines inside. Some of the decoration showed various plants from which cures were made; the one surrounding the hasp bore Radzyn's cipher and colors. "What's in that box of yours?" "The usualЧspecialized for war since Remagev, of course. Why?" "Surgical instruments?"