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

warned him out. Made of solid stone Stronghold was, but massive rafters held up the ceiling hereЧand what was left of the wood groaned in an agony of effort beneath the weight of the floor above.

He returned to the stairs, brushing his fingers against sooty walls where tapestries had hung, listening now for the keep's death rattles. But most of it was stone on stone, though everything within had burned down to nothing.

Upstairs, room after room showed him only what metal it had containedЧa candlebranch, chair frames, table legs, rods for hanging curtains. He heard himself muttering under his breath in the barbarian's tongue, and did not wonder why he used it in this, their most precious castle that she had burned rather than see him take. His own language should not be spoken in this place that had belonged to her and would never belong to him.

There was too much here that was strange to his people and their ways. Too much evidence of luxury. Their language reflected it, full of unnecessary words. His own tongue was simple and direct: subject, verb, object. The actor, the actЧand the acted upon, he told himself with a grim smile that died when he recognized that the room he was in had been the library.

This was the reason his sire had forced him to learn the enemy's language. "To know an enemy's words is to know how he speaks of himself. His words give you his mind, his thoughts, how he looks upon the world." So he had learned to speak it, read it, even write it. But all that hard schooling would avail him nothing here. At Remagev, some books and scrolls remained despite the efforts to destroy themЧespecially that book on dragons that made the priests tremble as they translated it at Radzyn. Here, in the library that was the prize of all the princedoms, there was nothing.

He went back downstairs, down into the cellars to confirm another dismal suspicion. Of course he'd been right; the great wooden cisterns were only ash floating atop a floodЧbut of water here, not Fire. The grotto spring would have to suffice, he told himself.

Skirting the danger of the Great Hall, he guessed his way to the kitchens. And there he was rewardedЧnot with oil to make his torch last, but with a half-burned log beneath the ash of the huge open hearth. Ironic indeed, that the only thing other than steel pots and copper pans that had not burned was something meant to burn.

Another patient search yielded a stoppered glass jar of oil. He soaked the end of the log in it, set it afire with the last sparks of the tunic wrapped around his sword, and took his search back outside.

The night was even darker now. He turned to look up at the shadowy castle, the windows dripping black where her Fire had scorched the stone. Ah, to have the taming of a woman like that! Even advanced in years, it was said she was beautiful still.

And dangerousЧfor her dragonmate was gone.

That was what he had really come to see. He wanted to look at the face of his enemyЧor at least upon his ashes.

He came to the place his warriors had described. Nothing was left. Not even the ashes. He held the torch high, searching for anything that would confirm who had lain here, and caught sight of a dull glitter in dark soil. Crouching, he picked it up and rubbed it clean. A man's earring, small and plain, set with a topaz the color of Desert sands. It must be his; the jewel was his symbol, worn in a ring with her emerald. But though he searched, holding the light close to the ground, he could not find the ring.

Something else glinted by firelight, snagging his gaze to the water. He pocketed the earring to free his other hand. A long, waving lock of hair had been caught by a stone in the water. He plucked it up. Protected by the Storm Father's blood, not even the Goddess' Fire had been able to touch it.

And it was hers. The red and gold had darkened with water, but he knew it was hers. It was strangely disturbing to see the silver so thick in it. A woman like that should not grow old like everyone else.

But perhaps she would grow no older. Perhaps the

dying of the Fire had been at her death. Who knew, with Sunrunners?

He tied the strand of hair around itselfЧno easy task one-handedЧand put that in his pocket, too. Then he rose, intending to go judge the fall of water in the grotto. But at that moment he heard a piercing cry, and although he had cured himself long ago of his people's one true terror, it was hardЧin this place that had belonged to the AzhreiЧnot to shiver with dread at the sound of a dragon.

*

With Sioned sleeping an honest sleep at last, Meath explained himself quite calmly. "She called Fire at Stronghold. And maintained it, probably without even realizing it. Iron piercing her flesh during a working threatened her life. So she stopped."

Chayla was shaking her head in wonder. "I should have heard it. There was too much pain in her voice for the shallowness of those scrapes on her arm. I'm sorry, Meath. I should have trusted you."

"I must've seemed utterly mad." Pausing, he bit his lip and said, "I'll never forgive myself for hurting you."

"Don't be silly. I'm perfectly fine."

"I shouldn't have done it," he insisted. "I'm sorry, my lady."

Maarken put a hand on Meath's shoulder. "Don't worry. She only looks made of crystal and silk." He slanted a look at his daughter. "Best not let your Lord Kazander hear of this, however. He'd skewer poor Meath and roast him for a dragon's dinner."

"He's not my Lord Kazander," she began hotly.