"David Eddings - Belgariad 2 - Queen of Sorcery" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

At best, you'd have only been able to stall off the inevitable for a few
months. We're not who we are and what we are in order to get mixed up in
things that don't have any meaning."

"So you said before." She looked around at the filmy trees marching away in
the fog down the empty streets. "I didn't think the trees would come back
so fast," she said with a strange little catch in her voice. "I thought
they might have waited a little longer."

"It's been almost twenty-five centuries, Pol."

"Really? It seems like only last year."

"Don't brood about it. It'll only make you melancholy. Why don't we go
inside? The fog's beginning to make us all a bit moody."

Unaccountably, Aunt Pol put her arm about Garion's shoulders as they turned
toward the tower. Her fragrance and the sense of her closeness brought a
lump to his throat. The distance that had grown between them in the past
few months seemed to vanish at her touch.

The chamber in the base of the tower had been built of such massive stones
that neither the passage of centuries nor the silent, probing tendrils of
tree roots had been able to dislodge them. Great, shallow arches supported
the low stone ceiling, making the room seem almost like a cave. At the end
of the room opposite the narrow doorway a wide crack between two of the
rough-hewn blocks provided a natural chimney. Durnik had soberly considered
the crack the previous evening when they had arrived, cold and wet, and
then had quickly constructed a crude but efficient fireplace out of rubble.
"It will serve," the smith had said "Not very elegant perhaps, but good
enough for a few days."

As Wolf, Garion and Aunt Pol entered the low, cavelike chamber, a good fire
crackled in the fireplace, casting looming shadows among the low arches and
radiating a welcome warmth. Durnik in his brown leather tunic was stacking
firewood along the wall. Barak, huge, redbearded, and mail-shined, was
polishing his sword. Silk, in an unbleached linen shirt and black leather
vest, lounged idly on one of the packs, toying with a pair of dice.

"Any sign of Hettar yet?" Barak asked, looking up.

"It's a day or so early," Mister Wolf replied, going to the fireplace to
warm himself.

"Why don't you change your boots, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested, hanging her
blue cloak on one of the pegs Durnik had hammered into a crack in the wall.

Garion lifted his pack down from another peg and began rummaging through
it.