"Kenneth C. Flint - A Storm Upon Ulster" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Kenneth C)

"Faythleen, I am. Prophetess of Tara."

He understood, then. She was of the Sidhe, that, ancient race who seemed more
of the air than of the earth. But the realization only deepened his confusion.
The Sidhe seldom came out from their hidden places to speak directly with men.

"What is it you want?"

"You must go out of the Province of Ulster for a time," she answered. "You
must leave your home."

The words of the Prophetess were without tone, but still they carried some
deeper meaning to him. Some hidden fear, it was, that chilled him more than
the sea air.

"Is something to happen here?" he asked on impulse. "If so, I'll not be
leaving. I am a warrior of the Red Branch."

"Be easy in your mind. Nothing which you can help will be happening here." She
spoke with quiet assurance and he did not doubt her. The Sidhe did not lie.

"Then what is it I am to do?" he asked.

"I wish you only to come to Tara. A small enough thing for you. I must see you
there in a fortnight's time. When you come, you will understand the reasons
why."

His mind was still hazy with sleep and unable to clear itself. He could find
no will to argue her strange request.

"I will come," he agreed.

She leaned toward him, bringing a scent of warm spring with her. A hand slid
forward out of the folds of the cloak' and gripped bis lower arm. It was a
long, slim

PROLOGUE 3

hand, but it gripped him with a strength that surprised him, the delicate
fingers pressing deeply into his flesh.

"You will remember?" she said.

"I will remember," he replied.

A sudden, overwhelming weariness seized him, then, and when she released his
arm, he lay back on his bed and closed his eyes.

"Remember," said the voice again, drifting away to be lost in the thunder of