"Forgotten Realms - Shandril's Saga 01 - Spellfire (2002) (Greenwood, Ed)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forgotten Realms)

This one's for all who have brought the
Realms to life over the years:
Tb Jenny, Andrew, Victor, John, lan, Jim,
Anita, Cathy, Dave, Ken, Tim, and Kim.
And to new-found friends who have joined
the ride: Jeff, Mary, and Bruce; well met!
It hasnt always been easy being Elminster,
but it's been worth it.
SPELLFIRE
ХCopyright 1988 TSR, Inc. All Bights Reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.
Distributed to the book trade in the United States by Random House, Inc. and in Canada by Random House of Canada, Ltd.
Distributed in the United Kingdom by TSR UK Ltd. Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.
FORGOTTEN REALMS, PRODUCTS OF VOUR IMAGINATION and the TSR logo are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.
First Printing, July, 1987
Printed in the United States of America.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-50056
987654321
ISBN: 0-88038-587-1
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead
is purely coincidental.
TSR, Inc. TSR UK Ltd.
PO. Box 756 The Mill, Baltimore Road
Lake Geneva, WI 53147 Cambridge CB14AD
U.S.A. United Kingdom
ZHENTIL KEEP
At Ctae Sign op Tbe Rising Moon
Neglect not small things, for all ruling and war and magecraft are naught but small things, one built upon another. Begin then with the small, and look close, and you will see it all.
Seroun of Calimport
"fifes of Far Ttevels
Yfear of the Rock
It was a good inn, but sometimes Shandril hated it. She was crying at the pain in her scalded hands, the tears running down her chin and arms into the suds, as she washed a small mountain of dishes.
ft was a hot Flamerule noon. Sweat stood out all over her like oil, making her slim arms slippery and glistening. She wore only her old gray tunic, once Gorstag's. It stuck to her here and there, but only the cook, Korvan, would see her, and he would slap and pinch even if she were bundled up in furs like some northern princess. She blew, sharply, and the lank blonde hair falling from her forehead parted reluctantly in front of her eyes. Tossing her head to fling her hair aside, Shandril narrowly surveyed the stack beside her and concluded with a sigh that there were at least three hours' worth of dishes left.
Not enough time. Korvan was starting the roasts in the hearth already. He'd be wanting herbs cut and water brought soon. He was a good cook, Shandril allowed grudgingly, even if he was fat and he stank and his hands were always hot and sticky. Some folk came to The Rising Moon just because of Korvan's cooking.
ED GREENWOOD
Shandril had heard the story about how KorvanЧ younger and slimmer thenЧhad once been a cook in the Royal Palace of Cormyr, in the fair city of Suzail. There had been some trouble (probably over a girl, Shandril thought darkly, perhaps even one of the princesses of Cormyr), and he'd had to leave Cormyr in some haste, banished therefrom upon pain of death.
Shandril wondered, as she eyed a soapy platter critically, what would happen if she ever managed to get Korvan drunk senseless or knocked cold with a skillet and somehow could drag him through the Thunder Gap and over the border into Cormyr. Perhaps King Azoun himself would appear out of thin air and say to the Cormyrean border guards, "Here he is!" and without hesitating they'd draw their swords and hack off Korvan's head. She smiled at the thought. Perhaps he'd plead for mercy or cry in fear.
Shandril snorted. Great chance, indeed, of that ever happening! He was here, now, and too lazy to ever go anywhereЧand too fat for most horses to carry him, if it came to that. No, he was trapped here, and she was trapped with him. She scrubbed a fork fiercely until its two tines gleamed in the sunlight. Yes, trapped.
It had been a long time before she'd realized it. She had no parents, no kinЧand no one would even admit to knowing where she'd come from. She had always been here, it seemed, doing the dirty work in the old roadside inn among the trees. It was a good inn, everyone said. Other places must be worse, Shandril reasoned, but she had never seen them. She could not remember ever having been inside any other building, ever. After sixteen summers, all she knew of her town of Highmoon was what she could see from the inn-yard. She'd never more than thought of running away or just slipping off to have a look. She was always too busy, too behind with her work, or too tired.
There was always work to be done. Each spring she even washed the ceilings of all the bedchambers while tied to a ladder so she wouldn't fall off. Sharp-eyed old Tezza did the windows, all those tiny panes of mica and a few panels of blown glass from Selgaunt and Hillsfar, which were far too valuable for Shandril to be trusted to wash.
SPELLFIBE
Shandril didn't mind most of the work, really. She just hated getting extra tired or hurt while the others did little or, like Korvan, bothered her. Besides, if she didn't work, or she fought with the othersЧall more necessary to the running of The Rising Moon than Shandril ShessairЧshe'd upset Gorstag. And more than anything (except, maybe, to have a real adventure), Shandril wanted to please Gorstag.
The owner of The Rising Moon was a broad-shouldered, strong man with gray-white hair, gray eyes, and a craggy, weathered face. He'd broken his nose long ago, perhaps in the days when he had been an adventurer. Gorstag had been all over the world, people said, swinging his axe in important wars. He had made quite a lot of gold before settling down in Deepingdale, in the heart of the forest, and rebuilding his father's old inn. Gorstag was kind and quiet and sometimes gruff, but it was he who insisted that Shandril have a good gown for feast-days and when important folk stopped at the inn, even though Korvan said she'd serve them better by staying in the kitchen.
It was also Gorstag who had insisted that she have a last name, when, years ago, the chamber girls had called her "a nameless nobody," and "a cow too runty to keep, so someone threw it away!" The innkeeper had come into the room and spoken in a voice that had frightened Shandril into silence in mid-sob, a voice that made her think of cold steel and executioners and priestly dooms. "Such wordsЧand all others like themЧwill never be spoken in this house again." Gorstag never hit women or spanked girls, but he had taken off his belt then, as he did when he thrashed the stable boy for cruel pranks. The girls were both white-faced, and one started to cry, but Gorstag never touched them. He closed the door of the room and set a chair against it. Then he walked over to the girls, who were both whimpering and, saying nothing, he swung the belt high and brought it crashing down on the floorboards so hard that the dust curled up and the door rattled. Then he put on his belt, took the shocked Shandril gently by the shoulder, and led her from the room, closing the door again behind him.
He had led her down to the taproom and said thickly, "I call you Shandril Shessair, for it is your truename. Do not
ED GREENWOOD
forget, for your name is precious." Then Shandril had asked him, voice quavering, "Was I so named by my parents?"
Gorstag shook his head slightly and gave her a sad smile. "In the Realms, little one, you can take any name you can carry. Mind you cany it well."
Yes, Gorstag had been good to her, and The Rising Moon was like him: kind and good, well-worn and bluntly honest, and lots of hard work. Day after day of hard work. It was her cage, Shandril thought fiercely, reaching for another dish while the sweat ran down her back.
With some surprise, she saw that there were no more dishes. In her anger she had washed and scrubbed like a madcap, and now she was done, and it was early yet. Time enough to change to her plain gown and peek into the taproom before cutting the herbs. Before Korvan could come in and give her extra work to do, Shandril vanished, her bare feet dancing lightly over the narrow loft stairs to her trunk.