"Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 01 - The Witches Of Eileanan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forsyth Kate)

"No excuses, Beau. Bedtime."

Reluctantly Isabeau bade the two witches goodnight and climbed up the ladder to her room,
which was cold and dark. Faint light flickered up the stairs, but she did not bother to light a candle
for her night vision was exceptionally good. She was able to see in the dark room almost as easily as
she had out in the meadows that afternoon. Meghan had always said she could see like an elven cat.

In her cold little bed, Isabeau slowly stretched her legs, enjoying the chill of the sheets against her
skin, and wondering about the unexpected appearance of the stranger-witch. She smiled, imagining
how she would impress the supercilious Seychella by passing the Test of Power with ease. She
would make the black-haired witch's eyes pop out. She was still planning her triumph when Meghan
clambered up the ladder and came and sat on the edge of her bed, as she always did.

"Asleep, Beau?"

"Mmm-mmm. Meghan, did ye mean what ye said about traveling down to the sea?"

"Indeed, I did. Things are afoot, and much as I am loath to leave our wee valley, if things are to go
the way I wish, I must take a hand in the weaving. Now, go to sleep, Isabeau. It'll be a long day
tomorrow." With that cryptic remark, the old witch bent and kissed Isabeau on the forehead,
between the eyes, as she did every night.



When she was gone, Isabeau gave a wriggle of excitement and fell into a reverie of adventures
and explorations, palaces and fairies. She had been feeling restless ever since the snow had begun to
thaw and life again quickened all around her. She was often bored with their sedate life in the secret
valley, where every animal was a friend and there was no one to talk to except Meghan. Every
season she looked forward to their forays into the mountains for herbs and semiprecious stones;
even greater was her excitement when the two of them journeyed down into the villages to sell their
potions and love spells. Isabeau had never been further south than the highland town of Caeryla,
which they had visited eight years earlier.
 It had been festival time, the time of the red comet, a season of fertility and strong magic. The
streets of Caeryla were strung with colored ribbons and flags, pots of flowers decorated every
doorstep and the townsfolk were dressed in their finest clothes. Minstrels strummed their guitars and
sang of love, and jongleurs juggled colored balls and did backflips, while performing bears nursed
their sad heads. Isabeau had never seen anything like the jongleurs, who entertained the crowd with
jokes and magic tricks, fire-eating, sword-swallowing and juggling, their bright cloaks covering
tattered clothes. One was a young boy, thin and quick, who could turn along the road as quickly as
a wheel. Isabeau was openly envious, hanging back against Meghan's hand to watch him. She
thought she would like traveling from town to town in the gaudy little caravan, juggling oranges for a
living. Meghan's hand was firm, though, and Isabeau was gently pulled away from the square with its
bright swinging lamps and the flickering shadows.

It was dangerous for them in the towns. This Isabeau understood. The Red Guards were
everywhere, suspicious of strangers, and brutal in their dealings with suspected witches. Isabeau
knew she must not play with the One Power or speak of it. She knew she must always be quiet and
unobtrusive and never draw attention to them. When they entered a town, Meghan's limp became
more noticeable, her body somehow more frail. She draped her plaid about her head so her thick