"Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 03 - The Cursed Towers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forsyth Kate)

blanket. She hated winter. Ordinarily she would have found a sheltered valley some weeks ago, with rich,
dark soil in which to dig her roots. There she would have dreamed the winter away, her sap quiescent,
the winter storms shaking her boughs but barely penetrating her slumbering senses. Only when the snow
had melted and her sap quickened, new buds swelling along her twigs, would she have stirred and
stretched and opened her long eyes, smelling the sharp spring wind. Only then would she have shaken the
earth from her roots and taken her first trembling steps after the long winter rest.

Instead the tree-shifter was perched on the hard wooden bench of Gwilym the Ugly's caravan, trying to
keep her balance as the cart lurched over the ruts of the dirt road. Her twiggy hair was hidden beneath a
plaid, and her broad, gnarled feet were wrapped in sheepskins. Lilanthe was taking no risks despite the
success of the Samhain rebellion which had restored the Coven of Witches. Already they had
encountered trouble along the road, her uncanny green eyes arousing suspicion among crofters whose
hatred of faeries had been encouraged for sixteen long years.

Enit Silverthroat's brightly painted caravan swayed ahead of them, while behind rattled her son Morrell
the Fire-Eater's caravan and an old canvas-covered wagon driven by a slim young man with a crimson
velvet cap and very bright, black eyes. Lilanthe turned to gaze back at him, clenching her jaw a little
when she saw the pretty blonde girl who sat beside him, laughing at one of his jokes. Lilanthe would
much rather have been sitting beside Dide the Juggler, singing and laughing, than beside the taciturn
Gwilym. Somehow Gilliane NicAislin always managed to get there first, however, and Lilanthe was too
shy to insist on having her turn.

Huddled under the meager shelter of the canvas were a cluster of children, the youngest only nine, and a
young, fair-haired woman in the final months of pregnancy. She was whey-faced and her eyes were
closed, her hand gripping the side of the wagon as she tried to brace herself against its lurch and sway.
One of the young men walking beside the wagon turned often to glance up at her, his face creased with
anxiety, and once he reached up to touch her in reassurance. Iain MacFoghnan and Elfrida NicHilde had
not been married very long and, although theirs had been a marriage of convenience, it had soon
blossomed into love.

Lilanthe clung to the side board as the mare's hooves slipped on a patch of ice, causing the caravan to
slide sideways. Gwilym the Ugly gripped the reins tighter, urging the mare on. Ahead, Enit's caravan was
almost invisible in the snowy dusk, and Gwilym said anxiously, "We had best find somewhere to camp
soon, for it'll be another bitter night by the looks o' it."

The old jongleur did not pull her caravan over, however, not even when they passed a field with running
water and a tall stand of trees where they might have sheltered. They began to see the occasional
cottage, orange warmth glinting through the shutters, then lights pricked the gloom ahead. Gently Gwilym
shook Lilanthe, who had dozed off to sleep. She woke with a start, straightening hurriedly and rubbing
her eyes with one hand.

"There's a town ahead, thank Ea!" Gwilym said. "Hot stew and soft beds for us tonight! Keep your plaid
over your head, there's a good lass. We dinna want to be chased out o' town again, that be for sure!"
Lilanthe gave a shudder and rubbed the bruise on her cheekbone where she had been a hit by a stone at
a village a few days earlier. She pulled the plaid close about her face as they drove over the bridge and
into the town square, the wheels of the caravans rattling loudly against the cobblestones. Dide handed the
reins of the great carthorse to Iain and leapt down from the wagon, his guitar in his hand. He began to
strum it melodiously, while his father shouted: