"Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 05 - The Skull Of The World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forsyth Kate)

spending six months of the year with her newly discovered parents at the Towers of Roses and Thorns,
and six months with the Pride of the Fire Dragon in their snowy mountain home. In the summer she
studied the lore of the witches in the great library at the Towers, and in winter she studied the art of the
Scarred Warrior and the wisdom of the Soul-Sage with her Khan'cohban teachers. Although she was
often lonely and unhappy, Isabeau had worked hard, eager to grasp the secrets of both cultures and
philosophies, and now she had her reward in the words of the Firemaker.

Before Isabeau had a chance to feel more than a flush of pride and self-satisfaction, her Scarred Warrior
teacher came to her and dissected her performance critically. She had been too quick to attack, he said.
"The art of the Scarred Warrior is not to fight, but to be still. Not to act, but to react. When the wind
blows, the tree bends. When an enemy strikes, the warrior responds. The warrior is not the wind but the
tree. You try too hard to be the wind."

She bowed her head, accepting his words. She knew them to be true.

"You shall set out on your naming-quest in the morning," her teacher said. "You must reach the Skull of
the World. Listen to the words of the White Gods and return to the haven before the end of the long
darkness, or die."

Isabeau nodded. Fear touched her like an icy finger, but she repressed it sternly. He said then, in an
unusually gentle voice, "You fought well, Khan. I thank you, for now I am released from my geas and
can once more hunt with my comrades. I had thought it would be many years before I could once again
skim in the chase."

"I thank you," lsabeau replied. "It is not the art of the student but that of the teacher which struck that
blow today."

Although his fierce dark face did not relax, she knew she had pleased him. He said gruffly, "Make your
preparations. I shall see you in the morning," then dismissed her with a gesture.

Isabeau went then to the fire of the Soul-Sage. The shaman of the pride was sitting in meditation, her legs
crossed, her eyes closed. In one hand she held a stone of iridescent blue, flecked with gold. A falcon's
talon hung on her breast from a long leather cord around her neck. It rose and fell gently with her
breathing.

Isabeau sat opposite her, closing her own eyes. She felt the soft brush of feathers on her hand as the little
elf-owl Buba crept out of the blankets and into her palm. She cupped her fingers around the fluffy white
bird, not much bigger than a sparrow, and let herself sink into nothingness. Against her sensitive palm she
felt the flutter of the owl's heart and it was like a drumbeat leading her down into a profound meditation.
For a long time she floated in this exquisite nonbeing, her heart and the owl's heart and the pulse of the
universe in perfect rhythm.

So you go in search of your name and your totem, the Soul-Sage said without words.

Isabeau felt another little stir of fear and excitement. Yes, she responded. The Firemaker thinks I am
ready.

1 shall cast the bones for you, the shaman said after a long silence.

Thank you, teacher, Isabeau responded, her excitement quickening. She opened her eyes. Across the