"Terry Goodkind - Sword Of Truth 10 - Phantom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodkind Terry)

"Well for goodness' sake," the woman said as she hurried between the two plank tables. She tsked
at the foul weather as the wind drove a rattle of rain against the windows. "Do get them in out of
that awful weather, Orlan."
Streamers of fat raindrops chased them in the door, wetting a patch of pine floor. The man's
mouth twisted with displeasure as he pushed the door closed against a wet gust and then dropped
the heavy iron bar back in the brackets to bolt the door.
The woman, her hair gathered up in a loose bun, lifted her lantern a little as she peered at the late-
night guests. Puzzled, she squinted as her gaze swept over the drenched visitors and then back
again. Her mouth opened but then she seemed to forget what she had been about to say.
Kahlan had seen that blank look a thousand times and knew that the woman only remembered
seeing three callers. No one could ever remember seeing Kahlan long enough to say so. She was
as good as invisible. Kahlan thought that maybe because of the darkness and rain the man, Orlan,
had merely made a mistake when he'd said to his wife that there were four visitors.
"Come in and get yourselves dry," the woman said as she smiled in earnest warmth. She hooked a
hand under Sister Ulicia's arm, drawing her into the small gathering room. "Welcome to the
White Horse Inn."
The other two Sisters, openly scrutinizing the room, took off their cloaks and gave them a quick
shake before tossing them over a bench at one of the two tables. Kahlan noticed a single dark
doorway at the back, beside the stairs. A fireplace made of stacked, flat stones took up most of
the wall to the right. The air in the dimly lit room was warm and carried the distractingly enticing
aroma of a stew in the iron pot hung from a crane pushed to the side of the hearth. Hot coals
glowed out from under a thick layer of feathery ashes.
"You three ladies look like drowned cats. You must be miserable." The woman turned to the man

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and gestured. "Orlan, get the fire going."
Kahlan saw a young girl of maybe eleven or twelve years slip down the stairs just far enough so
she could see into the room from under the low ceiling. Her long white nightdress with ruffled
cuffs had a pony stitched in coarse brown thread on the front, with a row of loose strands of dark
yarn making up the mane and tail. The girl sat on the steps to watch, tenting her nightdress over
her bony knees. Her grin revealed big teeth that she had yet to grow into. Strangers arriving in the
middle of the night apparently was an adventure at the White Horse Inn. Kahlan dearly hoped
that that was all there would be to the adventure.
Orlan, a big bear of a man, knelt at the hearth, stacking on a few sticks of wood. His thick, stubby
fingers made the wedges of oak look to be little more than kindling.
"What would possess you ladies to travel in the rain52;at night?" he asked as he cast them a look
over his shoulder.
"We're in a hurry to catch up with a friend of ours," Sister Ulicia said, offering a meaningless
smile. She kept her tone businesslike. "She was to meet us here. Her name is Tovi. She will be
expecting us."
The man put a hand on his knee to help himself up. "Those guests who stay with us52;especially
in such troubled times52;are pretty discreet. Most don't give their names." He lifted an eyebrow
at Sister Ulicia. "Much like you ladies52;not giving your names, that is."
"Orlan, they're guests," the woman scolded. "Wet, and no doubt tired and hungry, guests." She
flashed a smile. "Folks call me Emmy. My husband, Orlan, and I have run the White Horse since
his parents passed away, years back." Emmy gathered up three wooden bowls from a shelf. "You
ladies must be famished. Let me get you some stew. Orlan, get some mugs and fetch these ladies