"Gray, Julia - Guardian 03 - The Crystal Desert" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gray Julia)

Many of these stories were obviously as familiar as Medrano's had been, and yet the nomads' rapt attention did not waver - and knowing about the good bits to come often seemed to add an enjoyable element of anticipation. Terrel marvelled at the dramatic skills of the storytellers. These lay in the nuances of presentation, the subtle variations of words or phrases - and even though they were working with old material, each speaker held the audience spellbound. If any had failed to do so, Terrel suspected that they would have been rapidly forced to give way to another, but none did - and he began to wonder whether the seemingly endless store of tales would ever come to an end. More to the point, he wondered if the Toma would expect him to contribute to the night's entertainment. The prospect of trying to match their efforts made him feel quite sick with nervousness.
In due course, Algardi rose to his feet, and the clan instantly gave him their full attention.
'An old person who doesn't tell stories does not exist,' he said, evidently quoting a well-known saying. 'So here is mine.' He paused, apparently deep in thought. At first Terrel believed that the elder was choosing between the many tales he knew, but then realized it was simply a device Algardi was using for dramatic effect.
'Sand and flame is a dangerous combination,' the old man declared, provoking several murmurs of surprise. If this was not a new tale, then it was certainly a new beginning. 'There is magic in the movement of sand, when the wind takes it and reshapes the desert floor. Ancient augury
tells us how to read the patterns of such movement, how to see the snakes swirling within or to hear the echoes of another time, but that is commonplace magic. To see beyond the memories of sand, to the flame beyond, requires a refinement of the senses, of the spirit. It requires us to move beyond the realm of certainty, beyond the world of dreams. For it is there that the tiarken live.'
At this the audience let out a communal sigh of understanding. They were back on familiar ground. Algardi went on to explain that these creatures of fire and light had been given birth by the eternal blaze beyond the dome. He told of their infrequent forays into the world of men, and of the disruption their appearance usually caused. The tiarken had no conception of honour or responsibility, of life or death, of good or evil.
'But they can also bring great joy,' he added. 'If any man is able to capture one of them and keep it in a box or a sealed jar, the tiarken will be obliged to grant him his greatest wish. Yet even here there are risks, and you must be careful what you wish for. Be true to yourself -and those you love - or you may get more than you bargained for.
'And the risks of even trying to trap such a creature are great. While free they can be more blinding than a karabura, hotter than the summer sun, and deadlier than the bite of the nachar crystal-snake. They can command the spirit of an animal to depart, and use its empty body as a plaything.' Algardi lowered his voice to a sepulchral whisper. 'And it is possible for unwary humans to suffer the same fate.'
Many of the nomads shuddered at this idea, but Terrel was too absorbed in his own speculation to notice. Could it be that Kalkara had misinterpreted Alyssa's presence in the djerboa as one of these flame-spirits? That would certainly explain her terror - and her belief that she had been burnt. Looking at Mlicki, who was sitting beside him, Terrel saw that Kala was there too, but she had finally succumbed to the lateness of the hour. The little girl was asleep, nestled against her brother. Terrel was glad she had not heard Algardi's tale. It might have reawakened her fear.
'And now,' the elder announced in a more cheerful tone, 'I think it's time we heard from the voice of rain.'
The nomads roared their agreement, but it was only when Terrel found almost every eye turned towards him that he realized who the voice of rain was.
'Come on, Ghost,' Zahir added jovially. 'Give us something new.'
Terrel got slowly to his feet. Now that the moment he'd dreaded had come, he found that he was able to regard it as an opportunity rather than an ordeal.
'I want to tell you about the Bringer of Earthquakes,' he began.
Chapter Eleven
'Moons! That was some story,' Mlicki whispered. 'Is it true?'
'As true as anything we've heard tonight,' Terrel replied.
During the course of the evening, he'd come to realize that the Toma made little or no distinction between history and myth. He had no idea whether the nomads had believed his tale and, in a sense, it didn't matter - to them or to him. His only concern was to see what reaction his words provoked, and theirs was simply to judge whether he told a good story or not. In the end Terrel had been disappointed; the nomads had not. Even when he'd been part of Laevo's troupe of actors, Terrel had never performed before such an attentive audience. He hadn't even considered using the glamour - his version of Soofarah's gift - to enhance his performance, and yet they'd hung upon his every word, openly marvelling at his inventiveness. When he'd finished, the applause had been as enthusiastic as any that night. But that was all it had been; appreciation for a good story, well told. Terrel had hoped for something more.
'Do you have any more like that?' Mlicki asked, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Zahir, who had taken up the challenge of following Terrel, and who was now telling a convoluted tale of thwarted love and treachery.
'A few.'
'If they're all as good as that, you're never going to get any peace,' Mlicki told him. 'They'll want you to tell stories every night.'
Terrel smiled but shook his head, indicating that they ought to honour the spirit of the occasion and listen to Zahir. Mlicki took the hint and fell silent, -even though it was obvious he was bursting with questions, but Terrel found it harder to heed his own advice. Ever since his conversation with Alyssa had been cut short, he'd been trying to think of a way to find out whether the Toma had heard anything that might indicate the existence of an elemental in their country - without them thinking he was completely insane. Belatedly, he'd realized that the kappara-tan had provided him with the perfect opportunity.
And so he had related part of his own history, changing the name of the 'hero' of course - calling him Aylen, in honour of the friend who had been with him at the time - but otherwise it had been an accurate, albeit abbreviated, account of real events. He'd described the jewelled city of Talazoria, its mad king, and the magical dome that had surrounded Ekuban's palace - the dome that had been intended as protection, but which in the end had trapped an earthquake inside its boundaries. The hero's escape from the doomed palace with the help of a giant, otherworldly bird, had been one of the highlights of his performance, but he had concentrated on the 'monster' responsible for the devastation. Painting a verbal picture of the Ancient was almost impossible, but Terrel did his best, hoping that the nomads would respond with some sign of recognition, no matter how slight. But there had been none, only the wonderment caused by something entirely new to them. If there was an elemental anywhere in Misrah, it was clear that the Toma were not aware of its existence.
The disappointment brought many of Terrel's earlier doubts flooding back, but he told himself that one setback was not enough to discount the other omens. He was still in the right place. That feeling had been reinforced by Medrano's tale, and Terrel now listened to the other storytellers in the hope that he would learn something more. The prophecies of the Tindaya Code had been engraved in stone; if anything similar existed in Misrah, it would surely be contained within the nomads' oral myths and legends.
In that respect, Zahir's contribution was a disappointment. It was an overblown and melodramatic romance, which he presented in deliberately flamboyant style. The fact that he obviously recognized the nature of the tale, and was able to take himself less than seriously for once, seemed out of character. Terrel's opinion of Algardi's son rose as he watched him coax laughter from the audience, sometimes at his own expense. Zahir seemed at ease, his earlier humiliation forgotten, and there was no doubting his flair for dramatic gestures. Was this a new-found confidence, now that he was officially a man and no longer felt the need to prove himself? Or was it simply that the storytelling tradition within the clan was so strong that anyone could defy their own nature within its scope, without fear of ridicule or loss of dignity? Either way, this was a side of Zahir that Terrel had not seen before, and he couldn't begrudge the young man his time as the centre of attention. It was his night, after all.
When Zahir eventually sat down, to a prolonged round of applause, Terrel saw Ghadira thread her way- through the crowd to bring her uncle a drink. She stooped to kiss his cheek, and they exchanged a brief private joke before he drank gratefully.
'I could do with some water myself,' Terrel muttered. His throat was still dry from his own performance.
'You only have to ask,' Mlicki told him. 'Just raise a hand and one of the women will bring you something. That's one of the privileges of taking a turn as a storyteller.'
Terrel hesitated. It seemed arrogant to presume that any of the Toma should wait on him.
'Go on,' Mlicki urged him.
'Can't I just go and get some myself?'
'No. That would be rude. We stay where we are until all the stories are told.'
Another elder had just stood up, and was beginning to tell the legend of how the snow-leopard got its spots. The old man's voice was resonant and warm, but slow, as if he were savouring each syllable, and it was clear that it would be some time before he finished.
Half expecting that no one would notice, Terrel raised his good arm into the air. He felt foolish, and quickly lowered it again, but almost as soon as he had done so, a metal cup appeared before him. Looking round, he saw that it had not been brought by one of the women, but by Nadur, one of Zahir's captains.
'Thank you,' Terrel whispered, wondering if this was a peace offering.
'Good story,' Nadur replied, grinning, then moved silently away.
Terrel was about to drink when Ghadira appeared at his side.
'I was about to ask what you wanted,' she said, smiling, 'but I see someone's beaten me to it. Is there anything else I can get you?'
Terrel didn't know what to say, so he just shook his head. Ghadira gave a slight shrug of disappointment and slipped away again. Terrel turned to watch her go, admiring the grace of her movements, and when he turned back he noticed that Kalkara had woken up. She was watching him, a sly smile on her face. For some reason he did not understand, Terrel blushed as she looked away.
Taking a sip of his drink, he tried to concentrate on the snow-leopard's tale. The water was cold and slightly bitter, but at least it was not salty. Any such taste still brought back horrible memories of his first sea voyage, when he'd almost died of thirst. He drank again, and the tiredness that had been creeping up on him began to drain away.
'The snow-leopard called down from the mountains to his love,' the elder intoned, 'but it was too late. By then . . .'
Terrel found his attention wandering. The White Moon was no longer visible from where he sat, and the scene before him was illuminated solely by the red glow of the dying fires. It made the night seem warmer than it was. Swallowing the last of the water, Terrel set the cup down on the ground next to a stone the size of his fist. A moment later the stone uncoiled, and-slithered away in a fast zigzag motion.
Terrel was so astonished that he didn't even think to cry out. He knew he ought to warn others about the snake, but he seemed unable to make his tongue work. The strange thing was that none of the nomads seemed to have noticed the creature as it sped past.
'Each grey ring is a mark of the smoke from that fire, and these marks have remained on the soft fur of the snow-leopard from that day to this,' the old man concluded.
The applause that followed sounded hollow in Terrel's ears, and he wanted to laugh without knowing why. The flames of the nearest fire had grown brighter, but they looked odd somehow, as if they were burning too slowly.
He was thirsty again and glanced down at the cup, only to find that it was now lying on its side and the last few drops of liquid had spilled out on to the sand. He couldn't remember knocking it over. Then he noticed that the side of the goblet was decorated with a familiar sign. It shone gold against the iron grey, and reminded Terrel of the eye that had been painted on Zahir's forehead. He stared, wondering why he had not noticed it earlier. It was beautiful. Like the eye of a snow-leopard. He had no idea where that thought had come from, but it seemed a perfect description.
The eye blinked.
Terrel blinked himself, then stared again, wondering for the first time what was going on. He felt warm, but far away - in another world - a sliver of ice was forming in his heart.
Looking round, he saw a blur of faces, but couldn't recognize any of them. A hand reached out of nowhere and the cup vanished. The world began to spin as Terrel felt himself fading away.
Hello, brother, said a voice that Terrel knew only too well. This is a surprise. I thought you 'd left me for good.