"Hawke, Simon - Athas 3 - Broken Blade e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

Cricket smiled. "That would be telling tales."
Turin grimaced. "Well, I expect most of them do," he said with a shrug. "Why should you be any different?"
"Because I do not break my agreements," she replied, turning to face him. "If I compromised on my agreement with you, it would be only a short step to compromising on my agreements with myself, and I do not wish to lose my focus."
"Your focus?" he repeated with a smile. "That is a dwarven concept. What would a half-elf girl know about focus?"
"I know what dwarves have taught me," she replied. "It is a very useful concept, and I am a quick study."
"And what is your focus?" Turin asked with a condescending little smile.
"You of all people should know better than to ask a thing like that," said Cricket, raising her eyebrows.
Turin nodded. "Indeed," he said. "One's focus is a private thing. I see that you have learned at least that much. Forgive me for my rudeness."
"No offense was meant, and none taken."
Turin smiled. "Spoken like a dwarf," he said, "Whoever taught you, taught you well."
"I live in a dwarven village," she replied. "I try to learn the customs, as a courtesy."
"You are an unusual young woman," Turin said. "You are not like the others."
"Yes," she agreed, "that is a large part of my appeal."
"And some of the other girls resent you for it."
"They all resent me for it," she said. "But I did not come here to make friends, only to make money."
"And only on your own terms," said Turin.
"The other girls are already busy out there, circulating, yet you always remain backstage until it is your turn to dance. You could make a great deal more if you were more forthcoming with customers, you know."
"On the contrary, I would make a great deal less," said Cricket.
Turin stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, then pursed his lips and nodded. "You may be right, at that," he said. "Well, that bard should be finishing up his song by now, so I'll need to go and start the show." He grinned. "There's nothing like a bard to get things rolling. By the time he's finished, they'll be dying for some real entertainment. It's a hungry crowd. Let's really drive them wild tonight."
"That I can do," said Cricket.
Turin went back out into the main room, then Cricket heard the clamor of the crowd as the bard finished his recitation and Turin took the stage to announce the first dancer.
A moment later, the beaded curtain parted, and Edric the bard came in, looking weary and exasperated. He was dressed as usual in a loose-fitting gray tunic belted at the waist, use-worn breeches of brown leather, and soft, high-topped moccasin boots. So far as Cricket knew, they were the only clothes he owned. With a heavy sigh, he put down his harp and eased his long, lean, elven frame into a chair, running a hand through shoulder-length silver hair.
"Tough crowd tonight?" asked Cricket sympathetically.
Edric grimaced. "Indifferent to the point of pain," he said, his voice heavy with frustration. "It was like trying to sing into a sandstorm. I don't know why I bothered taking this job. It's you girls they come to see, not me. They talked and shouted throughout the entire performance. Still, at least they didn't throw things. That's something to be thankful for, I suppose."
"I'm sorry, Edric," Cricket said. "You deserve a more appreciative audience."
"Well, I fear I won't find one here," said Edric wryly.
"Why not sing for me, then? There is still time before I have to go on stage." She tossed him a coin. "Sing for me, Edric."
He caught the coin adroitly. "There is no need for this, Cricket," he said. "I would be glad to sing for you for nothing."
"And I am glad to pay," she said. "I can afford it, and an artist should be rewarded for his efforts."
Edric smiled and picked up his harp. "Very well, then. Is there a special song you would like to hear?"
"Sing for me "The Song of Alaron,' " she said. "Not the whole ballad-there isn't enough time. Sing the sad part, about the fall and the prophecy."
"Ah," said Edric, nodding. "An excellent choice. I have not sung that one in quite a while."
"You still recall it?"
"How could I not? I am an elf," he said with a smile as his long fingers delicately plucked the harp. Cricket sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, and Edric began to sing, reciting the words with a measured cadence in a deep, mellifluent voice.

"And so it came to pass that the noble Alaron, last of the long and honored line of elven kings, was cursed by the evil Rajaat, who feared the power of the elves and sought to sow disunity among them. With his defiler magic, Rajaat cast a spell upon the noble Alaron, so that he could sire no sons, and so the royal line would die out with him. And the evil that he wrought upon our people is with us to this day. May his name live long in infamy."

"May his name live long in infamy," Cricket repeated softly, as was the custom when the song was performed around the elven campfires in the desert. Edric smiled and continued.

"Rajaat then sowed discord among the tribes, using bribery, deceit, and magic, and in time, he succeeded in driving the tribes apart into many warring factions. Only the noble Alaron resisted him, but he was unable to bring the tribes together once again.
"And so the kingdom fell."

"And so the kingdom fell," said Cricket, nodding with her eyes still closed. And Edric went on.
"Then the noble Alaron was forced to flee, pursued by Rajaat's evil minions. They caught up to him and the remnants of his tribe at a place called the Lake of Golden Dreams, and it was there the dream died for our people. A mighty battle followed, and all the tribe was slain. Mortally wounded, the noble Alaron alone escaped into the forests of the Ringing Mountains.
"There, he fell down in despair and waited for death to come claim him. He had done his utmost, and he had failed, but he had not bowed down to the foe. May his courage be remembered."

"May his courage be remembered," Cricket echoed with feeling. Edric nodded, plucking out the notes of the refrain, and then went on.

"And it came to pass that as he lay dying, a wandering pyreen came upon him and stopped to bring him peace and ease his final moments. With his last breath, the noble Alaron gave her his sword, the mighty Galdra, enchanted blade of elven kings. With his last breath, he asked one final boon of her.
" 'Take this, my sword, the symbol of my once-proud people,' he said to her. 'Keep it safe, so that it should never fall into the hands of the defilers, for the blade would shatter if they tried to use it. I was cursed never to have a son,' he said, 'and a proud tradition dies with me. The elves are now a beaten people. Take Galdra and keep it safe. My life is but the blink of an eye to a pyreen such as you. Perhaps, someday, you will succeed where I have failed, and find an elf worthy of this blade. If not, hide it from the defilers. I can at least deny them this.'