"Robert Jordan - Ravens" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

running around rolling hoops and tossing balls and playing
keepaway.

There were only five times each year when so many
gathered: at Bel Tine, which was past; at shearing; when the
merchants came to buy the wool, still a month or more off, when
the merchants came for the cured tabac, after Sunday; and at
Foolday, in the fall. There were other feastdays, of course, but
none where everyone got together.

Her eyes kept moving, searching the crowd. Among all these
people, it would be all too easy to walk up on one of her four
sisters. She always avoided them as much as possible. Berowyn,
the eldest, was worst. She had been widowed by the breakbone
fever last fall and moved back home in the spring. It was hard not
to feel for Berowyn, but she fussed so, wanting to dress Egwene
and brush her hair. Sometimes she wept and told Egwene how
lucky, she felt that the fever had not taken her baby sister, too.
Feeling for Berowyn would have been easier if Egwene could
stop thinking that sometimes Berowyn saw her as the infant she
had lost along with her husband. Maybe all the time. She was just
watching for Berowyn. Or one of the other three. That was all.

Near the sheep-pens, she stopped to wipe the sweat from
her forehead. Her bucket was lighter, now, and no trouble to hold
with one hand. She eyed the nearest dog cautiously. Standing in
front of one of the pens, it was a large animal with a close, curly
gray coat and intelligent eyes that seemed to know she was no
danger to the sheep.

Still, it was very big, almost waist-high to a grown man.

Mainly the dogs helped protect the flocks when they were in
pasture, guarding against wolves and bears and the big mountain
cats. She edged away from the dog. Three boys passed her,
herding a few dozen sheep toward the river. All five or six years
older than she, the boys barely gave her a glance, their full
attention on the animals. The herding was easy enough - she
could have done it, she was sure - but they had to make sure
none of the sheep had a chance to crop grass. A sheep that ate
before being sheared could get the gasping and die. A quick look
around told her that none of the other boys in sight was anyone
she wanted to speak to. Not that she was looking for a particular
boy to speak to, of course. She was just looking. Anyway, her
bucket would need refilling soon. It was time to start back toward
the Winespring Water.

This time she decided to go by way of the row of trestle
tables. The smells were tantalizing, as good as any feastday,
everything from roast goose to honeycakes. The spicy aroma of