"Patricia Kennealy Morrison - The Hedge of Mist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kennealy Patricia)

jailed?
A face formed before my eyes: the manтАЩs face, the King, as I thought him. Dark-red hair to his
shoulders, or just a bit past, deep-set eyes the color of peat-stained water, beard just beginning to be
touched with gray: The vision cheered me, but vexed me more, for I knew I knew him, and knew him
well, and loved him wellтАФbetter perhaps than any living soulтАФand yet I could not say how, or even
who.
I felt just as sorry as vexed, a poor case to be so used, for whatever, or whosever, reasons. Not to
make great bones of it, but I was well aware there was a vast matter here, and that I, however grave or
pitiable I thought my present case, was by no means the center pirn of the thing. NayтАФI was merely a
messenger, an errander, but with a commission of staggering import, and I was being kept here so that
my message should go undelivered. That much I had puzzled out. But there was so much more to it than
thatтАФwhy, for example, did not my captors simply kill me, and stop my message then and there?тАФand
that was why the woman had visited me just now.
All at once I felt perversely cheered. If she felt the need to reinforce my captivity, to assure herself of
my ignorance, to shore up the spells I now knew were at work upon me to keep me in that ignorance,
then perhaps in that outer worldтАФKeltia, I said to myself, savoring the name as much as the regained
knowledge of it, out there in KeltiaтАФsome force was at work against her, a force she feared, a force
that could, perhaps, defeat her; a force that even now was set to save me.
My hand dropped to my tunic neck-slit, and I absently thrust my fingers through to scratch my chest.
To my surprise, for I had not noticed this beforeтАФor, if I had, I had not rememberedтАФthere was
somewhat lying there beneath my leinna: a chain, apparently, and upon it a pendant of some kind. How I
had managed to miss thisтАФfor I stripped twice daily to bathe, as was the cleanly habit among all my
folkтАФI could not imagine, save that I had been made to miss itтАж
But I tugged now on the chain, and it spilled out into my hand: a beautifully crafted piece of work,
each fine link of yellow gold hand-forged and soldered. And upon that chainтАФI stared in wonder at the
pendant piece, and for no reason I could name tears started in my eyes as I gazed.
It was a feather of gold, every part of it most carefully carven, barb and quill and down and shaft
lovingly detailed, strangely heavy for its dimensions. I turned it over in my fingers, and saw that it was
cunningly hinged along one edge, and fastened with a tiny boss and catch on the other. A reliquary of
some sort? I ran a fingernail along the latch edge and popped it open.
Inside was a clear crystal of what looked like white sapphire, shallowly faceted, forming a domed
cover for what lay beneath: a hawkтАЩs feather, gray and silver, brown and black. The gold casing that
housed it so magnificently in its own likeness bore slight signs of ageтАФthe fine lines of the vaning were a
touch blurred here and there, as if from long wearтАФbut the real feather seemed new-plucked from the
birdтАЩs own pinion.
I stared at it a long time, but no message or memory came to me, and finally I snapped closed the
locket casing, defeated and more than a little frustrated. Why had this one thing been left me, when so
much else had not? Was it a kindness, or merely more subtle torture? But before I put it back safe
beneath my leinna, I touched the case to my lips, and felt from somewhere very far and yet strangely
nearby, very soft yet very clear, a wave of love and comfort and promise. Whoever had gifted me with
this had loved me, long and greatly; and I was glad indeed to have even this little certainty of knowing.
And perhaps the discovery of the locket set free my chained memory in other directions as well, for
of a sudden I felt coming upon me the words and the burden of a song, and I reached as if by instinct for
the harp that stood against the wall. The music came more readily to my fingers than ever before in my
time here; the words took longer, as if I were wrenching them to me past some arva-draoi or rann of
hiding. But they came, oh aye, they came.
"тАШSleep through thunderтАФ
We sleep shining like silver
And heavy like silverтАж
My life is turning eastwards