"Mercedes Lackey - Firebird" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

summer; the sharp, resinous scent of the block of wood in his hands tickled his
nostrils. Under that scent lay others: the green musk of herbs crushed under his feet,
the sweet and heady fragrance of wild roses somewhere nearby, the tannin-rich
breath of the forest all around him, the all-too-earthy scent of horse-dung. Birds vied
with insects to fill his ears, but could not overwhelm the gentle rustling of the leaves
as a fitful breeze floated by. Last year's leaves crunched and rattled under the hooves
of one of his father's horses as it nosed through the grass between the trees, looking
for something more succulent than the tough strands of a full summer's growth.
The horses had just been moved into the forest for fall grazing. They were fat and
spoiled from a spring and summer of good clover and tasty grasses, but they might
need that fat come the winter.
He set the sharp edge of his smallest knife against the wood; this would be a
tricky cut, for the ear was one of the hardest bits to carve. He wanted it thin, so that
the light would glow through it if he held it up to the sun.
Slowly, carefully, he shaved and shaped the nubbin of wood; with every sliver, it
took on more delicacy, more life.
His brows furrowed as he squinted, and he lost track of scent, sound, even the
heat on his back. His world became the bit of wood and the blade that was sculpting
it. From white wood, imperceptibly the blunted triangle transmuted to a thin sliver of
white flesh and fur. In a moment, he would finish with it and move on to the other
earтАФ
 "Hoy!"
Out of nowhere, a hand descended to thump him on the back, hard enough to
knock the wind out of him. His arms jerked, and the blow sent him flying off his seat
toward the ground. Helplessly, he watched as the knife soared off in one direction,
the carving in another. Steel honed to astonishing sharpness glinted in the sun as it
turned, end over end, moving with dreamlike slowness. Then time caught up with
him again, and he landed on his knees in the grass, his chest tight as his lungs
realized there was no air in them.
He struggled for a moment to catch his breath, his ribs aching, throat straining.
Finally, after an eternity, a breath came, filling his lungs with welcome harshness. He
took another; anotherтАФgot himself under control. No point in getting angry, for that
would only give his brother another excuse for boorish behavior.
"Hello, Pietor," Ilya said with resignation as soon as he could speak. He remained
where he was and turned his head, but not with any haste, to look up at his older
brother.
Pietor grinned whitely down at him, very pleased with himself, and shook his
blond hair out of his eyes. "So, little brother, I find you at secrets. And what
witchcraft were you up to, out here all alone in the forest? Consorting with the
leshii?"
Ilya sighed. Every time he went off somewhere by himself, one or more of his
brothers was convinced that Ilya was up to no good. Probably because every time
one of Ilya's brothers went off alone, he was up to no good.
"No witchcraft," Ilya replied. "You don't believe in the forest spirits any more
than Father does, I'm hardly alone with the horses all around, and it's not what I
would call forest." Ilya rose slowly, dusted the grass off his knees, and looked for
his knife and the carving where he thought he'd seen them land. The former he found
quickly enough, and he thanked his stars that it was undamaged. It had taken a lot of
work to get the blade that sharp, and he had not been looking forward to the hours
he might have to spend smoothing a nick out of it. His luck couldn't hold, however,