"Ursula K. LeGuin - Earthsea 3 - The Farthest Shore" - читать интересную книгу автора (Le Guin Ursula K)

Will they weave a great magic to save magic? Can it be true that wizardry is dying out of the
world? Is there a danger that threatens even Roke? I will stay here. I will not go home. I would
rather sweep his room than be a prince in Enlad. Would he let me stay as a novice? But perhaps
there will be no more teaching of the art-magic, no more learning of the true names of things. My
father has the gift of wizardry, but I do not; perhaps it is indeed dying out of the world. Yet I
would stay near him, even if he lost his power and his art. Even if I never saw him. Even if he
never said another word to me." But his ardent imagination swept him on past that, so that in a
moment he saw himself face to face with the Archmage once more in the court beneath the rowan
tree, and the sky was dark and the tree leafless and the fountain silent; and he said, "My lord,
the storm is on us, yet I will stay by thee and serve thee," and the Archmage smiled at him... But
there imagination failed, for he had not seen that dark face smile.


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In the morning he rose, feeling that yesterday he had been a boy, today he was a man. He
was ready for anything. But when it came, he stood gaping. "The Archmage wishes to speak to you,
Prince Arren," said a little novice-lad at his doorway, who waited a moment and ran off before
Arren could collect his wits to answer.
He made his way down the tower staircase and through stone corridors toward the Fountain
Court, not knowing where he should go. An old man met him in the corridor, smiling so that deep
furrows ran down his cheeks from nose to chin: the same who had met him yesterday at the door of
the Great House when he first came up from the harbor, and had required him to say his true name
before he entered. "Come this way," said the Master Doorkeeper.
The halls and passages in this part of the building were silent, empty of the rush and
racket of the boys that enlivened the rest. Here one felt the great age of the walls. The
enchantment with which the ancient stones were laid and protected was here palpable. Runes were
graven on the walls at intervals, cut deep, some inlaid with silver. Arren had learned the Runes
of Hardie from his father, but none of these did he know, though certain of them seemed to hold a
meaning that he almost knew, or had known and could not quite remember.
"Here you are, lad," said the Doorkeeper, who made no account of titles such as Lord or
Prince. Arren followed him into a long, low-beamed room, where on one side a fire burnt in a stone
hearth, its flames reflecting in the oaken floor, and on the other side pointed windows let in the
cold, soft light of fog. Before the hearth stood a group of men. All looked at him as he entered,
but among them he saw only one, the Archmage. He stopped, and bowed, and stood dumb.
"These are the Masters of Roke, Arren," said the Archmage, "seven of the nine. The
Patterner will not leave his Grove, and the Namer is in his tower, thirty miles to the north. All
of them know your errand here. My lords, this is the son of Morred."
No pride roused in Arren at that phrase, but only a kind of dread. He was proud of his
lineage, but thought of himself only as an heir of princes, one of the House of Enlad. Morred,
from whom that house descended, had been dead two thousand years. His deeds were matter of
legends, not of this present world. It was as if the Archmage had named him son of myth, inheritor
of dreams.
He did not dare look up at the faces of the eight mages. He stared at the iron-shod foot
of the Archmage's staff, and felt the blood ringing in his ears.
"Come, let us breakfast together," said the Archmage, and led them to a table set beneath
the windows. There was milk and sour beer, bread, new butter, and cheese. Arren sat with them and
ate.
He had been among noblemen, landholders, rich merchants, all his life. His father's hall