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

from time to time during that long, warm afternoon while Sparrowhawk and Arren walked the streets
and talked with this person and that. They would fade quite away. The striped awnings, the dirty
cobbles, the colored walls, and all the vividness of being would be gone, leaving the city a dream


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city, empty and dreary in the hazy sunlight.
Only at the top of the town where they went to rest a while in late afternoon did this
sickly mood of daydream break for a while. "This is not a town for luck," Sparrowhawk had said
some hours ago, and now after hours of aimless wandering and fruitless conversations with
strangers, he looked tired and grim. His disguise was wearing a little thin; a certain hardness
and darkness could be seen through the bluff sea-trader's face. Arren had not been able to shake
off the morning's irritability. They sat down on the coarse turf of the hilltop under the leaves
of a grove of pendick trees, dark-leaved and budded thickly with red buds, some open. From there
they saw nothing of the city but its tile roofs multitudinously scaling downward to the sea. The
bay opened its arms wide, slate blue beneath the spring haze, reaching on to the edge of air. No
lines were drawn, no boundaries. They sat gazing at that immense blue space. Arren's mind cleared,
opening out to meet and celebrate the world.
When they went to drink from a little stream nearby, running clear over brown rocks from
its spring in some princely garden on the hill behind them, he drank deep and doused his head
right under the cold water. Then he got up and declaimed the lines from the Deed of Morred,

Praised are the Fountains of Shelieth, the silver harp of the waters,
But blest in my name forever this stream that stanched my thirst!

Sparrowhawk laughed at him, and he also laughed. He shook his head like a dog, and the bright
spray flew out fine in the last gold sunlight.
They had to leave the grove and go down into the streets again, and when they had made
their supper at a stall that sold greasy fishcakes, night was getting heavy in the air. Darkness
came fast in the narrow streets. "We'd better go, lad," said Sparrowhawk, and Arren, said, "To the
boat?" but knew it was not to the boat but to the house above the river and the empty, dusty,
terrible room.
Hare was waiting for them in the doorway.
He lighted an oil lamp to show them up the black stairs. Its tiny flame trembled
continually as he held it, throwing vast, quick shadows up the walls.
He had got another sack of straw for his visitors to sit on, but Arren took his place on
the bare floor by the door. The door opened outward, and to guard it he should have sat himself
down outside it: but that pitch-black hall was more than he could stand, and he wanted to keep an
eye on Hare. Sparrowhawk's attention and perhaps his powers were going to be turned on what Hare
had to tell him or show him; it was up to Arren to keep alert for trickery.
Hare held himself straighter and trembled less, he had cleaned his mouth and teeth; he
spoke sanely enough at first, though with excitement. His eyes in the lamplight were so dark that
they seemed, like the eyes of animals, to show no whites. He disputed earnestly with Sparrowhawk,
urging him to eat hazia. "I want to take you, take you with me. We've got to go the same way.
Before long I'll be going, whether you're ready or not. You must have the hazia to follow me."
"I think I can follow you."
"Not where I'm going. This isn't... spell-casting." He seemed unable to say the words
"wizard" or "wizardry." "I know you can get to the- the place, you know, the wall. But it isn't