"Julian May - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (May Julian)

FINAL VERSE OF THE BLOSSOM MOON SONG,

AN ANCIENT CATHRAN BALLAD

Down in the waters, cold and deep,

My true love has gone to eternal sleep.

Long will I wait for his returning,

Hoping, my heart afire with yearning.

In Blossom Moon, in Blossom Moon, it will never be.




prologue
The Royal Intelligencer

An unexpected firing happened last night. As is my habit, I had been working long hours on my Boreal Moon Tale, struggling along
despite cramped fingers, dimming eyesight, and the daunting magnitude of the writing project I had set myself at a time when most old
men are content to doze and dream. But I have more reason than most to wish my story told to the worldтАФmost specifically to the
inhabitants of High Blenholme, island of my birth, whose official Chronicle will no doubt be turned all arsey-versey by my mischievous
revelations.

I had laid aside my quill after describing the chain of improbable events leading to King Conrig WincantorтАЩs establishment of the
Blenholme Sovereignty, thinking this would be an appropriate place to break the narrative and end the first book of the tale. It was very
late and bracingly cool, as nights tend to be during midwinter months in southern Foraile, and the air was laden with the sweet scent of
moth-jasmine. OddlyтАФthough I did not fully appreciate the fact until later when I went outdoorsтАФthe night was almost completely silent.
The usual sounds made by nocturnal birds and insects were absent and the murmur of the nearby Daravara River was muted.

After sanding the final closely written parchment sheet, I added it to the rest and locked the manuscript in the copper box that preserves it
from the mice and palm roaches that would otherwise make a meal of it. I rose from my desk, paused to work the worst knots from my
aching muscles, and blew out the bright flame of the brass desk lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. A faint illumination came
from the lantern that my peg-legged housecarl Borve leaves lit at the far end of the hall to guide me to bed. That was usual.

What was not usual was the odd flickering glow coming through the window that looked northward towards the river. The crescent moon
had set early and thick foliage made it difficult to see outside. My first thought was of wildfire, since the light was too ruddy and fitful to
be starshine. The rains were late this year and the scrubby hills above the jungle valley were tinder-dry. I made haste to the door, slipped
outside onto the veranda, and went down the short flight of steps into my riverside garden so as to have a clear view of the opposite shore.

The northern sky was ablaze with immense rippling curtains and thrusting beams of scarlet, green, amethyst, and flame-gold, so bright
that they dimmed the stars, so active and intricate in their movements that every instinct of the beholder seemed to affirm that this was no
mere natural phenomenon, but the work of elemental living beings.