"Patricia A. McKillip - Alphabet of Thorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

twisting around one another, linked by their sharp spurs. тАЬYes,тАЭ she
said to him. And then a word spoke out of the book, a deep, sudden
sound she recognized, swift as an adder biting into her heart and
clinging.
She looked at the young man, Bourne, dazed by the unexpected
wealth: his gold eyes, his name, the book coming to life in her
hands. тАЬYes,тАЭ she said again, holding those eyes while she slipped
the book into a deep pocket in her tunic, beneath her cloak. тАЬCome
to me.тАЭ
She had forgotten Oriel, the isolated rider stopped in the middle
of the plain while it ran hither and yon beneath her. Riding back,
she hardly saw the grass. Speaking, Oriel startled her, as though
one of them had appeared out of nowhere.
тАЬWell?тАЭ she asked. тАЬDid you get it?тАЭ
Nepenthe scarcely thought; the answer came out of her as easily
as truth. тАЬOh. The mages didnтАЩt send it after all. The student said
that they had finally learned its secret language.тАЭ
Oriel turned her horse, matched NepentheтАЩs distracted pace.
тАЬThen we came for nothing. Oh, well, we had a ride on the plain in
the sun. Was it magic? The book?тАЭ
 Nepenthe lilted her face to all the gold flowing down from the
sky. тАЬSomeoneтАЩs secret recipes,тАЭ she answered vaguely.
тАЬWe came all the way out here for a cookbook?тАЭ
тАЬSo it seems.тАЭ
She urged her horse forward, racing for the cliff road, wanting to
run herself all the way back to the labyrinth of the library, where
she could hide and find a way through the brambles. She heard
Oriel shouting behind her, but it was nothing, only fear, only
beware of falling off the edge of the world, and Nepenthe had been
balanced there before she had a name.



TWO

Bourne lay on earth, in silence, somewhere within the Floating
School. On those days, which were as timeless and dark as nights,
the Floating School seemed to bury itself underground. The place
was silent as a grave. It smelled like one, Bourne supposed, if the
dead could smell earth and stone and roots and tell about it. The
students could and did. They woke on what felt like pebbles instead
of pallets. Forewarned and given challenges the day before, Bourne
was still surprised. Straw turned to stone, light to night, the daily
genial pulse of life within the school with its scholarly murmurings
and colorful mishaps was suddenly, utterly stilled. Illusion, he
knew, all illusion. If he cried out, someone would answer instantly.
If he battered at the blinding dark, tried to run from it, then what
seemed a tiny cell of unmortared stone and earth would suddenly
expand around him; a hand would draw him into light. So he had
heard. So far he had been patient in the dark, more curious than