"Patricia A. McKillip - Riddlemaster 2 - Heir Of Sea And Fire" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

not been one word from him for a year, and no one in the realm has heard so
much as a harp-note from the High One's harpist. Surely the High One would
never keep Morgon so long from his land. I think something must have happened
to them in Isig Pass."
"As far as anyone knows, the land-rule hasn't passed from Morgon," Duac said
comfortingly, but she only shifted restlessly.
"Then where is he? At least he could get a message to his own land. The
traders say that every time they stop at Tol, Tristan and Eliard are there at
the dock waiting, hoping for news. Even at Isig, with all they say happened to
him, he managed to write. They say he has scars on his hands like vesta-horns,
and he can take the shape of trees..."
Duac glanced down at his own hands as if he expected to see the withered moons
of white horns in them. "I know... The simplest thing to do would be to go to
Erlenstar Mountain and ask the High One where he is. It's spring; the Pass
should be clearing. Eliard might do it."
"Leave Hed? He's Morgon's land-heir; they'd never let him leave."
"Maybe. But they say there's a streak of stubbornness long as a witch's nose
in the people of Hed. He might." He leaned over the ledge suddenly; his head
turned towards a distant, double-column of riders making their way across the
meadows. "Here they come. In full plumage."
"Who is it?"
"I can't... blue. Blue and black retinue; that would be Cyn Croeg. He appears
to have met someone green..."
"Hel."
"No. Green and cream; very small following."
She sighed. "Map Hwillion."
She stood by the window after Duac left to tell Mathom, watching the riders
veer around the nut orchards, flickering in and out of the lacework of black,
bare branches. They appeared again at a comer of the old city wall, to take
the main road through the city, which led twisting and curving through the
market and old high houses and shops whose windows would be wide open like
eyes, full of watchers. By the time they disappeared through the gates of the
city, she had decided what to do.


Three days later, she sat beside the pig-woman of the Lord of Hel under an oak
tree, weaving grass blades into a net. From all around her in the placid
afternoon came the vast snort and grumble of the great pig herds of Hel as
they stirred through the tangled roots and shadows of oak. The pig-woman, whom
no one had ever bothered to name, was smoking a meditative pipe. She was a
tall, bony, nervous woman, with long, dishevelled grey hair and dark grey
eyes; she had tended the pigs as long as anyone could remember. They were
related, she and Raederle, through the witch Madir, in some obscure way they
were trying to figure out. The pig-woman's great gift was with pigs; she was
abrupt and shy with people, but the beautiful, fiery Cyone had inherited
Madir's interest in pigs and had become friends with the taciturn pig-woman.
But not even Cyone had discovered what Raederle knew: the odd store of
knowledge that the pig-woman had also inherited from Madir.
Raederle picked another tough stem of grass, sent it snaking in and out of the
small, square weave. "Am I doing this right?"