"Patricia A. McKillip - The Harrowing of the Dragon of Hoarsbrea" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

destroy you all."
"There are other dangers. Rock falls, sudden floods, freezing winds. A dragon is simply one more
danger to live with."
He studied her. "I saw a dragon once with wings as softly blue as a spring sky. Have you ever felt
spring on Hoarsbreath? It could come."
She drank again. "You love them," she said. "Your voice loves them and hates them, Dragon-
Harrower."
"I hate them," he said flatly. "Will you guide me down the mountain?"
"No. I have work to do."
He shifted, and the colors rippled from him again, red, gold, silver, spring-blue. She finished the
wormspoor, felt it burn in her like liquid gold. "It's only a tale. All your dragons are just colors in our
heads. Let the dragon sleep. If you wake it, you'll destroy the night."
"No," he said. "You will see the night. That's what you're afraid of."
Kor Flynt shrugged. "There probably is no dragon, anyway."
"Spring, though," Ambris said; her face had softened. "Sometimes I can smell it from the mainland,
and, and I always wonder ... Still, after a hard day's work, sitting beside a roaring fire sipping dragon-spit,
you can believe anything. Especially this." She looked into her glass at the glowering liquid. "Is this some
of yours, Peka? What did you put into it?"
"Gold." The expression in Ryd's eyes made her swallow sudden tears of frustration. She refilled her
glass. "Fire, stone, dark, wood-smoke, night air smelling like cold tree-bark. You don't care, Ryd
Yarrow."
"I do care," he said imperturbably. "It's the best wormspoor I've ever tasted."
"And I put a dragon's heart into it." She saw him start slightly; ice and hoar-frost shimmered from
him. "If that's what Hoarsbreath is." A dragon beat into her mind, its wings of rime, its breath smoldering
with ice, the guardian of winter. She drew breath, feeling the vast bulk of it looped around them all,
dreaming its private dreams. Her bones seemed suddenly fragile as kindling, and the gold wormspoor in
her hands a guilty secret. "I don't believe it," she said, lifting her glass. "It's a tale."
"Oh, go with him, lass," her mother said tolerantly. "There may be no dragon, but we can't have him
swallowed up in the ice like his father. Besides, it may be a chance for spring."
"Spring is for flatlanders. There are things that shouldn't be wakened. I know."
"How?" Ryd asked.
She groped, wishing for the first time for a flatlander's skill with words. She said finally, "I feel it,"
and he smiled. She sat back in her chair, irritated and vaguely frightened. "Oh, all right, Ryd Yarrow,
since you'll go with or without me. I'll lead you down to the shores in the morning. Maybe by then you'll
listen to me."
"You can't see beyond your snow-world," he said implacably. "It is morning."
They followed one of the deepest mine-shafts, and clambered out of it to stand in the snow half-way
down the mountain. The sky was lead grey; across the mists ringing the island's shores, they could see the
ocean, a swirl of white, motionless ice. The mainland harbor was locked. Peka wondered if the ships were
stuck like birds in the ice. The world looked empty and somber.
"At least in the dark mountain there is fire and gold. Here, there isn't even a sun." She took out a skin
of wormspoor, sipped it to warm her bones. She held it out to Ryd, but he shook his head.
"I need all my wits. So do you, or we'll both end up preserved in ice at the bottom of a crevice."
"I know. I'll keep you safe." She corked the skin and added, "In case you were wondering."
But he looked at her, startled out of his remoteness. "I wasn't. Do you feel that strongly?"
"Yes."
"So did I, when I was your age. Now I feel very little." He moved again. She stared after him,
wondering how he kept her smoldering and on edge. She said abruptly, catching up with him,
"Ryd Yarrow."
"Yes."