"Patricia A. McKillip - The Tower at Stony Wood" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

The Tower at Stony Wood



One
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She saw the knight in the mirror at sunset.
He rode alone down a road along a river. Where the black cloak he wore
parted over his surcoat, she glimpsed towers of gold; the cloak fanned behind
his back down the horseтАЩs golden flanks. The knightтАЩs head was bowed, his face
in shadow. The jewel in the pommel of the sword hanging from his saddle
flashed a bloody crimson in the last ray of light. His hair, swept back and
gathered into a silver ring at his neck, was black as jet.
She mused over him, scratching absently at a fleabite. Her own long, woody
hair, tangled and bunched as if small animals lived in it, fell over kelp-dark
eyes that glittered now and then with uncertain color. She brushed at the hair in
her face, then touched the mirror in its plain round frame lightly, as if to hold the
image in place. The horseтАЩs steady pace might have found its unchanging rhythm
across miles, across countries. The knight followed the waterтАЩs slow path
toward night. That much she could see from the way the light faded, faster than
the water flowed, all down the river, leaving it mysterious with color. Beyond
the tall trees growing along the river, she could see little; she had no idea where
in the world he might be.
Melanthos, someone called far below. She shifted on her straw pallet,
slapping the air as at a mosquitoтАЩs whine. At that moment, entranced by the
mirrorтАЩs dreaming, she did not recognize her name. But the knight raised his
head abruptly, as if he had heard.
A strong, sun-browned face looked out of the mirror at her. His eyes were
unexpectedly light, the color of water, of the blade at his knee. She studied him,
wondering curiously at the grim set of his mouth, the mingling of apprehension
and resolve that honed the taut, clean lines of his face. Without taking her eyes
from him, she reached beyond the mirror on the stone window ledge for an
untidy pile of thread. The knight rode out of the mirror. The images in it faded
until only her own face remained, her intent, curious eyes. But she remembered
his colors. They remained reflected in her mindтАЩs eye: gold, blood, silver,
night.
She sorted through her threads with slender, bitten fingers, chose a needle
and a square of linen. She threaded the needle and began with his face.
The story would come later.



Two
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When the Lady from Skye rode through the gates of Gloinmere to marry Regis
Aurum, King of Yves, an old woman in her retinue caught the eye of Cyan Dag
as he stood in welcome with the knights of Gloinmere. Eager, as they all were,
for a glimpse of the stranger who would be queen, he found his attention snared
by the crone who turned her head to look at him as she passed. Her dark, softly