"Robin McKinley - Damar 2 - The Hero and the Crown" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinley Robin)

had Galanna if she had been the only royal maiden availableтАФтАЭIтАЩd run off into the Hills and be a bandit
first,тАЭ a much younger Tor had told his very young cousin, who had gone off in fits of giggles at the idea
of Tor wearing rags and a blue headband and dancing for luck under each quarter of the moon. Tor, who
at the time had been stiff with terror at GalannaтАЩs very determined attempts to ensnare him, had relaxed
enough to grin and tell her she had no proper respect and was a shameless hoyden. тАЬYes,тАЭ she said
unrepentantly. Tor, for whatever reasons, was rather over-formal with everyone but her; but being first
sola to a solemn, twice-widowed king of a land with a shadow over it might have had that effect on a far
more frivolous young man than Tor. She suspected that he was as grateful for her existence as she was
for his; one of her earliest memories was riding in a baby-sack over TorтАЩs shoulders while he galloped his
horse over a series of hurdles; she had screamed with delight and wound her tiny hands in his thick black
hair. Teka, later, had been furious; but Tor, who usually took any accusation of the slightest dereliction of
duty with white lips and a set face, had only laughed.
But whenever she decided that it must have been Galanna who first told her the story, she found she
couldnтАЩt believe it of her after all. Having told it for spite and malice, yes; but the story itself had too much
sad grandeur. But perhaps she only felt that way because it was about her mother; perhaps she had
changed it in her own mind, made a tragedy of nothing but sour gossip. But that Galanna would
deliberately spend enough time in her company to tell her the story was out of character; Galanna
preferred whenever possible to look vaguely over the head of the least of her cousins, with an expression
on her face indicating that there was a dead fly on the windowsill and why hadnтАЩt the hafor swept it
away? When Galanna was startled into speaking to her at all, it was usually from a motive of immediate
vengeance. The tale of ArlbethтАЩs second wife would be too roundabout for her purposes. Still, that it had
been one of the cousins was the best guess. Not Tor, of course. One of the others.
She leaned out of the window and looked down. It was hard to recognize people from the tops of
their heads, several stories up. Except Tor; she always knew him, even if all she had to go on was an
elbow extending an inch or two beyond a doorframe. This below her now was probably Perlith: that
self-satisfied walk was distinctive even from above, and the way three of the hafor, dressed in fine livery,
trailed behind him for no purpose but to lend to their masterтАЩs importance by their presence pretty well
assured it. Tor went about alone, when he could; he told her, grimly, that he had enough of company
during the course of his duties as first sola, and the last thing he wanted was an unofficial entourage for
any gaps in the official ones. And sheтАЩd like to see her father pulling velvet-covered flunkeys in his wake,
like a child with a toy on a string.
PerlithтАЩs head spoke to another dark head, the hafor waiting respectfully several arms1 length distant;
then someone on a horseтАФshe could not distinguish voices but she heard the click of hoofsтАФemerged
from around a corner. The rider wore the livery of a messenger, and the cut of his saddle said he came
from the west. Both heads turned toward him and tipped up, so she could see the pale blur of their faces
as they spoke to him. Then the horseman cantered off, the horse placing its feet very delicately, for it was
dangerous to go too quickly across the courtyard; and Perlith and the other man, and PerlithтАЩs entourage,
disappeared from her view.
She didnтАЩt have to hear what they said to each other to know what was going on; but the knowledge
gave her no pleasure, for it had already brought her both shame and bitter disappointment. It was either
the shame or the disappointment that kept her mewed up in her rooms, alone, now.
She had hardly seen her father or Tor for the week past as they wrestled with messages and
messengers, as they tried to slow down whatever it was that would happen anyway, while they tried to
decide what to do when it had happened. The western baronsтАФthe fourth solasтАФwere making trouble.
The rumor was that someone from the North, either human or human enough to look it, had carried a bit
of demon-mischief south across the Border and let it loose at the baronsтАЩ council in the spring. Nyrlol
was the chief of the council for no better reason than that his father had been chief; but his father had
been a better and a wiser man. Nyrlol was not known for intelligence, and he was known for a short and
violent temper: the perfect target for demon-mischief.
NyrlolтАЩs father would have recognized it for what it was. But Nyrlol had not recognized anything; it