"L. E. Modesitt - Spellsong 1 - The Soprano Sorceress" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

Under the awning, the players stretch and stand, except for the woodwind
player whose braided whiteandred hair betray her age far more than her
creamy skin. Her cold eyes follow the sorcerer until he begins his return,
when she looks down and takes a quick sip from her water bottle, then
moistens her lips and her reed.

The foundation is solid. Brill blots his forehead a last time before folding the
cloth and slipping it back into his pocket. Places.

With a soft shuffling the musicians square themselves on their stools and lift
their instruments in response to the sorcerers hands. Their notes follow his
tempo, and his voice.

... replicate the bricks and stones.
Place them in their proper zones...
Set the blocks, and set them square
set them to their pattern there...

The hilltop shimmers, as do the bricks and stones, and the heaps of mortar,
and the tubs of water tremble. Dull crackings whisper through the haze from
the south side of the valley.

When the silver haze lifts, Brill turns toward the structure that looms there--
newly built. Stonebased brick walls rise the height of four tall men and
stretch across the floor of the valley, almost joining the two hills. The dark
stone outcropping to the southwest of the fort has almost vanished, two
thirds of its bulk sliced away.

Behold Lord Barjims new stronghold against the Dark Monks of Ebra. Lord
Brill frowns, then whirls toward the players.Someone was humming. Brills
eyes scan the musicians. Someone was humming. And look! Look at that
gate wall! His hand jabs westward.

The lefthand side of the arched gate is crooked, out of true.

The sorcerer reaches for his goblet and drains it, setting it on the small table
with a thud. Gero!

A thin youth runs from the wagon and the tethered horses to the west. Yes,
Lord Brill.

More water. Brill grasps the staff and carries it as he walks across the
trampled sunparched grasses and onto the paved road that resumes a dozen
yards from the magically built forts gate, beyond the bricked and dry moat.
He keeps tapping the irontipped staff as he continues through the open brick
archway, across the brickpaved courtyard to the low brickwalled building
that stands roofless in the afternoon sun. The staff raps against walls, against
stone and paving stone, against mortar and brick for a long time before he
slowly walks back under the white silk awning that scarcely flutters in the