"Modesitt, L E - Recluse 10 - The Magic Of Recluse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

"And here are some for you."
On a plate she had produced from nowhere were two enormous rolls, one filled with chicken and the other with berries that dripped from one end.
"If you want to get home by dinner, you'll need to start now."
"Dinner?"
"I'm sure your father will have something special."
I did not answer, nor ask how she would know that my father would have a special dinner, because, first, she would know, and, second, I was wolfing down the chicken-filled flake roll. In all the hurry to get ready for Nylan, I hadn't realized how hungry I was. When you chose dangergeld, you obeyed the rules of the masters, including their schedule.
After washing down the last of the first roll with a tumbler of ice-cold water, I took the second.
"You have enough time not to eat them whole, Lerris."
I slowed down and finished the dessert roll in four distinct bites. Then I took another deep swallow from the tumbler.
"Do you have your staff? Your uncle wanted you to have the best . . ."
I lifted the staff. "Seems to belong to me already."
My aunt only smiled. "You should find it helpful, especially if you listen to the masters and follow your feelings . . . your true feelings."
"Well . . . time for me to go . . ."
"Take care, Lerris."
She didn't give me any special advice, and since I wasn't exactly in the mood for it, that was probably for the best.
As I walked down the lane with its precisely placed and leveled gray paving-stones, I felt both my aunt and uncle were watching every step, but when I turned around to look I could see nothing, no one in the windows or at the doors. I didn't look around the rest of Mattra, not at the inn where Koldar was laying out the timbers from the sawmill, not at the market square where I had sold my breadboards-one had actually fetched four copper pennies.
And the road-the perfect stone-paved highway-was still as hard on my booted feet as it had been on my sandaled feet when I had first walked to Mattra.
I made it home, if Wandernaught could still be called home, well before dinner. But Aunt Elisabet had been right. I could smell the roast duck even before my feet touched the stone lane that was nearly identical to the lane that led from the street to Uncle Sardit's. Mattra and Wandernaught were not all that different. Some of the crafts were different, and Wandernaught had two inns and the Institute where my father occasionally discussed his philosophies with other holders or- very occasionally-masters from elsewhere in Recluce. But nothing very interesting ever happened in Wandernaught. At least, not that I remembered.
My parents were seated on the wide and open porch on the east side of the house, always cool in the summer afternoons. The stones of the steps were as gently rounded as I recalled, without either the crisp edges of new-cut granite nor the depressions of ancient buildings like the temple.
"Thought you'd be here about now, Lerris." My father's voice carried, although it had no great or booming tone.
"It's good to see you." My mother smiled, and this time she meant it.
"Good to be here, if only for a night." I was surprised to find I meant what I was saying.
"Let me take the pack and the staff-Sardit's work, it looks like-and have a seat. You still like the redberry?"
I nodded as I slipped out of the pack straps. My father laid the pack carefully next to the low table.
"Oh, I forgot. The top package is for you-Aunt Elisabet's flake rolls, I think."
They both laughed.
"Good thing we don't live closer, not the way she bakes . . ."
My mother just shook her head, still smiling.
For some reason, they both looked older. My father's hair was no thinner, and it still looked sandy-blond, but I could see the lines running from the corners of his eyes. His face was still smooth, with a slight cut on his chin from shaving. Unlike most of the men in Recluce, he had neither beard nor mustache. I could sympathize. Although I could have worn a beard, I followed his example, not blindly, but because whenever I worked hard I sweated buckets, and I found even a short and scraggly beard more of a bother than shaving-cuts and all.
He was wearing a short-sleeved open-necked shirt, and the muscles in his arms looked as strong as ever. The woodpile behind the house was probably three times the size it needed to be. Dad always claimed that handling an axe was not only necessary, but good exercise.
My mother's angular face seemed even more angular, and her hair was too short. But she had always worn it too short, and I doubted that she would ever change that. Short was convenient and took less time. She also wore a short-sleeved faded blue blouse and winter-blue trousers, both more feminine, but essentially mirroring what my father wore-not because she cared, but because she didn't. Clothes were a convenience. That's why Dad did all the tailoring-except for holiday clothes-for Mother and me.
He was funny about that. He refused to let anyone see him work. He'd take measurements, fit partially-sewn garments, and adjust until they fit perfectly, but not with anyone around When I was little, I thought he must have had someone com< in. But as time went by, I realized that he understood clothes understood too much not to have done the work. Besides it's pretty difficult not to believe, when your father disappears into his workrooms with cut leathers and fabrics and returns with the products-especially when there's only one door and when you're an exceedingly curious boy trying to find a nonexistent secret passage. There wasn't one, of course.
While I was remembering, my mother had poured a large tumbler full of redberry, and Dad, after setting the pack down and recovering the flake rolls, had disappeared. To the kitchen, presumably.
"It's too bad you have to be in Nylan tomorrow," offered my mother, as I eased into one of the strap chairs across from her. My feet hurt, as I knew they would with the new boots, but I'd wanted feet and boots worked together as soon as possible.
"I didn't realize it would happen so quickly."
"Sometimes it does. Other times it takes weeks," added my father. As usual, I had not heard him return. He was always so silent when he moved, like a shadow.
"How many . . . will there be?"
"It depends. There could be as few as four dangergeld candidates. Never more than a dozen. And you'll lose two before the masters are through."
"Lose?" I didn't like the sound of that. He shrugged. "Some people decide they'd rather accept exile than listen to the masters. Others decide they'd like to go home."
"Can they?"
"If they can convince the masters ... it happens every so often."
Not very often, I could tell from his tone. "If they can't?"
"They can continue with their training or go into exile."
I got the feeling that you didn't just go wandering out of Recluce on any old quest without the approval of the masters.
Before I asked another question, I took several healthy swigs from the tumbler, then ate some of the plain flake rolls Dad had cut into bite-sized pieces. Mother had one or two, which was more than she usually had before dinner.
"What are the masters?" I finally asked, not that I hadn't asked the question several dozen times before of several dozen people. Usually the answer amounted to: "The masters are the masters, entrusted with the guardianship of the Isle of Recluce and the Domain of Order."
This time, though, my father looked at my mother. She looked back at him. Then they both looked at me.
"The answer isn't likely to mean what it should . . ."
"In other words, you aren't going to tell me?"
"No. I will tell you, as far as I am able. But I'm not sure that you will either like or appreciate the answer." He pulled at his chin, as he did when he was trying to find the best words to express something unpleasant.