"Saga of Recluce 02 - Towers of the Shield" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

аа The musician smiles briefly. That is all he can do. That, and bring to
music what his eyes have seen, for he will sing to the Marshall of
Westwind, ruler of the Roof of the World, about the towers of the sunset.
аа Who else looks at the towers of the sunset? Who built them? The angels
of Heaven? The musician knows no answers except those of his music, and
of his heart, which lies colder than the strings of the guitar he bears
with him.
аа Suffice it to say that the castle is called Westwind . . . founded by
a long-dead captain: Ryba, from the swift ships of Heaven.
аа Her many-time daughter's son-but that is the story to come.
а
а
II
а
"REMOVE WESTWIND's CONTROL of the Westhorns, and Sarronnyn and Suthya
will fall like overripe apples."
аа "If I recall correctly, that kind of thinking cost the prefect of
Gallos most of his army."
аа "Light! We're not talking about arms." The skeletal man in white jabs
a finger skyward, the mouth in his young face smiling. "We are talking
about love."
аа "What does love have to do with removing Westwind?"
аа "I have sent Werlynn to Westwind. Do you not like the sound of that?
Werlynn to Westwind?"
аа "But . . . how? Werlynn never comes here; his music ruins the work of
the White brethren. What-"
аа "That's the beauty of it. One little charm . . . to ensure that he
will bring the Marshall a son . . . first. And the charm was even
order-based."
аа "You've never liked Werlynn, have you? Ever since-"
аа "That's not the question. The question is the Marshall. Just
think-think-she is a woman. She won't kill her firstborn, male or not,
Legend or not."
аа "You seem certain of that. But she has no children, nor even a
consort."
аа "Werlynn will see to that."
аа "Even if he does, that's a long time from now."
аа "We have time. The road is still not through the East-horns."
аа The other man shakes his head, but does not speak further.
а
а
III
а
THE GUITARIST STRUMS an ordered cadence, almost a march, so precise are
the notes, so clear are the tones. He does not sing.
аа A single look, underlined with a brief flare of light from the middle
stone seat, the one upholstered with the black cushion, stops the
guitarist. He nods toward the woman. "Your pardon, grace." His voice is
as musical as the strings he plays, evoking a sense of dusky summer that
has yet to come to Westwind, even in the centuries since its construction.