"Andre Norton - WW - 27 - The Warding of the Witch World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

outcast and shunned, in a tie so strong she did not believe even death would break it.

"Ready for breakfast, my lord?" she grinned down at him. "Though I do not doubt your night's hunting
has already given you a full belly!"

There was no expression in his large yellow eyes. Instead, he yawned widely, exposing fangs which she
knew he could use to good or bad purpose, depending upon the nature of his prey.

Within were two chambers. Destree had restored fallen stones to their places, swept, washed, and then
worked patiently to rub down the walls with a mash of scented herb leaves from the garden run wild. The
outer room was her own domain for housekeeping tasks, though there was no hint of disorder allowed.
A table of the very hard--and precious--varse wood, which held a metallic sheen of the purest gold
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when it was well rubbed, was accompanied by two benches of the same. There was a corner where a
fireplace did not dare to strew any ashes onto the floor, and shelves and a cupboard or two.

Here were no tapestries, no rich carvings, but Gunnora's fancy itself had taken command. For, up from
the meeting of wall and flooring around the room had risen a weaving of vines. No matter the season
these retained their flowers and their fruits, mingled together, bringing the peace of the outer world in.

The second chamber was the shrine. Destree spread her towel over the end of the table to dry and
surveyed the flowers on the vines.

Not blue -- no -- that faint shadow which had followed her out of the night forbade that. Then -- she
made a deliberate choice carefully plucking, by their long curls of stem, a handful of the vine's bounty.
The white blossoms which stood so often for a seeker who was not even sure of what he or she sought;
the gold for the promise of harvest, which was Gunnora's own high season.

Destree passed into the shrine. Here stood a block of pure white stone such as was to be seen nowhere
else in this countryside. Its sides were carved with Gunnora's seal -- the shaft of ripe grain bound by
fruited vine. She crossed quickly to that, avoiding the long couch placed directly before it, where seekers
for wisdom might sleep and learn.

There was a single slender vase on the altar, shaped skillfully as the rare river lilies. Destree took from it
the withered flowers of yesterday and replaced them with her handful of gold and white.

She cupped between her hands her amulet, the heritage which served her so well. Its amber felt warm,
as if another hand rested within her hold.

"Lady," she said slowly. Of course the Great One could already read what lay within her mind; still, as all
her species, she clung to speech. "Lady, if there is trouble, let me serve as you have called me to do."

She was well into her morning tasks when she heard the creaking of farm cart wheels. Stoppering the
flask she had been filling, she went to the terrace outside the shrine entrance.

The road up from the village was hardly more than a track and the huge plow beast that pulled the rude