"Andre Norton - WW - Secrets 03 - The Warding of Witch World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

He heard the summoning gong which vibrated through the walls of the citadel, and reentered the
room he shared with two other Valley born, so cramped were the lodgings by the arrival of such a host.
The sound of the gong had died away but not the sound of feet along corridors.

The heart of the citadel, of Es itself, was the great assembly hall four stories high, ringed with
balconies for those who were unable to find places on the main floor.

Keris worked his way to a place by the rail and began to pick out from the gathering below those
he knew by name as well as those whose deeds were already bard's tales. Ethatur of the Valley and
Dahaun, Keris's own mother, with Kyllan overreaching her by but a finger's breath or two. Flanking them
on one side his Uncle Kemoc, with his Krogan lady well wrapped in a heavily dampened cloak so that
she could withstand a lengthy time beyond the touch of her native water.

On Dahaun's right was a great bear of a man, his heavily muscled form made the bulkier by a
furred cloak worn as a badge of authority -- Anner Osberic of the Sulcars, he who had led the raid on
Karsten which would not be early forgotten.

There were so many: dark-haired, pale-skinned lords and ladies of the Old Race, as well as
these outlanders. At the far end of the hall was a table set on a dais, chairs along one side of it only,
ancient, tall of back, their once-deep carvings worn nearly smooth. In the center were two raised a little
higher than their fellows. And even then one had to have a double set of cushions to bring it high enough
for the occupier: Koris of Gorm, Marshal of Estcarp, in reality, since the withdrawal of the witches from
most active government, the ruler of a land, which had once deemed him an outcast. His handsome head
was high held but his stunted body, in spite of the shoulders of a veteran axeman, could have been
dwarfed by most of the company.

To his right the other throne chair gave seating to a woman whose dull ash-gray gown was in
sharp contrast to the brilliant show of color in the garb of those about her. She wore a single jewel --
and that, too, as it swung on her breast on a silver chain, was as dull as her gown. Yet it was a far more
potent weapon than any other armament within this great hall.

The witches were nameless, as all knew. For a personal name was a potent thing and to
surrender it to the knowledge of another was to put one with that other's power. But this one passed by
the name of Gull when among others and she was now the chosen link to those remaining within the walls
of the Place of Wisdom.

There was Simon to Koris's left, and Jaelithe, his once-witch wife (who held an uneasy truce with
her onetime sisters). Then Koris's Lady Loyse, of whom legends had already been woven.

At the end of the table stood a man who had not seated himself in the chair awaiting him. Rather
he was leaning forward, handling with obvious care the wrappings of some object which had been placed
on the board. Flanking him was Marshall Duratan, chronicler and protector of Lormt, who was watching
every movement of that unwrapping as if he expected some outburst of energy to follow.

Keris was well placed to watch that action and he knew the man so engaged, just as he knew
well the woman who hovered beside his shoulder as if to offer aid be it needed.

The man was Hilarion, the last (as far as they knew) of the adepts whose playground and
experimental laboratory their whole world had been before the Great Change. Though Hilarion looked to
be no older than Simon, he had survived years untold as a slave beyond a gate of his own making before