"Over_9780307446138_oeb_c24_r1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jeffrey Overstreet - Cynderes Midnight)24 WHAT BECAME OF
A nut in a nutshell buried in the snow,” muttered the ale boy. It was a scrap of a verse that Obsidia Dram had sung to lull him to sleep many years ago. The last thing he had seen before the door of the black iron stove closed was the gloating grin of a beastman who looked just like Jordam. The last thing he had heard was Jordam’s small, striped brother laughing, Hel hel hel. Jordam had promised to protect him, to keep Mordafey from dragging him off to Cent Regus enslavement. “rrSleep,” had been the order, and the ale boy had feigned unconsciousness. Jordam tied him with loose knots so he could make an escape after the confrontation. But none of that mattered now. Flaming wagons on Baldridge Hill. The fireplace in Cyndere’s chamber. The storm-lit blaze in the midst of the blizzard. Now here he was, folded in an oven without any fire, sucking air through a chimney too narrow to climb. The boy strained for some sign from Jordam, some indication he would not be forgotten. Only the wind visited him, whistling through the vent in the hatch, but then it departed in a flourish, slamming the shack’s wooden door shut behind it. “A boy who walks through fire,” he sighed, “found dead inside a cold, dark stove.” He could turn his body, but there was no room to unfold it, and even a twitch loosed fine black dust into the air. Try as he might to wipe soot from his eyes, he only spread grit with his filthy fingertips. He pulled out the scrap of Auralia’s scarf that Jordam had brought him and pressed it over his nose and mouth. Concentrating on the faint shimmer of those colors, he felt the beginnings of calm, breathed evenly, and slept. Asleep, he was free in immeasurable space, in a world of steaming hot towels. When he awoke, the muffled sound of distant wind had ceased. Silence was worse. “How’m I s’posed to look for the Keeper’s tracks now, ’Ralia?” The sound of his voice was some small comfort. He kept talking. He told Auralia stories. He described recent dreams. “I’m on my raft, floating on Deep Lake. But I’ve lost my oars. There’s no wind to move me. I’m stuck. I watch for a ripple and listen for a splash. But the Keeper doesn’t come. All I hear’s an echo from far away. A song.” He hummed a bit of the melody just to fill the silence. He had never enjoyed singing. He did not like the feeble timbre of his voice, which betrayed his uncertainty. But here, in the midst of this darkness, soot cleared from his throat, and the song began to sing itself, each note like a footprint leading him along. The sound made the stovepipe hum. He recognized the song—House Abascar’s Midnight Verse, which the watchman sang to mark the deepest point of night. A thump interrupted his song. Something had bumped against the shack’s wooden door. He waited. Silence settled. Then the sound of splintering wood. An explosion. A heavy crash. Wind rushed back in, and the boy closed his eyes to the swirling ash. In the stillness that followed, he pressed his ear against the vent. As soon as he could open his eyes, he peered intently out. Whoever or whatever had come carried no torch. As the intruder shuffled about in the damp, dead leaves of the space, the boy turned his face from the hatch so nothing would notice his white eyes staring through. A gust of foul air puffed through the vent. The iron box rang, struck by something like bone, but the stove did not budge. The ale boy held his breath and tried to be a piece of firewood. Another crash shook the stove. This time it rocked up off two of its feet, and the stovepipe groaned and clanged as it bent, warped, and tore free of the ceiling. The stove teetered. Old layers of chimney soot crumbled down over the ale boy’s head. He coughed and spluttered, knowing even as he did that his presence was revealed. The stove lay on its side. The boy saw the shadows of two massive legs against the faint light from the door. He heard a snuffling, then a frustrated growl. The stove spun, struck by a tremendous blow. The boy shook his head, trying to clear it of debris, choking on clouds of grit. A guttural voice sounded at the vent. The latch scraped against the door. Bit by bit the intruder was prying it open. The boy heard it snap free. Then nothing. Just the faint rush of cold wind. He blinked against the burn of the soot in his eyes. A sonorous, three-toned blast filled the farm shack. The boy thrust the hatch open and pried himself free. “Rumpa!” His vawn shrieked in dismay and staggered back. But he opened his arms. “It’s me! It’s me! I…oh.” He understood. The vawn was looking at him but seeing a monster made of coal. The vawn’s muzzle, like a duck’s bill fused shut, sniffed him through three small nostrils. He reached up and gently stroked her scaly neck. She trumpeted in sudden recognition, knocking him backward. “How did you find me?” The ale boy climbed on top of the overturned stove, finding the vawn with his hands and embracing her. “You followed me, didn’t you? The beastman, did he scare you? Did you hear him break the whistle?” He patted the bony ridges on her head, tightened his fingers around the brush of her narrow mane. “How did you find me? Was it the song? That old Abascar song?” Rumpa whimpered with glee, trotting in a circle around the shack, kicking wooden crates aside, and knocking out one of the struts that supported the upper level so that the ceiling sagged, split, and dumped piles of old straw and showers of bird droppings into the air. The boy felt his way on all fours until he found the wall, then stood and leaned against the doorframe. A faint glow drew him to the green winter coat that he had cast aside to cover the Bel Amican glowstone. He held the stone and illuminated the wide-eyed, boastful vawn and the disarray all around them. The boy laughed and ran out into the light snowfall. “We’re going to King Cal-raven, Rumpa. He needs to hear Cyndere’s message.” Outside, flakes alighted on his sleeves, and he would have been no more delighted if stars had lodged in the folds of his coat or alighted on his cheekbones. The air burned in his lungs, and he coughed blackness onto the snow. Waving his arms about, he danced like a drunken fool. Fire had tested him. He had survived. A blizzard had sought to bury him. He was alive. Beastmen had captured him. His spirits were high again. He was not the boy he had once thought he was. He threw himself down in the snow and rolled across its unblemished blanket, leaving a smear of soot behind him, then waved his arms and legs until he swept a snowbird’s outline like he’d seen the Gatherers’ orphans do. The vawn, not quite so eager to rejoice in beastman territory, knelt down and grunted, urging the boy to climb into her saddle. Shaking off the snow, he wrapped his arms around her neck, buried his face in her bristly mane, then climbed on her back. “Rumpa, sit!” he shouted sharply. She sprang into a full run, and they left the Cent Regus farmland behind. He tried to steer the vawn southeast to make for the Cliffs of Barnashum. Much to his surprise, Rumpa resisted. He wondered if she might have a grudge, but her step was sprightly enough. Her mind was made up. She would take him due east into the southernmost reach of the Cragavar forest. “You’re s’posed to obey me,” he murmured. “And there’s only one person who can change that.” The vawn looked back at him, eyes narrow and intent. “Ah,” said the boy. “Very well, then.” Vawns were not horses; while their two powerful legs were just as muscular, the ride was rough and jarring. But Rumpa was fast, and they traversed miles in minutes. When they brushed against frozen quill trees, shivers of ice slid down the boy’s neck, and the branches tapped their fingers with crystalline tones that reminded him of strings lightly plucked on a perys. Thoughts of music took him into the caves of Abascar’s survivors. He had, at times, crept into those passages, as inconspicuous as he had ever been in the Underkeep. He had watched as people he guided to that refuge found their place and shouldered responsibility for others. He had crawled into hollows and listened to the songs that brought them together. Had he stepped into the light and revealed himself, Cal-raven’s people would have drawn him in, and failing to understand his mission, they would have made him stay. Better to remain on the edge of it all—a rumor, free to venture out under the night to search for those in trouble whom no one else could reach. But tonight, as icy roses dissolved on his face, he yearned for a warm fire. A hot meal. Kind voices. Maybe even laughter. With no sense of where to go, no tracks to follow, he wondered if it was time to return to House Abascar, to become the ale boy again. What did they brew in Barnashum? Rumpa paused in a clearing high on a hill and glanced back as if to confirm that her passenger remained in place. She snorted in surprise, and he laughed, for now he had become, to all appearances, a sculpture made of snow. Making her way to the edge of a steep slope that stretched down between trees tall enough to scratch the stars, the vawn stepped out and shoved hard with her feet, dropping down flat on her scaly belly. She sledded down, down, down toward a circle of trees. In the center of those trees, a campfire flickered. Crows sprang from the figure they had settled upon and merged with the shadows above. A man engulfed in heavy furs watched them approach, sipping from a steaming bowl before a swell of stone, a hand-sculpted oven. Rumpa skidded to a stop beside the fire. “Magnificent, Rumpa!” The mountain of furs rose, the small man inside them taking the reins from the boy and looping them about the low branch of a cloudgrasper tree. “You found our little firewalker sooner than I expected. Now all of us can get some rest.” He grinned at the ale boy. “After all, we’ll be traveling together tomorrow. A fair distance, I suspect.” The ale boy recognized him at last. 24 WHAT BECAME OF
A nut in a nutshell buried in the snow,” muttered the ale boy. It was a scrap of a verse that Obsidia Dram had sung to lull him to sleep many years ago. The last thing he had seen before the door of the black iron stove closed was the gloating grin of a beastman who looked just like Jordam. The last thing he had heard was Jordam’s small, striped brother laughing, Hel hel hel. Jordam had promised to protect him, to keep Mordafey from dragging him off to Cent Regus enslavement. “rrSleep,” had been the order, and the ale boy had feigned unconsciousness. Jordam tied him with loose knots so he could make an escape after the confrontation. But none of that mattered now. Flaming wagons on Baldridge Hill. The fireplace in Cyndere’s chamber. The storm-lit blaze in the midst of the blizzard. Now here he was, folded in an oven without any fire, sucking air through a chimney too narrow to climb. The boy strained for some sign from Jordam, some indication he would not be forgotten. Only the wind visited him, whistling through the vent in the hatch, but then it departed in a flourish, slamming the shack’s wooden door shut behind it. “A boy who walks through fire,” he sighed, “found dead inside a cold, dark stove.” He could turn his body, but there was no room to unfold it, and even a twitch loosed fine black dust into the air. Try as he might to wipe soot from his eyes, he only spread grit with his filthy fingertips. He pulled out the scrap of Auralia’s scarf that Jordam had brought him and pressed it over his nose and mouth. Concentrating on the faint shimmer of those colors, he felt the beginnings of calm, breathed evenly, and slept. Asleep, he was free in immeasurable space, in a world of steaming hot towels. When he awoke, the muffled sound of distant wind had ceased. Silence was worse. “How’m I s’posed to look for the Keeper’s tracks now, ’Ralia?” The sound of his voice was some small comfort. He kept talking. He told Auralia stories. He described recent dreams. “I’m on my raft, floating on Deep Lake. But I’ve lost my oars. There’s no wind to move me. I’m stuck. I watch for a ripple and listen for a splash. But the Keeper doesn’t come. All I hear’s an echo from far away. A song.” He hummed a bit of the melody just to fill the silence. He had never enjoyed singing. He did not like the feeble timbre of his voice, which betrayed his uncertainty. But here, in the midst of this darkness, soot cleared from his throat, and the song began to sing itself, each note like a footprint leading him along. The sound made the stovepipe hum. He recognized the song—House Abascar’s Midnight Verse, which the watchman sang to mark the deepest point of night. A thump interrupted his song. Something had bumped against the shack’s wooden door. He waited. Silence settled. Then the sound of splintering wood. An explosion. A heavy crash. Wind rushed back in, and the boy closed his eyes to the swirling ash. In the stillness that followed, he pressed his ear against the vent. As soon as he could open his eyes, he peered intently out. Whoever or whatever had come carried no torch. As the intruder shuffled about in the damp, dead leaves of the space, the boy turned his face from the hatch so nothing would notice his white eyes staring through. A gust of foul air puffed through the vent. The iron box rang, struck by something like bone, but the stove did not budge. The ale boy held his breath and tried to be a piece of firewood. Another crash shook the stove. This time it rocked up off two of its feet, and the stovepipe groaned and clanged as it bent, warped, and tore free of the ceiling. The stove teetered. Old layers of chimney soot crumbled down over the ale boy’s head. He coughed and spluttered, knowing even as he did that his presence was revealed. The stove lay on its side. The boy saw the shadows of two massive legs against the faint light from the door. He heard a snuffling, then a frustrated growl. The stove spun, struck by a tremendous blow. The boy shook his head, trying to clear it of debris, choking on clouds of grit. A guttural voice sounded at the vent. The latch scraped against the door. Bit by bit the intruder was prying it open. The boy heard it snap free. Then nothing. Just the faint rush of cold wind. He blinked against the burn of the soot in his eyes. A sonorous, three-toned blast filled the farm shack. The boy thrust the hatch open and pried himself free. “Rumpa!” His vawn shrieked in dismay and staggered back. But he opened his arms. “It’s me! It’s me! I…oh.” He understood. The vawn was looking at him but seeing a monster made of coal. The vawn’s muzzle, like a duck’s bill fused shut, sniffed him through three small nostrils. He reached up and gently stroked her scaly neck. She trumpeted in sudden recognition, knocking him backward. “How did you find me?” The ale boy climbed on top of the overturned stove, finding the vawn with his hands and embracing her. “You followed me, didn’t you? The beastman, did he scare you? Did you hear him break the whistle?” He patted the bony ridges on her head, tightened his fingers around the brush of her narrow mane. “How did you find me? Was it the song? That old Abascar song?” Rumpa whimpered with glee, trotting in a circle around the shack, kicking wooden crates aside, and knocking out one of the struts that supported the upper level so that the ceiling sagged, split, and dumped piles of old straw and showers of bird droppings into the air. The boy felt his way on all fours until he found the wall, then stood and leaned against the doorframe. A faint glow drew him to the green winter coat that he had cast aside to cover the Bel Amican glowstone. He held the stone and illuminated the wide-eyed, boastful vawn and the disarray all around them. The boy laughed and ran out into the light snowfall. “We’re going to King Cal-raven, Rumpa. He needs to hear Cyndere’s message.” Outside, flakes alighted on his sleeves, and he would have been no more delighted if stars had lodged in the folds of his coat or alighted on his cheekbones. The air burned in his lungs, and he coughed blackness onto the snow. Waving his arms about, he danced like a drunken fool. Fire had tested him. He had survived. A blizzard had sought to bury him. He was alive. Beastmen had captured him. His spirits were high again. He was not the boy he had once thought he was. He threw himself down in the snow and rolled across its unblemished blanket, leaving a smear of soot behind him, then waved his arms and legs until he swept a snowbird’s outline like he’d seen the Gatherers’ orphans do. The vawn, not quite so eager to rejoice in beastman territory, knelt down and grunted, urging the boy to climb into her saddle. Shaking off the snow, he wrapped his arms around her neck, buried his face in her bristly mane, then climbed on her back. “Rumpa, sit!” he shouted sharply. She sprang into a full run, and they left the Cent Regus farmland behind. He tried to steer the vawn southeast to make for the Cliffs of Barnashum. Much to his surprise, Rumpa resisted. He wondered if she might have a grudge, but her step was sprightly enough. Her mind was made up. She would take him due east into the southernmost reach of the Cragavar forest. “You’re s’posed to obey me,” he murmured. “And there’s only one person who can change that.” The vawn looked back at him, eyes narrow and intent. “Ah,” said the boy. “Very well, then.” Vawns were not horses; while their two powerful legs were just as muscular, the ride was rough and jarring. But Rumpa was fast, and they traversed miles in minutes. When they brushed against frozen quill trees, shivers of ice slid down the boy’s neck, and the branches tapped their fingers with crystalline tones that reminded him of strings lightly plucked on a perys. Thoughts of music took him into the caves of Abascar’s survivors. He had, at times, crept into those passages, as inconspicuous as he had ever been in the Underkeep. He had watched as people he guided to that refuge found their place and shouldered responsibility for others. He had crawled into hollows and listened to the songs that brought them together. Had he stepped into the light and revealed himself, Cal-raven’s people would have drawn him in, and failing to understand his mission, they would have made him stay. Better to remain on the edge of it all—a rumor, free to venture out under the night to search for those in trouble whom no one else could reach. But tonight, as icy roses dissolved on his face, he yearned for a warm fire. A hot meal. Kind voices. Maybe even laughter. With no sense of where to go, no tracks to follow, he wondered if it was time to return to House Abascar, to become the ale boy again. What did they brew in Barnashum? Rumpa paused in a clearing high on a hill and glanced back as if to confirm that her passenger remained in place. She snorted in surprise, and he laughed, for now he had become, to all appearances, a sculpture made of snow. Making her way to the edge of a steep slope that stretched down between trees tall enough to scratch the stars, the vawn stepped out and shoved hard with her feet, dropping down flat on her scaly belly. She sledded down, down, down toward a circle of trees. In the center of those trees, a campfire flickered. Crows sprang from the figure they had settled upon and merged with the shadows above. A man engulfed in heavy furs watched them approach, sipping from a steaming bowl before a swell of stone, a hand-sculpted oven. Rumpa skidded to a stop beside the fire. “Magnificent, Rumpa!” The mountain of furs rose, the small man inside them taking the reins from the boy and looping them about the low branch of a cloudgrasper tree. “You found our little firewalker sooner than I expected. Now all of us can get some rest.” He grinned at the ale boy. “After all, we’ll be traveling together tomorrow. A fair distance, I suspect.” The ale boy recognized him at last. |
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