"Over_9780307446138_oeb_c34_r1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jeffrey Overstreet - Cynderes Midnight)34 NEW TRACKS
Scharr ben Fray ladled herbal stew from a stone pot that hung from a crosshatch of sticks suspended over the campfire and handed the ale boy a steaming bowl. “Most vawns will run from their masters, given the chance,” he said, nodding to Rumpa, who lay resting with her legs sprawled out behind her. “But when I found Rumpa wandering alone a few days ago, she was worried.” He shook his head and laughed. “She missed you.” “How’d she find me? I thought I’d never get out of that stove.” The mage gestured to the world beyond their firelit sphere. “There’s an exodus happening among the creatures of the Expanse. Those that remain—birds, scavengers, rodents—they’re eloquent enough. So I asked the shrillows, the gorrels, anything I could find. A black heron spoke of a beastman. A beastman hiding in an old Cent Regus farmer’s house.” He knelt down, binding stalks of toughreed to a branch to construct a makeshift broom. “That beastman, he had brought a boy along.” “That’s me!” The boy pressed his hands against the warm bowl. “Did you really learn about me from a bird?” “Birds don’t pay much attention to the affairs of folks like us unless there are breadcrumbs involved.” The old man swept the layers of snow from his tent. “But those that aren’t carrion seekers despise and avoid beastmen. Most Cent Regus kill what they catch. But a beastman traveling with a boy? That is unusual. That got the birds’ attention.” The boy was tempted to say that he found the idea of an old man holding conference with a heron unusual. Instead he sipped his stew, which smelled of potatoes, onions, stasiaroot, and spicy herbs. Scharr ben Fray chuckled as if the boy had spoken after all and playfully brushed his broom across the fur-fringed hood of the boy’s green cloak. Then he sat down on the other side of the fire, set aside the broom, and caught a snowflake gingerly between his finger and thumb, a trick that interrupted the boy’s ponderous thoughts. He held it up to the light. “All descendants of Tammos Raak are unusual, boy. Stonemasters, wildspeakers, and firewalkers like you. If more people had the courage to discover their potential, we might find that such talents are not so rare.” The boy wondered if this was the kind of thing the mage had said to young Cal-raven in their lessons long ago. Scharr ben Fray rose and ducked into the tent to rummage around, his voice continuing through the canvas. “The Expanse is in trouble. We’re not reading the signs. Just think of Auralia.” “I always do.” “Auralia knew what was happening. Such a fascinating girl. I sent a viscorcat to play with her, sure as I brought you this vawn. I hoped that cat would help me learn more about her. But then we lost her in Abascar’s fall, just when she was trying to show us something. Something we need to know.” “Does it have anything to do with the Keeper?” “The Keeper, sure. The tales of Tammos Raak. Those annoying Northchildren. Moon-spirits. The disappearing wildlife of the Cragavar. The Cent Regus curse. Seers and all their tricks. And of course, Auralia’s colors. Those mysteries are connected somehow. There’s a scroll somewhere that holds the secret. I intend to find it. When I figure it all out, maybe I’ll know how to save this world.” “Save the world from what? Beastmen?” “There are dangers worse than beastmen, boy.” The mage emerged with a tall red bottle. “Let’s not talk about those in the middle of the night.” He pulled the cork, a sound that always pleased the ale boy’s ears, and tossed it into the fire. “I wonder,” he mused, “whatever happened to that rascal cat.” The ale boy looked into the fire, thinking of Jordam and of Cyndere’s bold hope. “How’d the beastmen get cursed?” “Why do you want to know?” The boy scuffed his feet and scraped at the bowl with his spoon. “The heiress…she thinks we might be able to help them get better.” “A question worth asking. All questions are. Every question I ask leads me to another. Now, let’s see what you know, my little firewalker. You’ve seen things no one has seen. Been places no one has been.” The mage paused expectantly, took a swig from the bottle, and handed it to the boy. “Maybe this will help you come up with some idea I haven’t thought of yet.” “Where did you find this?” the boy exclaimed, running his hands over the glass. The bottle was almost half full. “It’s Abascar wine! Some of the finest!” “You think I’ll tell you about my secret wine cellar?” Scharr ben Fray reached for the stone stewpot, scraped the remains of the stew into the fire, and then collapsed the pot in his hands, melting it into a shapeless mass that he began to knead vigorously like bread dough. “Let me ask you a question, boy. Have you ever felt as though there was a piece missing inside of you?” “Yes,” the boy answered immediately. “Yes.” He thought of his childhood. He thought of his many questions about his own identity, his purpose in the world. He sipped the wine, and it was as though he had been transported into the Underkeep to sit in the breweries, tasting some of a forbidden royal vintage. “But you found that missing piece, didn’t you? Your question, it had an answer.” “Right there in front of me all along. I just couldn’t see it.” “The houses were united once. Something was lost. No one seems to know what it was. No one asks. But our longings exist because there’s something to them. The missing piece is out there. We catch hints of it.” “In Auralia’s colors.” “Indeed. A sense of reconciliation. Harmony.” “It’s like the Keeper. We all dream of the Keeper. But it’s a mystery, and most folks think it doesn’t exist.” “Auralia knew the Keeper, didn’t she, boy?” “Yes.” “She was wiser than all of us, somehow. Closer to the answer. I want to know the details she knew.” “What details?” The ale boy rubbed his eyes, then, without thinking, swallowed more of the wine. “I am tracking them down. I have a journey planned.” “Where?” “North, to Inius Throan.” “Inius Throan. I’ve heard of that.” The boy stood and spread his arms. “It was an enormous gathering of children. Far away. It’s where Tammos Raak first made his camp. After he led the escape from the north, of course.” “You’ve a good memory for fireside stories, boy. You’re right. Tammos Raak climbed up and over the Forbidding Wall and made camp at Inius Throan, above Fraughtenwood.” Scharr ben Fray’s eyes sparkled. “I told Cal-raven that story when he was younger than you. Storytellers disagree about what happened there. Whatever it was, it divided Tammos Raak’s gathering into four groups. All four abandoned Inius Throan. Tammos Raak slipped through the cracks of history, never to be seen again. But Inius Throan, my boy. I think it’s the storybook that must be opened. It’s the key. I want to find it.” “And then what?” “That’s why I came looking for you.” The boy suddenly turned. “Me?” “I have a job for you. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” “Why tomorrow?” “Because you’re exhausted.” “I don’t feel exhausted.” “And that’s because you are exhausted.” Scharr Ben Fray walked around the fire and took the wine bottle which, to the boy’s chagrin, was empty. “Time for you to sleep.” “Oh no. I’m wide awake. I rested plenty inside that stove. And now that I’m free, I’m…” He blinked. “Now that I’ve eaten, I…” He never finished the sentence, his thoughts melting under the weight of weariness. Asleep, he found Auralia waiting for him, somersaulting through laughter down a bank of pillowy snow. She was older—several years older. And when she threw snowballs at him, they burst in explosions of color. The ale boy awoke when the canvas ceiling stopped rippling, when the wind ceased its persecution of the bent and barren trees. He sat up as if the silence were a summons. He was not aware of the dull reverberation in the ground, not until the world stilled. He did not think about the crackle and flash of the campfire outside the tent, not until the glow on the wall of the canvas suddenly went dark. He got to his feet. “I am here,” he said. No one answered. The stonemaster’s bedblanket was folded and cold, just as it had been when the boy arrived. He pulled the tent flap aside and stepped into the clearing. “I am here,” he said. “What now?” The clouds streamed overhead in silent, twisting ribbons. The branches of the trees were empty. Nothing waited or moved between them. Looking up as he approached the ashes of the fire, he stumbled into a sunken space. The ground within it hummed with the sound of a bow drawn across the thick strings of a lynfr, music raised by mist. He knelt and picked a few stones free of the soil, held them up to his ear, and then cast them down, incredulous. He pressed his hands flat against the dark earth and began to feel its contours, the edges that revealed he was standing in some kind of depression. A footprint. Across the clearing he found another impression. Lifting a forked tree branch that the wind had thrown down, he broke it into a single arm and thrust it into the remains of the campfire. Smoke surged and increased, coiling around the tip of the branch. He waited, trusting that fire still burnt in the ashes. An ember awoke. The branch sparked and flared. He lifted the flaming brand and traced the progress of the footprints. He heard a whimper and found Rumpa hiding behind the tree where Scharr ben Fray had tethered her. Her milky eyes stared in the direction that the tracks led. She turned to look at him and gave her leash a tug as she always did when she wanted to move on. After climbing onto Rumpa’s saddle, the boy looked back to the tent and sighed. “I’m sorry, Scharr ben Fray. I hope you find what you’re looking for. ’Ralia told me to follow the tracks.” He looked at his shoes, which she had made. “The tracks led her into Abascar. Guess we’ll find out where they take me.” With that, he gave the reins a gentle twitch. “Go!” Rumpa fell to her knees and sighed, then snuffled about in the ferns, searching for worms. “Rumpa, it’s a simple command,” the ale boy groaned. He dug in his heels. She grunted and went on eating. “Stop!” he shouted. Immediately Rumpa sprang back up and trotted into the trees. The ale boy took the vawn southward, all the way to the edge of the forest and into the green haze that hovered over the realm of the Cent Regus beastmen. Grumbling, afraid, but obedient, Rumpa carried him down into that wasteland, following the trail. 34 NEW TRACKS
Scharr ben Fray ladled herbal stew from a stone pot that hung from a crosshatch of sticks suspended over the campfire and handed the ale boy a steaming bowl. “Most vawns will run from their masters, given the chance,” he said, nodding to Rumpa, who lay resting with her legs sprawled out behind her. “But when I found Rumpa wandering alone a few days ago, she was worried.” He shook his head and laughed. “She missed you.” “How’d she find me? I thought I’d never get out of that stove.” The mage gestured to the world beyond their firelit sphere. “There’s an exodus happening among the creatures of the Expanse. Those that remain—birds, scavengers, rodents—they’re eloquent enough. So I asked the shrillows, the gorrels, anything I could find. A black heron spoke of a beastman. A beastman hiding in an old Cent Regus farmer’s house.” He knelt down, binding stalks of toughreed to a branch to construct a makeshift broom. “That beastman, he had brought a boy along.” “That’s me!” The boy pressed his hands against the warm bowl. “Did you really learn about me from a bird?” “Birds don’t pay much attention to the affairs of folks like us unless there are breadcrumbs involved.” The old man swept the layers of snow from his tent. “But those that aren’t carrion seekers despise and avoid beastmen. Most Cent Regus kill what they catch. But a beastman traveling with a boy? That is unusual. That got the birds’ attention.” The boy was tempted to say that he found the idea of an old man holding conference with a heron unusual. Instead he sipped his stew, which smelled of potatoes, onions, stasiaroot, and spicy herbs. Scharr ben Fray chuckled as if the boy had spoken after all and playfully brushed his broom across the fur-fringed hood of the boy’s green cloak. Then he sat down on the other side of the fire, set aside the broom, and caught a snowflake gingerly between his finger and thumb, a trick that interrupted the boy’s ponderous thoughts. He held it up to the light. “All descendants of Tammos Raak are unusual, boy. Stonemasters, wildspeakers, and firewalkers like you. If more people had the courage to discover their potential, we might find that such talents are not so rare.” The boy wondered if this was the kind of thing the mage had said to young Cal-raven in their lessons long ago. Scharr ben Fray rose and ducked into the tent to rummage around, his voice continuing through the canvas. “The Expanse is in trouble. We’re not reading the signs. Just think of Auralia.” “I always do.” “Auralia knew what was happening. Such a fascinating girl. I sent a viscorcat to play with her, sure as I brought you this vawn. I hoped that cat would help me learn more about her. But then we lost her in Abascar’s fall, just when she was trying to show us something. Something we need to know.” “Does it have anything to do with the Keeper?” “The Keeper, sure. The tales of Tammos Raak. Those annoying Northchildren. Moon-spirits. The disappearing wildlife of the Cragavar. The Cent Regus curse. Seers and all their tricks. And of course, Auralia’s colors. Those mysteries are connected somehow. There’s a scroll somewhere that holds the secret. I intend to find it. When I figure it all out, maybe I’ll know how to save this world.” “Save the world from what? Beastmen?” “There are dangers worse than beastmen, boy.” The mage emerged with a tall red bottle. “Let’s not talk about those in the middle of the night.” He pulled the cork, a sound that always pleased the ale boy’s ears, and tossed it into the fire. “I wonder,” he mused, “whatever happened to that rascal cat.” The ale boy looked into the fire, thinking of Jordam and of Cyndere’s bold hope. “How’d the beastmen get cursed?” “Why do you want to know?” The boy scuffed his feet and scraped at the bowl with his spoon. “The heiress…she thinks we might be able to help them get better.” “A question worth asking. All questions are. Every question I ask leads me to another. Now, let’s see what you know, my little firewalker. You’ve seen things no one has seen. Been places no one has been.” The mage paused expectantly, took a swig from the bottle, and handed it to the boy. “Maybe this will help you come up with some idea I haven’t thought of yet.” “Where did you find this?” the boy exclaimed, running his hands over the glass. The bottle was almost half full. “It’s Abascar wine! Some of the finest!” “You think I’ll tell you about my secret wine cellar?” Scharr ben Fray reached for the stone stewpot, scraped the remains of the stew into the fire, and then collapsed the pot in his hands, melting it into a shapeless mass that he began to knead vigorously like bread dough. “Let me ask you a question, boy. Have you ever felt as though there was a piece missing inside of you?” “Yes,” the boy answered immediately. “Yes.” He thought of his childhood. He thought of his many questions about his own identity, his purpose in the world. He sipped the wine, and it was as though he had been transported into the Underkeep to sit in the breweries, tasting some of a forbidden royal vintage. “But you found that missing piece, didn’t you? Your question, it had an answer.” “Right there in front of me all along. I just couldn’t see it.” “The houses were united once. Something was lost. No one seems to know what it was. No one asks. But our longings exist because there’s something to them. The missing piece is out there. We catch hints of it.” “In Auralia’s colors.” “Indeed. A sense of reconciliation. Harmony.” “It’s like the Keeper. We all dream of the Keeper. But it’s a mystery, and most folks think it doesn’t exist.” “Auralia knew the Keeper, didn’t she, boy?” “Yes.” “She was wiser than all of us, somehow. Closer to the answer. I want to know the details she knew.” “What details?” The ale boy rubbed his eyes, then, without thinking, swallowed more of the wine. “I am tracking them down. I have a journey planned.” “Where?” “North, to Inius Throan.” “Inius Throan. I’ve heard of that.” The boy stood and spread his arms. “It was an enormous gathering of children. Far away. It’s where Tammos Raak first made his camp. After he led the escape from the north, of course.” “You’ve a good memory for fireside stories, boy. You’re right. Tammos Raak climbed up and over the Forbidding Wall and made camp at Inius Throan, above Fraughtenwood.” Scharr ben Fray’s eyes sparkled. “I told Cal-raven that story when he was younger than you. Storytellers disagree about what happened there. Whatever it was, it divided Tammos Raak’s gathering into four groups. All four abandoned Inius Throan. Tammos Raak slipped through the cracks of history, never to be seen again. But Inius Throan, my boy. I think it’s the storybook that must be opened. It’s the key. I want to find it.” “And then what?” “That’s why I came looking for you.” The boy suddenly turned. “Me?” “I have a job for you. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” “Why tomorrow?” “Because you’re exhausted.” “I don’t feel exhausted.” “And that’s because you are exhausted.” Scharr Ben Fray walked around the fire and took the wine bottle which, to the boy’s chagrin, was empty. “Time for you to sleep.” “Oh no. I’m wide awake. I rested plenty inside that stove. And now that I’m free, I’m…” He blinked. “Now that I’ve eaten, I…” He never finished the sentence, his thoughts melting under the weight of weariness. Asleep, he found Auralia waiting for him, somersaulting through laughter down a bank of pillowy snow. She was older—several years older. And when she threw snowballs at him, they burst in explosions of color. The ale boy awoke when the canvas ceiling stopped rippling, when the wind ceased its persecution of the bent and barren trees. He sat up as if the silence were a summons. He was not aware of the dull reverberation in the ground, not until the world stilled. He did not think about the crackle and flash of the campfire outside the tent, not until the glow on the wall of the canvas suddenly went dark. He got to his feet. “I am here,” he said. No one answered. The stonemaster’s bedblanket was folded and cold, just as it had been when the boy arrived. He pulled the tent flap aside and stepped into the clearing. “I am here,” he said. “What now?” The clouds streamed overhead in silent, twisting ribbons. The branches of the trees were empty. Nothing waited or moved between them. Looking up as he approached the ashes of the fire, he stumbled into a sunken space. The ground within it hummed with the sound of a bow drawn across the thick strings of a lynfr, music raised by mist. He knelt and picked a few stones free of the soil, held them up to his ear, and then cast them down, incredulous. He pressed his hands flat against the dark earth and began to feel its contours, the edges that revealed he was standing in some kind of depression. A footprint. Across the clearing he found another impression. Lifting a forked tree branch that the wind had thrown down, he broke it into a single arm and thrust it into the remains of the campfire. Smoke surged and increased, coiling around the tip of the branch. He waited, trusting that fire still burnt in the ashes. An ember awoke. The branch sparked and flared. He lifted the flaming brand and traced the progress of the footprints. He heard a whimper and found Rumpa hiding behind the tree where Scharr ben Fray had tethered her. Her milky eyes stared in the direction that the tracks led. She turned to look at him and gave her leash a tug as she always did when she wanted to move on. After climbing onto Rumpa’s saddle, the boy looked back to the tent and sighed. “I’m sorry, Scharr ben Fray. I hope you find what you’re looking for. ’Ralia told me to follow the tracks.” He looked at his shoes, which she had made. “The tracks led her into Abascar. Guess we’ll find out where they take me.” With that, he gave the reins a gentle twitch. “Go!” Rumpa fell to her knees and sighed, then snuffled about in the ferns, searching for worms. “Rumpa, it’s a simple command,” the ale boy groaned. He dug in his heels. She grunted and went on eating. “Stop!” he shouted. Immediately Rumpa sprang back up and trotted into the trees. The ale boy took the vawn southward, all the way to the edge of the forest and into the green haze that hovered over the realm of the Cent Regus beastmen. Grumbling, afraid, but obedient, Rumpa carried him down into that wasteland, following the trail. |
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