"Marta Randall - The Sword of Winter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Randall Marta)

tarnished silver, broken near the village where the millrace kept the ice
from forming. A few lights glowed in the village itself, yellow against the
pale snow. The large, brightly lit building in the village center would be
the inn, offering its last rites of comradeship and hospitality before
bedtime. Folk slept early in these mountain villages and woke with the
sun. Darkness turned his head inquiringly. His breath puffed clouds in the
cold.
She pulled the hood of her black talma over her brows and tucked it
around her throat, trying to remember the name of the village. Darkness
moved down the slope. She'd already visited Helsrest, Marjoram, Three
CrossingsтАФthis place would be the last, then back to Jentesi Castle. She
wondered if Lord Gambin was dead yet.
Someone must have seen her and given the alarm, for the inn was quiet
as she rode into the yard. She swung off the snowhorse as the innkeeper
hurried out, pulling the sleeves of a fleece jacket over his arms. Lamplight
spilled from the open door. Pelegorum, she thought. They raise sheep here.
The innkeeper tried to hide his worry behind a large, patently false smile.
"Rider," he said, holding his hand for the reins. "Welcome, we are
honored. A cup of hot wine, of course, on such a night. Certainly,
assuredly. Welfred!" he bellowed over his shoulder. "Wine for the Rider
and a place by the fire! Let me take your horse, go right in, there's plenty
ofтАФ"
"I'm sure there is," she said amiably. The innkeeper froze, eyes wide. He
must have borrowed the jacket; its collar hid the sides of his thin face and
the sleeves kept falling over his hands. "Relax, innkeeper. I'd take my bags
before you take my horse."
"Of course. Of course." His hands were unsteady on the reins. She lifted
the saddlebags and slung them over her shoulder.
"See that he's rubbed and warm," she said as she walked to the open
door. "He's worked harder than I this night."
The innkeeper didn't reply.
The public room was silent, the inn's patrons carefully disinterested,
and the innkeeper's wife greeted her with a terrified smile and gestured
toward a bench near the fire. She dropped her saddlebags by the door,
confident that no one would touch them, and unclasped the talma. The
careful disinterest increased. She hoped the farmers and shepherds
wouldn't strain their eyes trying to look around their ears and paused with
her hands on the clasps, about to swirl the talma dramatically from her
shoulders, remembering Jandi's disapproval. Theatricality, he had written
once. You are too angry, Lyeth. They do you no harm. Their fear harms
me, she wrote back. Their hatred harms me. Jandi refused to argue and
his next letter spoke only of the comings and goings at the Vantua
guildhall. What did Jandi, coddled in the warmth and high regard of
Cherek's capital, know of Jentesi Province? She thought a brief, hard curse
against Lord Gambin and slid the talma gently from her shoulders,
spreading it over the mantelpiece to dry. Water dripped from the edges of
the hood where her breath had frozen on the black fur. The innkeeper's
wife dipped a measure of mulled wine from the pot by the hearth and
handed her a cup. She nodded her thanks and sat before the fire,
stretching her legs. Her boots steamed faintly in the warmth.