"Melanie Rawn - Dragon Star 3 - Skybowl" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rawn Melanie)

between that tree and the one that must represent the Man. Beside it was the Father. And just to
Andry's right was a massive pine that could only be the Graybeard.
Would there be any answer, in this place that seized Fire and gave it independent life to mirror
the faces of the dead?
Long ago he had consulted other trees at the proper time. At Goddess Keep the pines formed an
elegant circle around a larger forest pool with its rock cairn. He had asked his questions of all
the treesтАФexcept the Graybeard. Not many had the courage to look into their old age until it was
actually upon them. And by then questions generally lost their importance anyway, if one was lucky
enough to be granted a placid finish to life.
Andry had the depressing feeling that his own old age would be as turbulent as his youth.
He shifted slightly, biting his lip. Then he plunged his bare hands through the Fire and into the
ice, and faced the mighty tree.
The ice shards cut like crystal. Needles of pain drove into his knuckles, bringing a muffled cry
to his lips. The Fire atop the standing stone flared once more, and in it he saw the face of a
man.
No. The face of the God.
He was like unto the Goddess in that his terrible beauty had no specific feature. He was Rohan and
Meath and old Prince Lleyn; he was Torien, Pol, and Walvis. He was Andry's father and grandfather
and brothers and sons. Ostvel's gray eyes became Roelstra's leaf-green, Tallain's deep brown, and
then a clear sapphire blue.
He was ... Andry.
A voice smooth and hard as polished stone reverberated in his mind. No one calls Fire here now. No
one comes to see the faces of the dead,
Andry caught his breath in an instinctive protest, then realized his foolishness. Everyone died.
No bargain could be struck hereтАФhis faith for a life as it had purchased Radzyn.
You, the voice accused, you are not of the Old Blood. You are afraid. Go. Return when you
understand.
The Fire died. The face that was all faces and none faded into the broken ice. The stones were
only stones. Wind whispered in the pines, finding lonely echo in Andry's soul. He slid his hands
from the water and stared at them as if unsure
they were his. The skin was stung scarlet with cold, the nails blue.
It was a long time before his fingers warmed enough to use. He fumbled with his gloves, drew his
sodden cloak back .up around him, and pushed himself stiffly to his feet.
Evarin was nodding over steaming taze. He glanced up when Andry trudged from the wood with his
branches and his pockets full of wolfpaw.
"I was beginning to worry, my Lord. It's getting dark."
"Yes," Andry agreed. "Very."
"... hundreds and thousands of them, more than anyone could ever count. But even with all those
stars, people were frightened by the night. So they learned how to make torches, and candles, and
lamps, but it wasn't enough."
The sound of Pol's soft voice stopped Sionell just outside the half-open bedchamber door. She
waited, listening as he told an old, old legend; it had been one of her own favorites as a child.
"Now, as it happened, there were three sisters who had very special gifts. The eldest of them
could speak with trees, and the second one could speak with clouds, and the youngest could speak
with dragons."
"Like you," Jihan's voice said smugly.
"Well, not quite. Anyway, the sisters thought for a long time about the night's darkness and
finally decided on a plan. The first asked the trees in the forest to fashion three boats. The
second asked the clouds to spin themselves into sails. The third asked a few dragons to carry them
on their backs far up into the sky, until the starry wind caught their sails. Soon everything was