"Nancy Springer - Chains Of Gold" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

тАЬCall on me for whatever you desire,тАЭ he told me, тАЬno matter what the hour. My name is Lonn.тАЭ He
bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

The white-robed ones finished undressing me without a word, not leaving me even my shift. I held my
chin high against their unspoken hostility. Perhaps they were mute, I thought. Only later did I learn of the
rule of silence that kept them from speaking to seculars, the rule Lonn had broken.

The room where they stripped me was as cold as their silence, as bare as my body, with gray stone
walls lacking any hangings, an unshuttered window slot set too high to see from, a hearth fire burning
sullen and low. No furnishings except a great grim bed. The white-robes guided me to it, placed me
naked between the chill sheets. That done, they left me, taking my clothing with them.

тАЬWait!тАЭ I told them. I wanted to ask them questions, make them answer me. But I was not Rahv; my
voice quavered. They closed the door behind them.

Alone again, I lay and looked at the door.

It bore neither bar nor lock, for sacred brides, like sacred kings, were supposed to come willingly to the
ceremonials. I would not be killed or even so much as flogged: I was expected merely to bed a stranger,
bear a son, and be cloistered the rest of my life. What matter that I had petitioned the goddess for a true
love? It was an honor to be the winterkingтАЩs bride. A bar on the door, or a lock, would have been
admission of the wrongness of my being there.

I smiled sourly. Like my father, the Gwyneda were no fools, and they had taken my clothing as their
surety. Also, perhaps there was a guard outside the door, or a white-robed figure skulking near the first
turning.

I waited, watching the gray twilight fade from the window slot, the dying firelight fade from the room,
until all was sable black. Sometimes footsteps sounded in the corridor, sometimes voices. I waited,
listening, until all night noises seemed to be stilled.

I moved, waited, moved again. I got up, shivering, wrapped a blanket around me as best I could, and
felt my way to the door.

In no way could I guess what punishment might be mine if a guard stood beyond the door. Punishments
were erratic, in my experience, and severe. But a strong anger stirred in me, longtime anger urging me on.
So my father thought he could barter me away like a whelp, give me where he saw fit, as if I were no
more than a slave! I had heard a minstrelтАЩs song, once, about a faraway father who loved his daughter,
and it had stayed in me like a knife tip broken off in a wound.

Softly I pushed open the door.

No guard. The corridor was dimly lit by rushlights held in sconces and smoking as they burned, giving
forth more stinking gloom than light. No one stood near, as far as I could see through the smoke.
Barefoot, I padded back the way I had been brought in, edged my head around the corner. A glimpse of
white robe, sound of footsteps; I jumped back and ran on tiptoe in the opposite direction, under a
shadowy archway, pastтАФa serpentтАЩs head thrust in my face, the body spiraling up a pillar! I nearly
screamed. But in a moment I saw that it was a carving, stone or wood, and shakily I went on.

For what seemed like a parlous long time I pattered about, choosing my direction at random, shying at