"Nancy Springer - Isle 03 - The Sable Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

Where before there had been only snow and the dark trunks of trees, now there was a rider on a
beautiful silver horseтАФa young man, blond and very handsome. As Meg's eyes met his of stormy green,
she felt an instant of utter abeyance, as if heart and soul had stopped to gaze with her. Then she came
back to self with a pang,, feeling how ill-prepared she was to meet him, up to her elbows in mud. Still,
she saw no amusement in his face. . . . She could not know that, for his part, he had felt an odd leap of
heart on seeing her. He could hardly account for it himself, and irritably shrugged off thought of it.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," he told the girl.

Meg tossed her head at that. She did not consider that she had been frightened, onlyтАФwell, startled.
Perhaps he had been frightened himself.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "Can you get out?"

"Ay, to be sure!" she snapped. "But I'll not leave without this cow."



Trevyn rolled his eyes at her tone. "Humor me," he urged with exaggerated courtesy, "and come out.
Please."

She fought her way toward the edge, retracing her steps. It was harder than she had expected. The ooze
clung to her skirt as she inched along, panting. Trevyn dismounted and glanced around for a stout stick to
offer her. "None strong enough," he muttered.

"Give me a hand," Meg gasped.

She meant that literally. Trevyn had not wanted to touch her. Grimacing, he grasped her by her muddy
wrist and hauled her out, splattering himself with chunks of goo. She stood on the verge, breathing hard,
rubbing her face and peering at him. "I've never seen anything like it," she declared.

"The mud? I've heard about these holes in the southern Forest. Some are clear water, steaming hot. Too
bad your cow couldn't have chosen one of those." He unpinned his cloak as he spoke, evidently steeling
himself for action.

"Ye're going to go in after her?"

"I suppose I'm going to have to," he replied ungraciously. "ArundelтАФ" He spoke to the horse in the Old
Language.

"What?" asked Meg, straining to understand the peculiar words,. But then she cried out in protest as the
young man took off his cloak and sliced into it with his sword. It was a thick wool cloak lined with
crimson satin, more beautiful than anything she had ever owned. Trevyn stopped at her cry, looked at her
quizzically.

"Is the cloak worth more than your cow?"

"That is not fair!" she answered hotly. "Molly isтАФisтАФshe's family! I dare say she is not a great worth,
butтАФ" Meg fell silent and regarded Trevyn curiously. His tunic was of linen, and his sword was inlaid