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

Trevyn from her. For who would want to be loved by a skinny thing like her? To think it of him, and he
the Prince! And yet, what of that kiss. . . .

In months to come, when she had driven from her all other hope of his regard, the memory of that kiss
was still to linger in the heart of her heart, like a glowing coal in the ashes of a benighted fire.
Chapter Five

The winter holidays had nearly ended when Trevyn returned to his homeтАФto Laueroc, fair city of
meadowlarks. No birds sang now over the meadows that ringed the town, but the towers shone golden
in the wintry sunlight. In the fairest tower, Trevyn knew, King Hal dreamed his visionary dreams. Below,
artists of all sorts wrought their own dreams within his protecting walls. The countless concerns of the
court city of Isle hummed on, and Alan saw to them all, frowning.

King Alan heard the shout go up when Trevyn rode in, and he met his son at the gates to the keep. Time
was when he would have been waiting with a stick in his hand, to thrash the Prince for going
out-of-bounds. Trevyn was expecting a mighty roaring at the very least. But Alan surprised him. "I am
glad to see you, lad," he remarked quietly. "I ought to knock your head, but I haven't the inclination.
Come get your supper."

Trevyn stood still and peered at him. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"It's Hal," Alan told him candidly. "He's been sulking in his tower for weeks now, scarcely eating,
scarcely speak ing. . . . I have known him for a long time, Trevyn, and borne



with his moods as he bears with mine, but this-тАФit harrows me. I don't want to speak of it. Come get
your supper."

Preoccupied, Alan had not noticed Trevyn's borrowed cloak or his missing brooch, and Trevyn gave
private thanks for that. He flung the cloak aside and followed his father to the huge, cobbled kitchen.
None of the Lauerocs had much patience with the prerogatives of rank; they usually helped themselves
rather than eating in great-hall style. Trevyn's mother and his Aunt Rosemary sat at a big plank table near
the hearth, slicing bread. Rosemary smiled wanly as Trevyn entered, but Lysse jumped up to hug him,
gauging his well-being with her elfin eyes.

"You have been in danger, Beloved!" she exclaimed. "What was it?"

"The snowstorm perhaps?" he hedged. He had left Rafe with the understanding that he would carry
report to the Kings concerning the peculiar behavior of the wolves. But now, guiltily, he realized that he
had no intention of doing so. He could not risk his newly won independence by telling his parents he had
come to woe. Childishly, he felt that they would never let him out alone again, never let him sail to
Elwestrand! Shaking off thoughts of duty, he turned the talk. "What is the matter with my uncle?"

"He is fey." Queen Rosemary proudly raised her lovely auburn head.

"He is Mireldeyn." Lysse spoke the name neither in agreement nor in denial. She sat down with
effortless, fluid grace. "His ways are not the ways of men. He has withdrawn from men now."

Trevyn dipped himself a bowlful of stew, for he was hungry from his ride. No one else ate much; they all