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

Trevyn sighed, gloomily accepting that Gwern knew of his plans even though he had not told him. He
scarcely ever spoke to Gwern, though he had not fought with him since the row over Meg. His dislike
had not abated, but he had become somewhat ashamed of it. He had decided to be dignified.
"Very well," he replied coolly, then smiled grimly to himself. He judged that Gwern would not ride with
him more than a few days. Gwern would not be able to pass the haunt that guarded the Blessed Bay.

After nightfall they were off, with 'heavy packs of food stolen from the kitchen. Trevyn knew the sentries
would be wary of him now, so they had to do some climbing with a rope. The Prince barely bothered to
wonder why he trusted Gwern as his companion. Once well beyond the walls, far out on the downs, the
mismatched pair called up some horses and set their course by the summer stars that hung low on the
western horizon.

Trevyn had never been to the Bay of the Blessed, but he felt sure he could find the way. He would show
his parents whether he was a child, to be so lightly left behind! He rode



hard, to be certain of arriving before the slow horse litter. Once he had passed the haunt, the abode of
bodiless spirits, he need not fear any pursuit. No mortal could withstand terror of those unresting dead
except a few who still remem┬мbered the mysteries of the old order, the sound of the Old Language.
Among which few, as a Laueroc, Trevyn num┬мbered himself.

Within three days Trevyn and Gwern came to the end of the green meadows and tilled land, to the
haunt, where the shades of the dead thickly clustered. Trevyn could feel their eerie presence chill the air.
Smugly, he turned to watch Gwern shriek and flee. At last he would be rid of the muddy-hued upstart
who hounded him! But Gwern only straightened to attention on his horse.

"Dead people!" he exclaimed, with something like delight. "But why do they not rest? Whence do they
come?"

"How should I know?" Trevyn sputtered, fighting off his astonishment and the conclusions he did not
wish to reach. Irrationally fleeing, he spun his mount and sent it springing into the haunt. Gwern followed
without hesitation, and the wild terrain soon slowed Trevyn's pace. He and Gwern picked their way
silently between looming gray rocks and dark firs. Once through the invisible barrier, Trevyn breathed
easier, knowing he would not be ingloriously escorted back to Laueroc. But Gwern still rode at his side;

"I think they were gods," Gwern said with the unreasoning certainty of a child.

"Gods!" Trevyn snorted. "Only peasants talk of gods, Gwern!"

"They were little gods, such as can be killed, and they tried hard to cheat death; they still try. But the
great gods cannot be killed. There is the goddess my mother; her sooth-name is Alys."

Trevyn gaped at him, staggered anew. Gwern had spoken in the Ancient Tongue, which Trevyn had
never heard him use before or expected to hear from him. He hazily sensed that Gwern could not have
said "Alys" in the language of Isle or any language of men. But he thought more of his earthy companion
than of the goddess. There was no escaping the conclusion now: Gwern moved in the old order. He
should