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

he felt desolate, like an aban┬мdoned child. Corruption flourished in Tokar; the rulers were sunk in greed.
Isle had endured such eastern rulers for seven generations, until Hal and Alan had shed their blood to free
her. . . . And now he, a Prince of Isle, had come to the realm of Herne's sorcery and Gwern's goddess, it
seemed. Well, he was freeborn, with a freedom dearly bought, and he would not yield it easily, Trevyn
silently vowed. Not to slavers or to any god or goddess that bore a name.

Throughout the day the slave traders tramped the beaches, prodding Trevyn before them or tugging him
along behind. He gave them as much trouble as he could, dragging and blundering along. Even making
allowances for his weakened state, they soon found it necessary to discipline him with the lash. They felt
no particular desire to put welts on their merchandise, but a balky slave would be no bargain to anyone.
By nightfall, when they had gained nothing for their day of searching except growling stomachs, they were
mighti┬мly tired of Trevyn. They hurried him through the dark, flogging him to his feet when he fell, giving
up finally and half carrying him to the slave pen. Sick as he felt, Trevyn thrashed when he heard the noise
of bolts and bars being undone, nearly struggled free. Cursing, the slavers quieted him with dizzying
blows. They seized him by the arms, cut his bonds, and flung him forward. Trevyn fell through emptiness,
hit the bottom limply, and lay still. Above him he heard the bars slide into place and the bolts clang to. He
turned his face to the dirt, letting despair take him.



From the hushed silence rose a murmur of voices; there were other people in this place. A hand touched
Trevyn, feeling him over blindly. He did not stir.

"Better move aside, lad." It was an old man's voice. "They're liable to send something down on top of
ye."

Trevyn moved, crawling forward, and hands guided him to a stony wall. There he huddled. The night
was filled with voices and noises; he did not heed them. Dimly he sensed bodies pressed close beside
him, as naked as his own. They stank, as did everything in this den, but he did not recoil. The night air
was chill, and his companions, whoever they might be, were warm. Trevyn settled himself on dank earth
and slept.

He awoke the next day to shouts and scramblings. Chunks of bread were falling through the high, barred
trapdoor. Below it, the slaves sprang and shoved for a share. Trevyn blinked, but before he could stir his
stiffened limbs the bread was all taken. He sat up slowly to watch the others eat. An old man approached
him, picking his way carefully over the uneven floor. He stood before Trevyn and spoke with dignity. "I
am old and have small need of this. Eat."

Trevyn took the bread and broke off a mouthful. The rest he gave back. He chewed his morsel very
slowly; it was heavy stuff and sank in lumps to his stomach. When he had finished, the old man still stood
before him, offering the bread. "Eat."

Trevyn shook his head, but the old man did not move. A few paces away, a big slave stirred
dangerously. "If ye'll not eat it yerself, gray beard," he growled; "then give it to one who will." Yet the old
man scarcely glanced at him. Turning his back contemptuously on the other, he squatted beside Trevyn
and poised the bread under his nose.

"Eat!"

Trevyn ate. Bit by slow bit, the bread disappeared. The other slaves watched in silence, but no one