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

"Veran came from Elwestrand, did he not?" Trevyn spoke up suddenly.

"Who is Veran?" Gwern pounced on the name.

Hal turned to answer with patience Trevyn could not understand. "He from whom I derive my lineage
and my crown, the first Blessed King of Welas. He sailed hither out of



the west; perhaps he came from Elwestrand." Hal looked away again. "But when I go, I will not return."
"Elwestrand," Gwern sang in a rich, husky voice.

"Elwestrand! Elwestrand! Be you realm but of my mind, Yet you've lived ten thousand lines Of soaring
song,

Elwestrand. Is the soul more sooth Than that for which it pines? Are there ties that closer bind Than call
so strong?"

Hal wheeled on him sharply. "How did you know that song?" he demanded. "I made it, years ago."

"Elwestrand," Gwern chanted, and without answering he darted out of the door and skipped down the
tower steps, still singing. Hal silently watched him go. Trevyn watched also, hot with jealous anger. For
he, too, had felt the dream and the call, and it seemed to him as if Gwern had stolen it from him.

"Why do you abide him so tamely?" he burst out at Hal, startled by his own daring. "He isтАФhe is
uncouth!"

Hal shifted his gaze to his nephew, and as always that detached, appraising look made Trevyn shrink,
inwardly cursing. Hal threatened nothing, but he saw everything, and Trevyn had dark places inside that
he wanted to hide. . . . Hal frowned faintly, then turned his eyes away from the Prince to answer his
question, seeming to see the answer in the air.

"He is magical," Hal said. "He is like a late shoot of those who were lost to Isle centuries ago when the
star-son Bevan led his people out of the hollow hills. Magic left Isle then, and I believe nothing has been
quite right sinceтАФthough I have sometimes thought that Veran brought some back to WelasтАФ and your
mother's people, in their own clearheaded wayтАФ"

"Magic!" Trevyn blurted, astonished to hear longing in Hal's voice. He knew how his uncle had always
avoided the touch of magic. The Easterners had made magic the horror of Isle. At Nemeton their
sorcerers had performed barbaric



sacrifice to the Sacred Son and the horned god from whom they drew their powers. Hal had been
reared in the shadow of that cult, and he and Alan had worked for years to stamp out such black
sorcery.

"I know I have taught you not to meddle with magic." Hal sat by his nephew. "It is perilous. But all fair
things are perilous. Dragons breathe fire, and the horn of the unicorn is sharp. Even this Gwern might be
perilous, in his own rude way." The Sunset King smiled dreamily. "But it must bode well, I think, that he