"Springer, Nancy - Book Of The Isle 3 - Sable Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

Trevyn nodded his willingness, then pointed inquiringly. Emrist laughed.
"Of course, you do not know the way! Or you would have

taken me yesterday, hah?" Trevyn grinned and nodded. "Well, it's not hard," Emrist continued. "We just follow the road. It turns to a track, then to a trail, then at last to a little path through the forest, and it ends at the house, in the clearing atop the hill. My sister will welcome us. She must be frightened by now, though she is a strong-hearted woman. There are no neighbors to comfort her. Even the robbers do not come near the haunt-" Emrist stopped short. He had spoken with dreamy happiness about his sister and his home, but now he believed that he had said too much. He stared at Trevyn in open terror.
"I beg you, do not leave me," he whispered.
Trevyn shook his head and laid a hand on his master's arm in assurance. He filled their flask at a nearby stream, and he cut Emrist a staff to lean on. Trevyn still wore his looted cloak, and he belted his captured sword to his waist, but the rest of the robbers' gear they left behind. Trevyn helped Emrist pick his way back to the road and strode beside him restively as he slowly moved away from the scene of carnage. They could not leave this place soon enough to suit him. After a while they had put it well behind them, and Trevyn's impatience quieted. But Emrist's pace grew slower yet, and soon Trevyn had to support him with a hand under his elbow. It was not yet midday when Emrist began to topple. Trevyn caught him easily and did what he had expected to have to do before then: rolled his cloak as a pillow for Emrist's head and slung the man upon his back.
Even carrying his master, Trevyn could now move far more quickly. He strode along, sharpening all his senses for any sign of danger. That his new master lived in a haunted place had been the best of good news to him. No evil would trouble him there. Only people versed in the mysteries of the Beginning could brave the haunt, and only those of good heart. But what sort of man, then, must this Emrist be that he lived among the shades?
At long last he felt the heaviness of Otherness around him and passed through the haunt to a feeling of warm welcome, even a sense of coming home. Everything was just as Emrist had said. The track had long "since dwindled to a trail, and now a mere path wound up a steep hill amid tall, silent trees.

Trevyn followed it until he saw light ahead and the gables of a building. Bent under Emrist's weight, he entered the clearing. An old man looked up from his gardening, stared, and scuttled inside. A moment later a dark-clad woman came running out.
"What has happened? Oh, Em!" she was crying, but as Trevyn only stared at her she took control. "This way," she gestured, and he followed her inside, up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, she indicated a room furnished only with a table, a cot, and a sturdy wooden chest. Trevyn laid Emrist on the shabby bed and gently turned the man's limp head to show the bruise. The woman nodded. "I shall care for him."
In the doorway stood the old man and an equally ancient woman, both shaky and gaping. Their mistress spoke to them firmly. "Dorcas, pray find our friend something to eat. Jare, prepare a room for our guest. I shall see you later." She almost shooed them all from the room. As Trevyn turned to leave, he saw Emrist's sister reach to unlock the wooden chest at the bedside.
In the kitchen old Dorcas set about heating Trevyn some dinner. She was obviously frightened of him, so he kept away from her, sitting still and looking about him. The house was simply but strongly built of stone and timbers, with a low roof and small windows-not a rich man's home, by any means. Emrist's bed had been hard enough, his chamber bare of comforts, and Trevyn saw nothing,, downstairs either that betokened ease. No rugs or draperies softened the floor or walls. Instead, traces of mice lay about, and cobwebs covered the windows and rafters. On the table sat some greens and a few onions. Little food for much labor, especially for the old ones. Trevyn could understand why the cleaning was neglected. And Emrist was sickly, it seemed. . . . But had he come all this way, then, just to serve such as these?
The old woman brought him a bowl of thick bean soup, setting it hastily before him and backing away as if wary of his reaction. But Trevyn was eager enough to eat it, and Dorcas watched him with less alarm; a hungry man was something she could deal with. Presently her husband, old Jare, came downstairs with a bundle of clothing, offering it to Trevyn as hesitantly as his wife had offered the soup. Trevyn took a

tunic and tried to slip it over his head, but it was too small and threatened to tear. Smiling, he shook his head and handed it back. The old man retreated back up the stairs. His wife busied herself banging pots in the scullery. Suddenly, achingly, Trevyn felt the limitations of his muteness. These two would welcome no help from him for a while yet. He wandered to where a rude bench stood against the wall and draped himself over it, only for a moment, to rest. . . .
Hours later, Trevyn awoke with a start to a gentle touch. Dark had fallen, and nickering oil lamps cast a dim light. Over him stood Emrist's dark-haired sister, rendered mysterious by the night. "He wishes to speak with you," she said, and Trevyn rose swiftly to follow her.
Emrist sat propped up by pillows, with flasks and tumblers on the table near his bed. He looked much stronger, though pale. Trevyn knelt at his bedside, so that their eyes met.
"I never expected to see you here," Emrist said in tones low with wonder. "I thought perhaps you would bring me as far as the-barrier-and then drop me and bolt. If chance had favored, Maeve here might have found me. For that I would have owed you thanks enough. But this-it stuns me."
Trevyn gestured deprecation. Emrist regarded him long and thoughtfully.
"Surely you have a name, but I do not know it," he said. "I will call you Freca, if I may, for you are a brave youth."
Keen interest sprang up in Tervyn's mind. It was an elwedeyn name-that is to say, in the Old Language. Even as he nodded his consent, Trevyn looked on Emrist with new eyes. Emrist returned his gaze, and puzzlement creased his brown.
"I cannot believe you cannot speak!" he exclaimed. "There is song in your movements and epic in your glance. What are you, Brave One?" Trevyn stiffened in consternation; he had shown too much. But Emrist went on. "It does not matter, you know, that I have bought you. You are no slave. You are a free man. Fill your stomach with us as long as you will, or go where you will." He turned to his sister. "Is it not so, Maeve?"
"Even so," she answered.
Something let go inside Trevyn. Shackles he had not known

were gripping his spirit melted away. He forgot his muteness, but his thankfulness was too great for words; this man had just healed the deepest hurt he had ever known. He seized Emrist's hand and clung to it like a child, felt tears fall. He hid his face in the sheet. Frail fingers touched his hair.
"Ay, they were foul enough to you," Emrist said, and his voice held a sharp edge of wrath. "All because you would not hang your head and play the dog. But you stood like a caged eagle. You were free before I met you, Freca."
"He is spent, Em," said Maeve in her cool woman's voice, "and so are you. Let me show him to his room, and then I will come to fix you a draught."
Trevyn was more dazed than tired, but he followed her willingly. She led him to a room even barer than Emrist's. Still, the bed beckoned with pillows and blankets. Trevyn settled himself swiftly and lay puzzling while his tears of relief dried on his face. What was he to do? He did not know where to go. Surely he had come to this place for some reason other than to leave. . . . There was something special about Emrist. Also, the man needed him; for some secret reason, he needed a mute slave. Well, he would have a mute servant, Trevyn decided, at least for a while. There was the price of his redemption to be considered-much gold from a man who was not rich. He would like to make it up to him somehow. For the time, Trevyn wanted nothing better than to serve this Emrist in whatever way he could.

Chapter Three
For the next several days Trevyn worked feverishly, heaving rocks out of the garden for old Jare, snaring rabbits and quail for Dorcas. After a few days, Maeve gave him a plain tunic of coarse cloth, and knee breeches, and crude sandals of leather and wood. Scarcely finery, but it made him feel the more indebted. Only at mid of day, when the sun beat down, would he cease from his voluntary labors to bathe in a dark, mirrorlike pool that lay in a hollow amidst the towering forest trees.
By the time Emrist got up from his bed, a week after his injury, Trevyn had made his mark on the household. The cobwebs were gone from the rafters. Old Jare whistled tunelessly under his breath. Dorcas set more food on the table, and even the stoical Maeve moved about her tasks humming contentedly. Emrist was still weak; for a few days he came downstairs only to sit and watch. But on a rainy day, seeing Trevyn restlessly rubbing the grime from the small window panes, he spoke to him.
"It seems you will stay with us yet a while, Freca." Trevyn was almost startled into speech, but he merely shrugged his shoulders.

"You are a very beaver for industry," remarked Emrist. "It is not necessary, you know. We won't turn you out."
Trevyn only grinned at him. Emrist sighed.
"Well, since you have decided to be of use, come help me today. It's time I was getting back to work."
With considerable curiosity as to what that work might be, Trevyn followed him up the stairs. They entered Emrist's chamber, and Trevyn waited for him to go, perhaps, to the locked chest. But instead Emrist strode to a corner and wrestled a moment with a rough wooden plank of the wall. Reluctantly, a panel slid, and another narrow staircase was revealed.
. Eagerly, Trevyn followed his master up to the dusty garret. The place was 'close and windowless, though some light seeped in through the leaky wallboards. Emrist lit a pungent oil lamp that sent soot streaking toward the already blackened rafters. In its yellowish glow, Trevyn could see great numbers of parchments and leather-bound books ranked on splintery shelving. Fans of dried plants rustled overhead, and all kinds of formless rubble lay on the floor. Under the low peak of the roof stood a worktable cluttered with pots and urns and little jars, a brazier, and some metal caldrons. Trevyn recognized a scholarly disorder similar to Hal's, but somehow warmer and more secret. Emrist poked at some of his earthenware jugs.
"Potions for my interminable illnesses," he grumbled, "old now, and weak. And dried-up paints and dyes, and spoiled perfumes, and messes I have forgotten the meaning of." He rumaged through the containers, picking out a score or more and heaping them in Trevyn's arms. "Take them out among the trees and let the rain have them. Wash the jars and bring them back. But do not put your fingers to your mouth, hah?"
For many weeks thereafter Trevyn worked with Emrist in the cramped garret. Sometimes he ground minerals or dried plants in the mortar, taxing work that Emrist was glad to leave to him. Emrist was too easily tired to go roaming in the woods, so Trevyn would search out the plants he needed. Trevyn often wondered what to think of his master, who seemed to have knowledge of every kind of magical lore. Day after day the frail man compounded potions with long labor

and greatest care. But no one came to buy his charms from him, not in this haunt, and Trevyn had found none of the strange trappings of sorcery among his things such as Hal had described from his days in Nemeton. No censers and ceremonial robes, no black-handled swords or talismans of bright metal. In fact, Trevyn doubted if high magic could be performed in the littered garret, which Emrist refused to let him clean. Spirits of ancient might would only come to surroundings suitable to their greatness.
Still, Trevyn wondered. Sometimes the two of them made candles in many subtle colors, delicately-scented tapers molded from the rare and precious beeswax no ordinary person could afford. He found traces of chalk on the floor sometimes, in strange star and circle designs. And always on the worktable a kettle of salt stood-big, stone-white crystals. Salt could never be used in any evil spell and was essential to any good one.
In time Trevyn became convinced that Emrist was not merely a dabbler in hidden lore but a master working cautiously toward some definite goal. One day, when supper was late because of a balky kitchen fire, Trevyn observed Emrist surreptitiously prodding the sodden wood into flame with a mere flick of his fingertips. Another time, Trevyn awoke in the dark of night to see his master padding down the corridor with only his raised forefinger, glowing eerily, for a light. After that, seeming to intuit that Trevyn knew his secret, Emrist showed his power more openly. He would set a streamer of nonconsuming fire in midair to read by or send objects scooting across the garret into his servant's startled hands. He could bring forth miniature whirlwinds out of stagnant air and showers, of rain from clouds of arid smoke. He could make rocks split, make dirt heave and roil like bubbling broth. These were his simpler magics; to command any of them, he spoke no word, but only gestured with his graceful hands. Trevyn felt sure that Emrist was not practicing, that he did not need practice, such was the ease of his power. He had observed his master eyeing him in the light of strange, leaping flames, and he felt that Emrist must be testing his fortitude for the next step toward the hidden goal.
Apparently, Emrist was satisfied. One day he began to

summon the spirits of the elements, speaking to them in words of the Elder Tongue. Trevyn felt the ancient call and power of that language go through him like a tide of fire; all his heart must have leaped to his eyes. Emrist froze in midspell, staring at him. "Selte a ir," he whispered, still in the same tongue. "Speak to me."