"Springer, Nancy - Book Of The Isle 3 - Sable Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)
babe was born as dark as the unlit lands and grew into a serpent with coils so huge that they forced her to the fringes of her domain.
"One day, as she was walking along the waves, she found her first son's bones lying among the seashells, his skeletal hand clutching the silver harp. Hungry to take him back into herself, she ate a single finger and conceived. She hid the harp in a cave by the sea. And her child was born as fair as the first, and grew rapidly, and killed the serpent when he was grown. Then heart sickness took hold of him. He cried, 'I have slain my brother!' and lay without eating until it looked as if he would die. Then, in despair, his mother went to the sea and fetched the silver harp."
"Don't tell me," Trevyn interrupted. "He went-"
"He set sail, wandering like the evening star that leads in the mother moon." Emrist stirred the fire, prodding old embers into new flame. "There are many such tales. Sometimes the star-son weds his mother, and her love destroys him. Or sometimes he has a dark twin with whom he quarrels. But he always leaves, and only his seed returns.
"Bevan was one who left Isle. He was born of a goddess, Celonwy of the Argent Moon, sister of Menwy, of whom we have spoken, and also of the maiden Melidwen. His father was Byve, once High King in ancient Eburacon, where fountains flowed and golden apples grew. His hands could command any element, bend steel, open locked doors, scale smooth towers. . . . Sometimes they shone with pale fire. People stood in awe of him. He never learned to be entirely at home in the sunlit world. He would roam the night like the chatoyant moon every night, singing across the reaches of the dark; it was said to be good luck if one heard him. The loveliness of his voice has become legend. When Hal sang so beautifully at Caerronan, that was Bevan's legacy in him, that silver voice of mystery and the moon."
Trevyn started. How could Emrist have known of that night at Caerronan? But Emrist, eyes focused on depths of time, seemed not to notice his discomfiture.
"Cuin left his legacy to your father. A warrior by blood, he traced his lineage to the ancient Mothers of Lyrdion. He loved sunlight and sport and the sweep of a good sword. He
knew a fine horse and a fine hawk. And he loved a golden maiden to whom Sevan was betrothed. Still, he followed Bevan into Pel's Pit. ..."
"Why are you telling me this?" Trevyn whispered. The tale dismayed him, though he could hardly say why, and Emrist brooded strangely over the flames.
"I must show you the pattern," Emrist murmured, "if I can."
"What pattern?"
"The one that leads back to Veran, the seed of Bevan, and to Bevan himself and beyond. A pattern of strange binding between two distant islands, and between men. . . . Think, Alberic. Cuin could not follow his comrade across the western sea." An odd catch had taken hold of Emrist's voice.
"You are leaving," Trevyn breathed. He saw the flash of foreboding in Emrist's eyes and scrambled to his feet in alarm. "Emrist, what-"
Emrist rose quietly to face him, placed a light hand on his shoulder. "More likely it is you who will sail away from me. It seems to me that you are needed to round out the pattern, and the larger pattern, the greater tide. An age of ages may come to end and beginning if you fulfill prophecy-Ylim's prophecy-and rid Isle of the magical sword."
"I have always known I must return to Isle someday," said Trevyn shakily. "Bindings of rank on me . . . but I'd hoped to serve you yet a while. I'd follow you to world's end, if that were your pleasure. I wish we could always be together. You are my friend. . . ."''
Emrist met his eyes, unsurprised, accepting. "Who is following whom, Alberic?" he asked whimsically.
"You are he," Trevyn whispered. His throat ached, as if something fluttered in it, caught. "You are the one I have yearned for . . . and now our journey's done." Bewildered, he sank to the ground, hid his face in his cupped hands. He felt Emrist's warm touch follow him. The magician settled beside him.
"Freca, I have been happy traveling with you, happier than I have been since I was a child. I know you have felt it too, good friend-and there was little enough time left to me for happiness, wherever I spent my days. I am truly grateful to
have known you and to be of use to you. Can you understand?"
"Ay." Trevyn forced out the words. "You have foreseen your death. And you have journeyed to your death, and you would not tell me. . . . Why have you told me now?"
"Because I need your promise, Prince."
Emrist's tone had turned calm and faintly challenging. Steadied in spite of himself, Trevyn lifted his head to face him, puzzled. "All right. What?"
"Nay!" Trevyn swayed as if he had himself been struck; swords of fear ran through him.
"You will understand tomorrow. But you must promise me now, if I am to rest tonight."
"Is that all I can do, then?" Trevyn asked bitterly. "Endure, and be a slayer with the sword?"
"Times to come, you shall be worth ten of me. There is sky in you, and also deeps where dragons dwell; bring them to light, and you shall master us all. You shall be Sun King, Moon King, Star-Son, and Son of Earth. . . . But for now you must trust me in this. Promise."
Trevyn only nodded, for unshed tears swelled his throat. Emrist saw him bite his lip to contain them. ,
"Grieve later," he said gently. "I can't be sure even of doom."
"What of Maeve? She knows?"
"She knows I have need to be a man. She is strong." Emrist's face went bleak at the thought of her, and he turned away, toward his blanket. "Let us get some rest."
"Wait," cried Trevyn, clutching at hope. "We could go now, take him in his sleep-"
"With the city closed and the castle guard doubled? Nay, it must be in the morning. Courage, Prince." But Emrist faced toward the dark, not meeting his comrade's eyes. Trevyn
longed to go to him and embrace him, but he could not bear to weep, or to make Emrist weep, just then. Instead, he spoke numbly.
"Let me prepare you a draught."
"Nay. I must not be slow-witted in the morning."
"Then let me rub your legs to ease you."
Emrist lay on his makeshift bed, still hiding his face, his whole body tense and aching. Trevyn rubbed until the knotted muscles relaxed, until .Emrist lay quiet arid deeply breathing under his hands, shoulders sagging into sleep. Then he covered him with his ragged blanket and sat beside him with all that they had said turning and turning in his mind. His father. . . . He could not have let Emrist face Wael if it were not for Alan's sake. A heart's love, newly found, to be as quickly lost. . . . Suddenly, like a stab, Meg entered his whirling thoughts. Trevyn knew that her sunny bantering would have lifted the leaden weight from his heart, but the memory afforded him no comfort-he had cut himself off from her. Anguish struck him. He longed for Meg more passionately than he had ever wanted anything, far more than he yearned for life itself. Pain twisted his face and bowed his head. By his own doing she was lost to him, even if he survived the morrow.
Chapter Six
"Did you hot sleep at all?" Emrist asked in the morning. "I'll sleep tonight," Trevyn answered. "Perhaps." They could not eat. They took their horse and went. The city gates were just opening when they reached them, and they entered Kantukal amid a throng of farmers bringing their wares to the morning market. The towers of Rheged's court rose above the shops and temples, so they found it easily. They paused at a distance and looked in through the iron bars of the gate. Slaves scurried about the courtyard tending to early morning chores. Burly guards watched, lounging. Emrist squared his narrow shoulders, straightened his spine, and sent his nag forward at a fast walk, with Trevyn trotting at his side.
"Who goes?" inquired the gatekeeper lazily. "Sol of Jabul, on the, king's business. Open up." "Come back after midday." The fellow began to turn away, but he was seized by Emrist's glance, held motionless like a pinned insect. Emrist's eyes flashed like jewel stones in a face turned diamond hard.
"Open up," he ordered softly, "or I will skewer your head for a present to your king, and he will thank me. . . ."
Emrist's hand went to the sword he wore and slid it in the scabbard. He had no need to show that he did not know how to use it. At the sword sound, the gatekeeper jumped to let them enter. They passed in without a word or a glance. Emrist urged his horse across the courtyard and flung himself down from him as Trevyn tethered him. Then he strode off headlong, with Trevyn trotting after. But once within doors he stopped, and Trevyn came up to him.
"Well done, my lord!" Trevyn whispered, with mischief
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