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

edging at the awe in his eyes. ;
Emrist grimaced. But before he could speak, Trevyn's eyes narrowed in warning. A guard was studying them from the shadows at the far end of the corridor.
Emrist tightened his lips. Then, as suddenly as lightning, he smote Trevyn across the face with the back of his hand. For love of him, Trevyn did what the whips of the slavers had never made him do: yelped and flinched from the blow.
"Churl!" Emrist grated. "You shall bow when you speak to me, sirrah!" He beckoned imperiously and strode off again with Trevyn at his heels. The guard let them pass without comment.
"Again, well done, my lord!" Trevyn whispered when they came to a large open hall.
"I am sorry," Emrist murmured.
"No need; I've taken worse in sport. Which way?"
Emrist shrugged in vexation. "I can't tell. The Sight doesn't work that way; it's not a map! Just keep moving. . . . You tied the horse?"
"Only loosely. He can free himself with a jerk and go where he will. But he will wait for us yet a while."
They moved through the labyrinth of the palace purposefully but at random. The council halls stood empty, for the court officials were still in their rooms. Slaves sped by with breakfast trays, taking n" notice of the strangers. Presently Emrist and Trevyn reached a rear courtyard serving the kitchen and slave quarters. They stopped, for they could not expect to find Wael there.
"We must go back," Trevyn said, "and try to find some stairs. I should think a sorcerer would be lodged in one of the towers; that is customary, is it not?"

Emrist had no chance to answer. From behind them came a startled exclamation and a clatter of pottery. Trevyn whirled. An old man sat with scrub rag in hand, his mouth agape and suds dripping unheeded down his arm. Trevyn went to him swiftly and knelt beside him.
"Peace, Grandfather," he warned softly, "for my life's sake."
"What is it, Freca?" Emrist came up beside them.
"He was a slave with me in the pit and in the string where you found me, and he was a good friend to me."
"All that flogging," the old man gasped, "and ye never spoke or squeaked-" '
Trevyn pulled a wry face at the memory. "Ay, for I am a king's son, Grandfather. I could not let them master me."
"Ye're the one they seek!" the old man breathed.
"Ay, and come to beard Wael for it, if we can. Where is he to be found?"
"In the tower, as ye said. The farthest one. But ye're mad
to face him. He is terrible!" The old man spoke with
trembling earnestness. :
"I have no choice," Trevyn told him quietly. "You'll not betray us?"
He wordlessly shook his head.
"Freca," asked Emrist worriedly, "can we trust him?"
"Ay, I think so. Anyway, what else can we do? Do you have a way to silence him?"
"I'll quiet yer fears yet a while," said the old man with dignity, rising stiffly to his feet. "I'll come with ye, to show ye the way."
"You're likely to get a drubbing, if you're missed," Emrist said.
He shrugged. "I am an old man and thick of hide; I do not mind."
"Then, many thanks. And let us go quickly."
The old slave took them up the back stairs that the servants used. They met no guards. They climbed up flight after spiraling flight, till Trevyn lost count. Their guide stopped at last at a landing leading to a corridor.
"He's within," he murmured. "I can feel it. The first door. I'll go no farther."

"Get yourself to safety," Trevyn told him. "A thousand thanks for your help."
"May yer gods defend you," the old man breathed, and hurriedly stumped down and away. Emrist and Trevyn looked at each other.
"Rest a moment, gather your strength," Trevyn whispered. He reached for the sword that hung at Emrist's side, drew it silently from its scabbard. The two steadied themselves for the count of a hundred. Then they wordlessly touched hands and walked to the fateful door. Emrist reached out, and it swung open beneath his fingertips. They entered Wael's chamber.
The room, in the properest tradition of the sorcerer's tower, surrounded and confounded them and hemmed them in with shadows and shadowy apparatus. Amid all the confusion, Trevyn's glance picked out one thing at once: the gilded form of a wooden figurehead, a wolf leaping with bared teeth of pearl. The shaggy object beside it, however, he was slower to recognize. He blinked as the grayish form turned and rose to a meager height to face them. A bent old man stood before him; yellow eyes stared at him out of a face covered with bristly gray beard. Trevyn had seen those eyes before.
"Greetings, Wael." Emrist spoke sedately.
"Little Emrist the Magician!" Wael made the name into a yelp of triumph. "Well met! And you also, Prince of Isle." His voice turned crooning. "How fortunate for you that you have come to me at last! I can make you the most powerful of Kings, King of Sun and Moon, if you let me."
Trevyn felt his heart jump at the echo of Emrist's words. But he took a tighter grip on his sword. "Is that how Rheged comes to be under your thumb? A promise of power?"
"Rheged!" Wael let out a single harsh bark of laughter. "Rheged is leaden of nature. Nay, worse than leaden; he is dross, and you could be pure gold. What, Prince, have you not yet learned the first quality of magic? I should think even Emrist might have taught you that." Wael shuffled closer, hunched and glaring with what was meant to be sincerity. "It is power, the power of perfection. Just as sorcery can raise the nature of metals, it can raise the nature of men, firing

away what is base, freeing the rest to fly like the eagles, lending power like a god's. You are young and beautiful, and you could be anything your power and vision can encompass." Wael had crept to within three feet of Trevyn's staring face. "Think of it, Prince of Isle."
"He knows you well," Emrist remarked.
"Too well for honesty. He has been spying on my dreams. Picking at my thoughts with his soiled hands-" Trevyn slowly swung his sword up until it rested against Wael's gray-robed chest. "Your words sound fair, old man, but your face is the color of vomit. Get away."
Wael sprang back with surprising agility, his face ugly with rage. He abandoned his caressing tone. "That was discourtesy," he snapped, "and I will punish it as I am accustomed to punish those who cross me." A clawlike hand left his sleeve with serpent speed, and power snapped across the room. The sword fell to pieces, clattering to the floor. Pain shot up Trevyn's arm; he dropped the hilt with a gasp. "Thus," Wael added. "You see?"
Trevyn did not glance at the useless weapon. "You have a brooch of mine," he said flatly. "This causes me some discomfort. We have come to get it back."
"Indeed?" Wael mocked. "I am the master here." He fixed his jaundiced gaze on Trevyn. "I am the master here," he whispered in dreamy, hypnotic cadence. "Come to me, Trevyn of Laueroc."
Trevyn matched his stare and did not move.