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

"Within," he murmured weakly.
"Come," she chided, "you ate of the fruit, did you not, and still are standing? I knew you when you were a fleck on the outer rim of the Wheel. And now you fall asleep on the doorstep of the Hub."
Her tender scorn reminded him somehow of his mother. Half stung, half comforted, he followed her into the obscurity of the narrow cavern-. He felt his way along the walls as the floor dropped with dizzying steepness under his feet, Ylim threaded her way swiftly before him, seeming not to need a light, through darkness so deep that he could not see even the white sheen of her dress. ? The passageway twisted and burrowed into the heart of the mountain. Then, just as Trevyn thought the depth and darkness would crush him, it took a gentle upward turn and leveled. Trevyn blinked in a whisper of pearly light. He could not find the source or tell the limits of the chamber. Shadows stirred all around him. In a moment his confused eye picked out the figure of a woman who sat on a glimmering curve of crescent throne, encircled by the most delicate, of light: Ylim-nay, Maeve-nay, Megan! He started toward her, then stopped and swallowed at his half-formed tears as the vision flickered away.
"I can only appear to you in forms you understand, or partly understand," said a voice both distant and loving, feminine and fierce. Between the horns of the throne there appeared a blue-eyed cat, then a white swan; a silver harp; a ghostly, graceful ship. Finally there appeared the hazy form of a mandorla, shape of mystic union, floating above the crescent but still within its circular aureole. "Welcome, my well-beloved son," said the*voice of the goddess.
Trevyn stood awed, but rebellion flared in him at that. "Well-beloved son! Then why do I bear scars?" he retorted curtly.
"Suffering is the mark of a Very King. Though you will be something more. ... I demand suffering of those to whom I give my favor. Still, do not blame me for your whip weals. You could have found ways to prevent them, if you had let yourself be less than you are. If you had contented yourself to be a twittering, fluttering thing, such as most men are, instead

of an eagle, you would have been spared much. The choice was yours."
"I was not aware of any choice," stated Trevyn stiffly. But the goddess of many names laughed softly at him.
"There is always a choice. . . . And now you are here. Is this what you have come for? To scold me?"
Trevyn stood strangling on his anger, vexed the more by the goddess's imperturbable good humor. It was as if, in motherly style, she did not consider his wrath worth ruffling herself. With an effort, he kept himself from stamping like a child in response. "I came to ask you about Wael," he said flatly at last. "He is my enemy; is he yours?"
"He has taken my creature, the wolf, that worships me, and turned it into a horror." For the first time Trevyn discerned an edge in the goddess's disembodied voice, and he warmed to her anger. "Wael was born as one of my children; everything is. But he has willfully dishonored me. Ay, he is my enemy. But he is not the worst enemy you face, Alberic."
Trevyn ignored that. He did not want another such lecture as Emrist had given him. "Then tell me, Goddess," he asked more politely, "how am I to defeat him?"
"Where are the dragons of Lyrdion?" she riddled in return. The mandorla twirled like a spindle, shimmering above the throne. Trevyn kept precarious hold of his temper.
"I know of a magical sword that came from Lyrdion."
"But I said nothing of magic or a sword. When you find the dragons of Lyrdion, you will know how to deal with Wael."
Trevyn shook his head at this nonsense. "I will need magic to face him."
"What is magic? The tricks Wael does? There is more magic in a stunted sour-apple tree than in all his sorcery. Be that tree, Prince, root and branch, leaf and flower, and you will know how to deal with Wael. Be whole, and you will know how to deal with Wael. Watch." The mandorla glowed brighter, and Trevyn became aware of its continuation, its beyond, the circles that formed its segments on opposing sides. Silver and gold they shone, softly at first but then with a flaming, spinning glory that stunned him beyond taking note of his surroundings. The sharp-ended curve where they met blazed with unfathomable, unsearchable candescence. Es-

sence of sun and moon were in it, essence of earth and sky. . . .
"Aene," Trevyn whispered, hiding his eyes.
"So, there are some things you recognize readily enough." The mandorla subsided to a dusky shimmer, and Trevyn was once again able to face it. "Still, you will never be able to think of me as something other than female"-the voice changed to deeper, manly tones-"or male."
"Adaoun?" Trevyn murmured confusedly.
"Call me Wael, if you like. He is in me too." Trevyn started badly at that. But then Emrist sat for a moment on the crescent throne, smiling at him in reassurance. Adaoun; his, father; Hal; a figure he did not at first recognize: it was himself, with a wolf curled at his feet. He watched himself lean down to pat it. "And in you," the voice added.
"Wael?" Trevyn protested. "If I knew his true-name, I would banish him off the earth."
"I have already told you his true-name half a dozen times. When you really know your own sooth-name, you will remember his."
The mandorla expanded, engulfed him, disappeared into the darkness on all sides. He knew it still surrounded him. Perhaps it surrounded the world. But all he could see was a simple circle before him, a halo of pale light culminating in the crescent of the throne. On impulse, Trevyn walked over to it, wondering vaguely of what metal or material it was made that it gave off such a pearly glow. He laid a hand on it and felt nothing beneath the hand--only a shock that flung him back and sent him tumbling into oblivion before he thudded against the wall.
He awoke, hours later, to find himself still confronted by the same whispering, muted light. It came from Be van, who sat beside him on the floor, his face sober but not overly concerned.
"That was a bit bold," he remarked, "even for a Prince of Laueroc."
Trevyn sat up, rubbing a lump where his head had apparently hit something. "Have you been here long?"
"In a sense, I am always here." At Trevyn's sharp glance, Bevan smiled. "All right, no more riddles."

"Are you real?" asked Trevyn sourly.
The star-son shrugged. "Feel me, if you like. But what is
'real,' Prince?-All right, all right! Let me lead you out." He
got lithely to his feet and helped Trevyn up with a warm and
glowing hand. '
Bevan walked with him all through the three days' journey down the mountain, though Trevyn made poor company, not talking much, only muttering to himself from time to time. "Am I to return to Isle?" he asked Bevan abruptly at one point.
"That is entirely up to you," the other coolly replied.
"Everything is up to me, and nothing is up to me!" Trevyn shouted. "I don't understand!" Bevan cupped his graceful hands, a peculiarly soothing gesture, and Trevyn subsided.
"It's all very well for you, all this mystery, Star-Son," he added tartly after a while. "The moon is your mother. But I am the son of-of a Sun King and an elf." Trevyn winced; the words rang with the wrong effect, even to his ears. "What does-what does She have to do with me? The one whose name I am not going to mention, lest I fail to utter it with proper respect and have something thrown at my sore head."
Grave Bevan almost had to laugh at his petulance. "You are also a child of the ash-maiden, and of earth," he said, .restraining his mirth. "And all things are in Alys and Aene, and both are one, and both are in you; how can you separate yourself from anything? You are a star-son, as much as I. You are the child of the round-bellied mother whom we call Celonwy, the full moon, who mothers forth all things of earth. You love the maiden Melidwen, who sails her crescent boat across the sky. And Menwy of the Sable Moon-you haven't met her yet, but you will. The sea is her domain."
"I've met the others?" Trevyn asked, startled.
"Of course you've met them. Even if you've never loved a woman, there is still the goddess within."
They made their way down through the shelving, flower-studded pastureland and across the lush meadows beyond to a grove of silver beech where a man sat playing a peculiar stringed instrument to a group of wide-eyed children. A young-looking man, Trevyn thought, though gray streaked

his hair. It occurred to him that Hal could not have touched a scholarly tome since he had been in Elwestrand. The former King of Welas rose to meet them, greeting Be van with a silent touch of the hand.
"What did you find for answers?" he asked Trevyn.
"More questions. Where are the dragons of Lyrdion, and what is the magic of a rowan tree. Bah!" Trevyn flopped down amid the staring children, they who were as beautiful as he, every one of them. Hal strummed his plinset thoughtfully, picked out a jangling tune.