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

"What is the stuff of magic? Clay, and boughs that bleed, and roots that bind:
Ardent alder brown-tipped, red of hue beneath the bark;
Ruddy kerm the holly-like, the terebinth, the oak-twin;
Mountain rowan quick-beamed, high-flying, horse-taming,
Royal canna arrow-swift, golden ivy spiral-twining,
Birch for birthing, heather, and the white bloom of the bean for breath."
"What tune is that?" Trevyn asked. "Not one of yours, surely."
"Nay, it's an old, old tune I brought with me from Isle." Hal smiled ruefully. "Not a very good one, either."
"No wonder I've never heard it. Bah! Uncle, I'm done."
"Done?" asked Hal quietly.
"Done with striving, done with questioning, done with even trying to understand. There is no place for Wael in this western land, praise be. Let him go. For the time. Though I still fear . . ."

"What?" Hal sat beside him. The children shyly scattered, and Bevan saluted and wandered away between the lustrous tree trunks.
"That I will not remember to return, or wish to, come spring."
"Trust, Trevyn. Trust yourself, or trust the tide. It's all the same."
The Prince sighed shakily, like a child who has just ceased to weep, and rolled onto his stomach and went to sleep in the grass, knowing that Hal would awaken him in time for supper. Hal sat beside him without a sound. And out of Trevyn's mingling dreams formed yet another unicorn, a graceful, deerlike one with azure eyes and a spiraling golden horn. Hal glimpsed an odd curve centered in the eyes, a spindle shape-he could not be certain. The creature gravely bowed its heavy horn to him, then turned and stepped softly away on delicate lapis hooves, away toward the salt-flavored grass by the sea, as Hal looked after.

Chapter Three
Far across that sea, Tokar's treacherous attack on Isle had finally been launched. Four months of peace had passed since Trevyn had left Kantukal; it had taken Wael that long to make his preparations, so much had he been weakened by his defeat. Isle's ordeal would have been much worse if part of Wael's power had not been splintered along with a gilded figurehead. But his most essential power resided in another leaping wolf, the emblem on the parchment that set forth the Wolfs favorite spell. The talisman's potency sustained that spell even from Elwestrand, enabling Wael to run with his minions in the wilds, harrowing Isle with a horror that left folk floundering and helpless. For generations afterward, Islenders were to speak of "the Winter of Shadows," and tell its tales to their children when the mood for fear was on them. The terror began silently, slowly. Later, no one could say exactly when or where. Some thought the first victim must have been the woodcutter who was found one day in the Forest above Nemeton with his throat torn out and coarse gray hairs stuck to his bloodied ax. Others said it was the lad from Celydon who never came back from herding the cows in the farthest meadow. Or the three guards from Whitewater
who started through the Forest on horseback and never finished their journey.. Robbers, folk had concluded at the time, though robbers had not troubled those parts for many years. But then rumors began of shadows, of gray, stalking forms seen amid the Forest trees at the approach of night, glimpsed by the, cottage wife as she stooped for fuel or by the tenant gathering the rabbit from his snare. Fanciful talk, many said, for wolves were not likely to show themselves so boldly early in the season, when food was still plentiful. But when Rafe of Lee heard the reports of wolves, he frowned and arranged for extra patrols of the Forest purlieus.
It was the patrol, Brock Woodsby said, that saved his family and himself. Rafe's men heard the goodwife scream as they rode near the cottage and rushed in to find Brock, torn and bleeding, battling half a dozen gray brutes with the poker. The goodwife, shrieking, flung brands from the fire, and Megan wielded a table plank with a fierce abandon that had kept her thus far untouched. Meg had not screamed; this was the first time since Trevyn's departure that she had found good reason to be violent, and she was rather enjoying herself.
The wolves chose not to face swords. They scattered quickly, bursting through the windows, streaking toward the Forest. The patrollers could not follow; they were busy stamping out the flaming firewood that threatened to burn down the cottage. Moreover, their horses had bolted, and they were obliged to make their way back to barracks on foot. Brock left his family behind barred doors and went along, for doctoring and to speak to his lord.
"It was the lass they wanted," he told Rafe. "Right in at the door they came, and went for her with scarcely a glance at the wife or me. By good chance, Meg had a pot of scalding milk in her hand, and she threw it at them, kettle and all; that blinded them for a bit. But then they went at her again as bad as ever. They weren't starved wretches, my lord; they were as sleek and strong as pit dogs fed for the fight. I don't like it."
"Nor do I, no whit!" Rafe gulped. "Do you think the girl would be safe here at the manor fortress?"

"I'll send her up at once. Thank 'ee." Brock departed, and Rafe went straight to his table to write to Alan.
To my Dear Friend and Golden Protector, Alan, Liege King in Laueroc, Greeting,
t, the missive ran, for Rafe loved a courtly flourish.
I sorely crave your presence and advice in this matter of the wolves, of which my young lord the Prince may have told you. They have become bolder now, even entering in at the cottage door, seeking to rend the maiden Megan, which must be on the Prince's account, whom she holds dear. My mind is at pains to know the meaning of this thing, of which question the Prince could offer no answer. Now others remark it; the land is rife with talk of the daring of the beasts; my men fear them, though they will not say it; and my heart is full of unreasoning distress, though I feel the fool even to write it! Pray commend me to your lady, and pray counsel me in this matter as swiftly as you may see-fit. In love and service, Rafe, from Lee, the second week of December, the twentieth year of reign.
A messenger took this swiftly to Laueroc, to the King. Alan puzzled over it for some time before he heavily climbed the stairs to Lysse's sunlit tower chamber and handed it to her. "Did he say anything to you?" he asked her.
"Trevyn?" She wondered why he would not speak their son's name.
Alan only nodded.
"Nay, he said nothing to me of wolves," Lysse replied. "Rafe seems disconcerted."
"Ay, I must go to him, I suppose. Rafe was always one to shout at a pinprick, but still . . ." Alan eyed his wife, frowning. "You told me we would have hard times. Did you see any trouble of this kind?"
"Nay. And the Sight is lost to me these days; I cannot advise you, my lord." Lysse spoke without self-pity, and kept her eyes on her hands so as not to accuse him, for she knew

quite well that the cause of her loss was that he withheld his love from her. Alan knew it also, and knew she would hot judge him, and found himself irked by her fineness even as he longed to comfort her. The leaden lump that was his heart had no comfort to offer. After standing awhile and finding nothing to say, he turned and left her without a word.
Within the hour he took horse toward Lee and kissed her ceremoniously from the saddle. It was the first kiss she had received from him since his return from Nemeton. She wondered if she would ever see him again; her loss was so great that she could not tell. Still, she noted that the green Elfstone she had given him shone proudly on his chest. And as he turned from her, the rayed emblem at its heart blazed back at her with sudden brilliance. Lysse thankfully accepted this sign for her sustaining, and felt it warm her as she watched her husband ride away.
When Alan came to Lee, Rafe greeted him with fervent relief. There had been more attacks: a peddler dragged from his cart, a young wife torn as she searched for her cow. The wolves struck in the evening hours, and, except in Meg's case, in the open. The patrols saw them often, grinning from twilight shadows, but then darkness and the Forest would swallow them up. Hunts had been organized to no good effect; twice Rafe's men had located wolves, but their horses shied from the attack and their quarry mocked them.
"And Meg has gone off somewhere, confound the girl" Rafe added.
Megan had responded to her father's arrangements on her behalf with silence and a tense whiteness at the tip of her pointed nose. She had obediently gone to pack her things, then slipped out of the cottage and disappeared before her parents knew she was missing. Not for any peril would she be sent to the manor town, where people would stare at her and whisper behind her back! She had not been seen since. It was hard to believe that she would have been so foolhardy as to venture into the Forest, much as she loved it. And yet. . . Still, Alan could not say where the girl might be, and he was far more concerned with the wolves then.
"How many are there, do you think?" he asked.

"I cannot tell. We know there were six at goodman Brock's. My men see them in twos and threes. . . . Travelers say that folk are in fear of them as far north as the Waste. But I hope they may not be many, only roaming far afield. They run tirelessly, as fast as a horse."
"Many or few, they will not be easily come upon," Alan grumbled. "The Forest is large."
"Vast," Rafe agreed quietly, "and few know the inwardness of it as well as you, of the place or its creatures. I have heard there are strange things deep within."
"Haunts, and hot steams, and grottos, and moss-men, and soft voices in the night." Alan eyed Rafe pensively. "All that is wild and wonderful. But no such evil as this."
"Then you know nothing of it?" Rafe was crestfallen.
"Nothing. Not even as much as you. I had heard no news of wolves before I received your letter."
"What! The lad didn't tell you-"