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

astonishment that overcame her hurry. Mud! A gooshy, oozing, undulating pool of mud rilled a hollow of the frost-bound Forest. From the center of the expanse, round brown eyes looked back at her. Only the cow's head showed above the surface. Wisps of steam rose around her.
"Come on, the*n, Molly," Meg called gently.
The cow did not budge.
Meg coaxed, pleaded, extended a bribe of oats. Molly did not even twitch an ear. The day was moving on apace. Meg rolled her eyes heavenward and went in after her.
"What is even more appealing than yer plain, everyday Meg?" she muttered viciously to herself. "Why, a Meg covered with mud, that is what! World, are ye watching?"
As she had hoped, the bottom of the mud hole was solid. She forced her way through the twenty feet of brown pudding that separated Molly from the shore and took her by the halter. Molly would not move. Meg could hardly blame her, for the mud was deliciously warm and the air increasingly cold.
"Come on, Molly, we can't stay here all night!" she cried helplessly, tugging at the cow. Then she jumped, and screamed.
Where before there had been only snow and the dark trunks of trees, now there was a rider on a beautiful silver horse-a young man, blond and very handsome. As Meg's eyes met his of stormy green, she felt an instant of utter abeyance, as if heart and soul had stopped to gaze with her. Then she came back to self with a pang,, feeling how ill-prepared she was to meet him, up to her elbows in mud. Still, she saw no amusement in his face. . . . She could not know that, for his part, he had felt an odd leap of heart on seeing her. He could hardly account for it himself, and irritably shrugged off thought of it.
"I'm sorry I frightened you," he told the girl.
Meg tossed her head at that. She did not consider that she had been frightened, only-well, startled. Perhaps he had been frightened himself.
"Are you all right?" he asked. "Can you get out?"
"Ay, to be sure!" she snapped. "But I'll not leave without this cow."

Trevyn rolled his eyes at her tone. "Humor me," he urged with exaggerated courtesy, "and come out. Please."
She fought her way toward the edge, retracing her steps. It was harder than she had expected. The ooze clung to her skirt as she inched along, panting. Trevyn dismounted and glanced around for a stout stick to offer her. "None strong enough," he muttered.
"Give me a hand," Meg gasped.
She meant that literally. Trevyn had not wanted to touch her. Grimacing, he grasped her by her muddy wrist and hauled her out, splattering himself with chunks of goo. She stood on the verge, breathing hard, rubbing her face and peering at him. "I've never seen anything like it," she declared.
"The mud? I've heard about these holes in the southern Forest. Some are clear water, steaming hot. Too bad your cow couldn't have chosen one of those." He unpinned his cloak as he spoke, evidently steeling himself for action.
"Ye're going to go in after her?"
"I suppose I'm going to have to," he replied ungraciously. "Arundel-" He spoke to the horse in the Old Language.
"What?" asked Meg, straining to understand the peculiar words,. But then she cried out in protest as the young man took off his cloak and sliced into it with his sword. It was a thick wool cloak lined with crimson satin, more beautiful than anything she had ever owned. Trevyn stopped at her cry, looked at her quizzically.
"Is the cloak worth more than your cow?"
"That is not fair!" she answered hotly. "Molly is-is-she's family! I dare say she is not a great worth, but-" Meg fell silent and regarded Trevyn curiously. His tunic was of linen, and his sword was inlaid with gold. It was not that which gave her pause; she had seen finery before. But this youth had a proud air about him, though he had not yet reached his full growth. He was not in her lord's service; she would have noticed him if he were. Perhaps he was some lord's bard or herald, or even a lord's son? "What's yer name?" Meg asked.
Cutting strips from his cloak, he answered her without looking up. "Trevyn."
"Oh," she replied. "Are ye from Laueroc, then? I have

heard that many young men there are named after the Prince."
"I am not named after the Prince," Trevyn stated, quite truthfully. "But ay, I am from Laueroc."
"Are ye in the Kings' service, then? What are ye doing in the Forest?" *
"Will you ask one question at a time!" He smiled at her as he knotted his makeshift rope. "Indeed, I am at the Kings' service, but I am here on my own business. What is your name?"
"Meg."
"Margaret?"
"Nay. Megan."
"Ah." Trevyn slipped off his tunic and folded it as a pad for Arundel's neck. The girl stared at him. She had not thought that a man could be muscular and graceful at the same time. Trevyn laid his sword belt aside, fastened the rope around Arundel's shoulders, took the other end, and started into the pool of mud. Meg aroused herself. "What must I do?" she called after him.
"Help Arundel pull." :
Trevyn reached the cow and looped the rope around her horns. Then he grasped Molly around her heavy shoulders, braced his feet, and started to lift. As he wrestled the cow from her mucky bed, he called to Arundel in that strange tongue Meg had heard him use before. The horse threw his weight against the rope, and Meg tugged with all her might. Molly lurched forward, and Trevyn moved with her, lifting, shoving. Within moments she was out. Meg ran to her, kissing her broad, pink nose and feeling for injuries. Then she turned to Trevyn, who was gingerly putting on his tunic, scowling at the brown blobs on the fine white cloth.
"Thank ye so much."
He smiled sourly, scraping mud, and suddenly she laughed, a sweet, healthy laugh. "Are we not pretty, though!" she cried, so infectiously that he gave in to good humor and grinned at her. But then he buckled on his sword and frowned, glancing around at the trees that stood, black and silent, on every side.

"What's to be done now?" he asked flatly. "Dark is scarcely an hour away."
Meg stopped laughing with a sigh. "I must get home, dark. or no dark. My mother will be frantic with worry even now."
"There's more to think of." Trevyn leaned against a tree, judiciously. "Have you considered how Molly came to be here?"
"I have not had time to consider!" Meg bristled at his tone.
"I've been hours and hours after her. She has never come this
far before." *
"She was chased." Trevyn pointed at the snow all around the margin of the pool. "Wolves. See their tracks?"
"Ay, those prints look fresh," Meg agreed reluctantly, "but why would wolves hunt Molly? It has been a mild autumn, and there are rabbits enough about."
"The wolves have been singing of larger game today," Trevyn said evenly. "Their voices have filled the Forest." Meg looked into his shadowy green eyes and saw foreboding there that she could not understand.
"What're ye saying?" she demanded, half frightened, half angry. "That the beasts are of a mind to attack? There is nothing in the Forest that will harm me."