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

"They don't, as a rule," he muttered. "Are you all right, Meg?"
"To be sure, I'm fine!" She smiled tightly. "They didn't want me, those wolves."
He glanced up at her, wincing. "Is that what made you guess?"
"Everything. Yer outlandish talk, yer lovely horse, yer lovely self . . ." She teased him, not being willing to say that she had seen his eyes blaze like green fire. But he did not seem able to smile.
"You saved my life," he mumbled. "Meg, I'm sorry. . . ."
"What?" she protested. "Ye'd rather be dead?"
"Nay, nay!" He had to laugh at her, though the movement brought tears of pain to his eyes. "Sorry I didn't tell you more truth. . . . It's hard."
"I can imagine," she said wryly.

The wolves still sang, sending echoes scudding like shadows between the trees. Trevyn could not talk anymore. He sat by the fire till dawn, shivering in spite of the warmth of the flames, and Meg kept him silent company. The wolves made the whole Forest wail, but they did not return.
At daybreak, Meg and Trevyn quitted their comfortless campsite. The girl lived just beyond the Forest's edge, near Lee. They headed that way, both on Arundel, with Molly trailing along behind. Trevyn felt tense, almost too shaky to ride. He wished that they could speed out of the Forest, but they had to travel slowly because of the cow. He found himself jerking to attention at every sound or stir. But before midday he smiled and sighed with relief. A search party thundered toward them, a dozen grim, armed men, headed by Rafe, the fiery lord of Lee. The troop hurtled up to them and pulled to a jarring halt. Rafe grabbed at Trevyn and missed. He nearly fell from his horse in his excitement.
"Trevyn! Are you all right?" he shouted, and gave the youth no chance to answer. "By thunder, is that Meg?" He peered at the grimy girl. "Your father's been bellowing for you since yesterday, lass. Trev, you young rascal, what have you been up to? Rescuing fair maidens?"
Meg snorted; she had never felt less fair. Trevyn scarcely heard. "Wolves," he muttered, and felt horror ripple through him, the horror of a nightmare not his own, the horror of a shadow not understood. Wolf and stag were both in Aene, he had been taught, like hawk and hare, water and fire, and all of these part of the old order that only man sometimes leaves-so how could the wolves turn against him? They had attacked him like brigands. . . . Pale and sweating, he closed his eyes, laid his head on Arundel's neck. He felt Meg's thin arms around his shoulders, trying to steady him, but he knew he would slip away. . . . He heard a cry from Rafe, then nothing more.
He awoke hours later to find himself tucked into a monstrous sickbed. At Rate's stronghold, he knew, because he saw that same lord seated beside him. "Have you nothing better to do?" he mumbled.
Rafe smiled. "How do you feel?"
Burns stung him, seemingly to the bone, even before he

moved. He hoisted himself painfully. "Confounded. Not long ago I hated snow. Now I could go out and roll in the stuff. I take it you've cauterized the wounds."
"Ay, we've had to brand you, lad." Rafe pulled back the sheet, reached into a bucket at his feet, and piled mounds of snow on Trevyn's legs and shoulders. "You've slept for five hours or so. Could you manage more?"
"Hardly!" Trevyn supported himself gingerly on one elbow. "I don't remember much. Did I make a fool of myself?"
"Nay, indeed! You were in a dead faint-lay like a felled tree. By my troth, I don't think I could have done it otherwise."
Startled, Trevyn glanced up to see tears sliding silently down Rafe's rugged face. He reached out to touch the older man's hand.
"Rafe, you must be spent. Get some rest. I don't need a nursemaid."
"I'm sorry, Trev," said Rafe wretchedly. "But how am I to feel? Meg told us about those wolves, and they must have been mad, rabid. What if-" Rafe gulped to a stop.
"They were not rabid."
"If you die," Rafe blurted, "it will mean more than the loss of one that I love."
"They were not rabid. You are worrying for nothing, Rafe. I am not likely to die from a few bites." Trevyn felt the touch of a shadow and lay back wearily. Still, he spoke with assurance. Rafe studied him, mindful of the visionary powers of the Lauerocs.
"You are not just saying that. You are quite certain."
"Of course." But Trevyn did not tell Rafe why he knew he would take no harm from his wounds. The big wolf, it seemed, had plans that they should meet again. Unpleasant as the thought was, it afforded some solace. Luck, in the form of Meg, had seen him through the first encounter. And the next tune he would somehow be better prepared.

Chapter Four
A few days later, as soon as he felt well enough, Trevyn rode out to see Meg.
The cottage stood at the Forest's fringe. The goodman, Brock Woodsby, Meg's father, took his name from that fact. Working in the yard, he was the first to see the visitor approach, and he stumped over to the rickety gate to meet him. Watching from within the cottage, Meg put her hands to her mouth in consternation. She could not hear her father's words, but she recognized the stubborn set of his back.
"Who might it be?" Brock gruffly addressed his visitor.
Perhaps the man was a trifle dense, Trevyn thought. He introduced himself by name and title, still sitting on his horse, waiting for the gate to open. But Brock Woodsby did not move.
"I thought as much," he stated. "I thank ye for the sake of the lass, Prince. She says she'd have been lost without ye. But ye're mistaken to come gallanting hereabouts. Ye'll be the ruin of the girl. Already folk are saying ye've had yer way with her. I think not, if I know my lass, but that's the talk. And what else might ye want with her indeed?"
What indeed? But Trevyn was too young to be amused or

intrigued by the aptness of Brock's question. He bristled and fixed the goodman with an icy green glare. "What, are you denying me admittance, then?" he demanded.
"Mothers defend us!" Meg whispered. The small cry brought her own mother to her side. Glancing out the window, the goodwife fluttered like a partridge. The youth outside the gate wore a bright sword, and he looked tempted to use it on her husband.
"I deny hospitality to no one," Brock replied stiffly. "I only ask you to think. Think of the girl." As he spoke, the maiden in question came out of the cottage and approached him, walking serenely. He rounded on her. "Get back in the house!"
"What? Stay out of the Forest, ye tell me, and is it stay out of the yard now? Ye'll be keeping me in the chimney corner next." Meg faced her father sunnily, and Trevyn grinned at her, all his chagrin suddenly forgotten. He slipped down from Arundel and opened the gate for himself, though a moment before he had been determined to make Brock do it. The .quarrel no longer seemed worth pursuing.
"Rafe's not allowing me in the Forest, either," he remarked to Meg. "Small fear I shall disobey him in that regard."
"Nay?" she said slowly. She missed the Forest; she missed the foxes that would come and follow by her feet, the wild doves that would light on her shoulders. She felt hurt by her Forest, betrayed, that any of its creatures could turn against her as the wolves had done. But she could not explain this, and especially not to Trevyn. She didn't want him to think her queer, as so many others did.
Her mother saved her from further response. The goodwife came bustling out, having settled her hair and flung on a shawl. "Come in, young master, have some fresh, hot scones!" she beseeched Trevyn. She did not take it the least bit amiss that Meg had found a prince in the Forest. And Brock, having had his say and been ignored, led his guest to the cottage with dour courtesy.
The scones were very good. Trevyn sampled them that day and many a day to come. He stayed a month at Lee, riding out nearly every day to see Megan. His motive was only

partly to gall Brock Woodsby. He would greet the goodman distantly, but he always met the girl with honest delight. Meg chatted with him like a longtime friend, and she was full of questions.
"What's yer name mean, Trevyn?"
"Beloved trailer, or some such." The youth gestured impatiently. "It's just a baby name. I shall have a sooth-name someday."