"Paul Thompson - [Elven Nations Trilogy 1] - Firstborn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Paul B)

see the pines and the mighty oaks reaching up, connecting soil to sky. It
was a view of the land few were ever granted.
He had dropped many thousands of feet, and only a few hundred
remained. The wind tore at his eyes, bringing tears. He blinked them
away. Arcuballis flexed its folded wings nervously, and a low growl
sounded in its throat. They were very low. The rider could see individual
branches in the trees, see birds fleeing from the griffon's rapidly growing
shadow.
"Nowl" The rider hauled back sharply on the reins. The broad wings
opened slowly. The beast's hindquarters dropped as its head rose. The
rider felt himself slide backward, bumping against the rear lip of the tall
saddle. The griffon soared up in a high arc, wings flailing. He let the reins
out, and the beast leveled off . He whistled a command, and the griffon
held its wings out motionless. They started down again in a steep glide.
The lower air was rough, full of eddies and currents, and the griffon
bobbed and pitched. The rider threw back his head and laughed.
They skimmed over the trees. Abruptly the woods gave way to
orderly rows of trees, orchards of cherry, plum, and fima nuts. Elves
working in the orchards saw only a large object hurtle over their heads,
and they panicked. Many tumbled down ladders, spilling baskets of fruit.
The rider put a brass horn to his lips, sounding a shrill note. The griffon
added its own eerie call, a deep, trilling growl that was also part lion, part
eagle.
The rider urged the beast up. The wings beat lazily, gaining a few
dozen feet of height. They banked right, swooping over the slow-flowing
waters of the Thon-Thalas. There were many watercraft plying the
riverтАУflat log rafts poled by sturdy, sunbrowned elves, piled high with
pots and cloth to be traded in the wild south; the slender dugouts of the
fishers, the bottoms of which were silvered with the morning's catch. The
griffon swept over them in a flurry of wings. The rafters and fishers
looked up idly from their work. As travelers up and down the great
waterway, they were not easily impressed, not even by the sight of a
royal griffon in flight.
On they flew, across the river toFallanIsland. The rider wove his
flying steed among the many white towers so skillfully that the griffon
never once scraped a wingtip. Their shadow chased them down the
streets.
The rider approached the center point of the city, and the center
point of every elf's life and loyalty, the Tower of the Stars. At six
hundred feet, it was the tallest spire in Silvanost and the seat of power of
the Speaker of the Stars.
He steered the griffon in a quick circle around the white marble
tower. The horn was at his lips again, and he blew a rude, flat warning. It
was a lark, a bit of aerial fun, but halfway around the tower the rider
spied a lone figure on the high balcony, looking out over the city. He
reined back and sideslipped Arcuballis toward the tower. The
white-haired, white-robed figure was no one less than Sithel, Speaker of
the Stars.
Startled, the rider clumsily turned the griffon away. His eyes met
those of the elven monarch for a moment, then Sithel turned and