"Martha Wells - Thorns" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells Martha)

The sky was gray with dawn when I reached the outskirts of the forest. I had followed in Kohler's path
without difficulty, and was satisfied to see his gig standing at the edge of the trees, the young servant
standing at the horse's head. This one had never attacked me, so I contented myself with a simple spell of
sleep (I am, if I do say so myself, extraordinarily good with spells of sleep.). I blew it toward him on the
light morning wind, and he sank to his knees, then slumped to the wet ground. The horse lowered its
head to nose him curiously.

Then I moved forward to stand at the edge of the Great Thorn Forest. The tall oaks were like a great
wall, impenetrable and mysterious, the gaps between them giving entrance to a green cavern of unknown
depth and danger. The smell of damp leaves and decayed secrets hung in the air.

My last hope was that Kohler was not truly of royal blood. But as I pushed past the low branches, I saw
the first growth of thorns had parted for him. They parted for me too, perhaps more willingly since I had
given them life, and I took the path I had not taken in years.

Finally I let the thorns close behind me, and threaded my way through what had been an extensive
pleasure garden in a century gone by. Before me lay fountains buried under small mountains of moss,
marble nymphs and satyrs clothed in tall grass, a sunken lake where gilded boats, empty and derelict,
drifted, a waterfall grotto now dry and the domain of spiders, and overgrown mazes, clotted with heavy
wild roses and brambles. I heard the humming of bees, drowsy in the morning sun, but naught else
stirred.

Vines had conquered the palace even as my spells had, burying it under a green avalanche, allowing only
occasional glimpses of the white stone walls, the delicate turrets and arched galleries. But the suffocating
greenery had been pulled from before one of the great ironbound doors, and it stood open, a dark
passage gaping beyond it.

I caught up my skirts and ran.

The high halls were shadowed, the gem-like panes of the windows darkened by grime and the outer layer
of foliage. Dust thick as flour coated the massive furniture, the tarnished silver and still-warm gold. Spider
webs of astonishing size stretched down from the oaken beams overhead, bracketing the hall like tattered
curtains. Sleeping servants lay in piles of rags, a few courtiers slumped against the walls or stretched on
the flagstones, and one woman, curled on her side in a pool of faded silk.

I could see the signs of his passing; he had stopped to peer and touch, even now.

I sped through dark marble halls, to the great winding pile of the central stair.

My power had waned somewhat with the moon's descent, and when I reached that room, that highest
chamber in the tallest tower, I was badly out of breath. My hair was coming down in gray hanks and I
was glad indeed that I had never bothered with the foolish modern custom of corsets.

The chamber was round with a dozen windows, looking out over the sleeping domain. One was open,
the faded curtains drawn back so light fell on the bed draped with velvet and cloth of gold.

For that moment my eyes were only for her.

She was barely more than a child. In the present day she would have lingered in the nursery, learning