"Charles De Lint - A Pattern of Silver Strings" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

now. First he made a pendant, shaped like an oak leaf, and that she wore under her tunic, close to her
heart. Then a comb, fine-toothed and decorated with acorn shapes, and that she wore in her hair to keep
the unruly locks under control. Lastly a flute that she kept in a sheath hanging from her shoulder. Oak
was not the best of woods for such an instrument, but his harpmagic had instilled in it a tone and timbre
that the natural wood lacked.

"He built us a new home of sod and stone and thatch and there we lived as we had before. Until this
morning…"

"When you awoke and found him gone," Bethowen finished for her. "But he journeys often, doesn't he,
this husband of yours?

Roadfaring and worldwalking from time to time. I have heard tales…"

"And well you might. But you don't understand. He left without a word. I woke and he was gone. Gone."
She tugged at the edge of her cloak with unhappy fingers and looked up to meet the hill-wife's bright
eyes. "He left Telynros behind."

"Telynros?"

"His harp. The roseharp."

Telynros was a Tuathan gift, an enchanted instrument that plainly bore the touch of the old gods'
workmanship. Silver-stringed and strangely carved, it had, growing from the wood where forepillar met
the curving neck, a living blossom. A grey rose.

"Please," Meran said, "tell me where he has gone."

Bethowen nodded. "I can try, my dear. I can only try."

From the unrolled cloth that lay at her knee, she chose a pinch of flaked alder bark and tossed it into the
flames with a soft-spoken word. The fire's hue changed from red-gold to blue. Muttering under her
breath, she added a second pinch and the blue dissolved into violet.

"Look into the flames," she said. "Look and tell me what you see."

"Only flames. No, I see…"

An oak tree strained at its roots, green-leafed boughs reaching for… something. There was a sense of
loss about that tree, an incompleteness that reflected in the pattern of its boughs. Under the spread of its
leafed canopy, half covered in autumn leaves, stood a harp.

"My tree," Meran whispered. "But it's…" She shook her head. "My tree standing in my father's wood as
ever it did. And that is Telynros, his harp. Bethowen?"

"It is the present you see," the hillwife replied. "But a view of it that we already know, not what you
seek."

Sighing, Bethowen closed her eyes. Deep inside, where the herenow curled around her thoughts, she
drew on the heart of her strength. Her taw, the inner silence that is the basis for all magic, rose sure and