"Kerr, Katharine - Deverry 02 - Darkspell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

He opened it and shook a ring out into his hand. Although it was made of dwarven silver, and thus still as shiny as the day he’d put it away, it had no dweomer upon it, or at least, none that any sage or dweomerperson had been able to unravel. A silver band, about a third of an inch wide, it was engraved with roses on the outside and a few words in elvish characters but some unknown language on the inside. In the two hundred years he’d had this ring he’d never found a sage who could read it.
The way he’d come by it was equally mysterious. He was a young man, then, just finished with his bardic training and riding with the alar of a woman he particularly fancied. One afternoon a traveller rode up on a fine golden stallion. When Devaberiel and a couple of other men strolled out to greet him, they received quite a surprise. Although from a distance he looked like an ordinary man of the People, with the dark hair and jet-black eyes of someone from the far west, up close it was hard to tell just what he did look like. It seemed that his features changed constantly though subtlely, that at times his mouth was wider, then thinner, that he became shorter, then taller. He dismounted and looked over the welcoming party.
‘I wish to speak with Devaberiel the bard,’ he announced.
‘Then here I am.’
‘Excellent. I have a present for one of your sons, young bard, for sons you’ll have. When each is born, consult with someone who knows the dweomer. They’ll be able to tell which one receives the gift.’
When he handed over the pouch and the ring, his eyes seemed more blue than black.
‘My thanks, good sir, but who are you?’
The stranger merely smiled, then mounted his horse and rode off without another word.
Over the intervening years, Devaberiel had learned nothing more about the ring or its mysterious giver, not from sage nor dweomer-master. When each of his two sons was born, he’d dutifully consulted with the dweomer-folk, but each time the omens had been wrong to pass the gift on. Now, however, he’d gained a third son. Holding the ring, he walked to the door of the tent and looked out. A cold, gray drizzle fell over the camp, and the wind was brisk. He was going to have an uncomfortable journey, but he was determined to find the dweomerwoman who seemed to have the most affinity for the ring. His curiosity was not going to let him rest until he found out if it belonged to young Rhodry ap Devaberiel, who still thought himself a Maelwaedd.
Driven by a bitter-cold wind, the rains slashed down hard in the gray streets of Cerrmor. There was little for Jill and Rhodry to do but hole up like foxes in their inn by the north gate. Since they had enough coin to stay warm and fed all winter, Jill felt as rich and happy as a lord, but Rhodry fell into the black mood that can only be given the untranslatable name of hiraedd, a painful longing for some unobtainable thing. He would sit in the tavern room for hours, slumped down and staring into a tankard of ale while he brooded over his dishonor. Nothing Jill could do or say would rouse him out of it. Eventually, although it ached her heart to do it, she let him have his silence.
At least at night, when they went up to their chamber, she could use kisses and caresses to bring him round. After their lovemaking he would be happy for a while, talking with her as they lay tight in each other’s arms. When he drifted off to sleep, often she would stay awake and look at him as if he were a puzzle to be studied out. Rhodry was a tall man, heavily muscled but built straight from shoulder to hip, with long, sensitive hands that hinted at his elven blood. He had the raven-dark hair and cornflower blue eyes so typical of Eldidd men, but there was nothing typical about his good looks. His features were so perfect that he would have looked girlish if it weren’t for the various small scars and battle-nicks on his face. Since she’d met some of the Elcyion Lacar, Jill knew that they too were as handsome. She would wonder over that trace of elven blood in his clan, which had, or so Nevyn assured her, merely all come out in him, a throwback. Logically, it seemed improbable.
One night her long pondering brought her the answer to the problem. Every now and then, Jill had true dreams, which were actually dweomer-visions beyond the control of her conscious mind. Generally they came, as this one did, when she’d been thinking over a problem for some time. On a night when the rain beat upon the shutters and the wind howled around the inn, she fell asleep in Rhodry’s arms and dreamt of the Elcyion Lacar. It seemed that she flew above the western grasslands on a day when the sun broke through clouds only to vanish again. Far below her in a green sea of grass stood a cluster of elven tents, glowing like many-colored jewels.
Suddenly she stood on the ground among them. Bundled in a red cloak, a tall man strode past her and into a purple and blue tent. On a whim, she followed. The tent was elaborately decorated with woven hangings, embroidered wall bags, and Bardek carpets for floor cloths.
Sitting on a pile of leather cushions was an elven woman, her pale blond hair bound into two long braids that hung behind her ears, which were as long and delicately pointed as seashells. Her visitor pressed his palms together and bowed to her, then doffed the cloak and sat down on the carpet nearby. His hair was as pale as moonlight, and his dark blue eyes were, like all elven eyes, slit vertically with a pupil like a cat’s. Yet Jill thought that he was as handsome as her Rhodry in his alien way and also oddly familiar.
‘Very well, Devaberiel,’ the woman said, and although she spoke in Elvish, Jill could understand her. ‘I’ve been studying my stones, and I have an answer for you.’
‘My thanks, Valandario.’ He leaned closer.
At that point Jill realized that a cloth, embroidered in geometric patterns, lay between them. At various points on the web of triangles and squares lay spherical gems: rubies, yellow beryls, sapphires, emeralds, and amethysts. In the middle of the cloth lay a simple silver ring. Valandario began moving the gems along the various lines, finally bringing one of each color into the center to form a pentagon around the ring.
‘Your son’s Destiny is encircled by this ring,’ she said. ‘But I know not what that Destiny may be, except to say that it lies somewhat in the north and somewhat in the air. Doubtless all will be revealed in due time.’
‘As the gods desire. You have my solemn thanks for this. I’ll see to it that Rhodry gets the ring, then. I might ride to Dun Gwerbyn myself to have a look at this lad of mine.’
‘It would be unwise to tell him the truth.’
‘Of course. I don’t want to meddle with the political successions of all Eldidd. I just want to see him. After all, it’s quite a surprise to learn you’ve got a full-grown son you never even knew existed. Though Lovyan could hardly have sent me word, of course, with her still married to her powerful warleader.’
‘I see your point.’ Valandario suddenly looked up, right at Jill. ‘Here! Who are you, to come spying upon me in the spirit?’
When Jill tried to answer, she found that she couldn’t speak. In exasperation, Valandario threw up one hand and sketched a sigil in the air. All at once Jill found herself awake, sitting up in bed with Rhodry snoring beside her. Since the room was cold, she lay down and hurriedly snuggled under the blankets. That was a true dream, she thought, oh by the Goddess of the Moon, my lover’s half an elf!
For a long while she lay awake, thinking over the dream. Of course Devaberiel would look familiar since he was Rhodry’s father. She was honestly shocked to find out that Lady Lovyan, whom she much admired, had put horns on her husband’s head but then, Devaberiel was an exceptionally handsome man. She had the brief thought of telling Rhodry about the dream, but Valandario’s warning stopped her. Besides, finding out that he was no true Maelwaedd, but a bastard, would only drive Rhodry deeper into his hiraedd. She could barely put up with his fits of it as it was.
And then there was the silver ring. Here was another proof of what Nevyn had told her, that Rhodry’s Wyrd was deep and hidden. She decided that if she ever saw the old man again, she would tell him of the omens. As she was drifting back to sleep, she wondered if her path would ever cross his again. For all that his dweomer frightened her, she was very fond of Nevyn, but the Kingdom was very large, and who knew which way the old man would choose to wander.
On the morrow, the full significance of the dream came to her as she and Rhodry sat in the tavern room. Yet once again, the dweomer had irrupted into her mind, taken her over with no warning. For a moment she shrank into herself, just as when the hare hears dogs baying and crouches frozen in the bracken.
‘Is somewhat wrong, my love?’ Rhodry said. ^
‘Naught, naught. I was just ... oh, thinking about Loddlaen’s war last summer.’
‘It was a strange thing, sure enough.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘All that cursed dweomer! I pray to every god we’re never touched by the dweomer again.’
Although she nodded her agreement, Jill knew that he was praying for the impossible. Even as he spoke, her little gray gnome manifested onto the table and sat down by Rhodry’s tankard. All her life, Jill had been able to see the Wildfolk, and this particular skinny, big-nosed little creature was a close friend. Oh my poor Rhoddo, she thought, you ride with dweomer all around you! She felt both angry and frightened, wishing that her peculiar talents would go away, fearing that they never would.
Yet once, last summer, Nevyn had told her that if she refused to use her talents, they would eventually wither and be gone. Although she hoped that the old man was right - indeed, he knew far more about the matter than she did - she had her doubts, especially when she considered how dweomer had swept her into Rhodry’s war and Rhodry’s life that last summer. She’d been an utterly obscure person, the bastard daughter of a silver dagger, until her father had taken what seemed to be a perfectly ordinary hire, guarding a merchant caravan that was traveling to the western border of Eldidd. Yet from the moment that the merchant had offered Cullyn the job, she’d known that something unusual was going to happen, felt with an inexplicable certainty that her life had reached a crossroads. How right she’d been! First the caravan went west to the land of the Elcyion Lacar, the elves, a people who were supposed to exist only in fairy tale and myth. Then, with some of the elves in tow, they’d returned to Eldidd and ridden right into the middle of a dweomer war.
Just in time for her to save Rhodry’s life by killing a man who, or so the dweomer seemed to declare, was invincible - Lord Corbyn will never die by any man’s hand, or so a prophecy declared. Like all dweomer-riddles, this one had two sharp sides, and a lass’s hand had slain him, sure enough. As she thought about it, it all seemed entirely too neat, too clever, as if the gods shaped a person’s Wyrd the way a Bardek craftsman shapes a puzzle box with its precise little workings that mean absolutely nothing in the long run. And then she remembered the elves, who were not men in any true sense, and Rhodry himself, who was only half a one. She saw then that Rhodry might have slain his enemy himself, if only he’d believed he could, and that her coming, while convenient, need not be foreordained anymore than a snowstorm that appears in winter could be said to be a mighty act of dweomer.
Yet dweomer had brought her to him; that she was sure of, if not to save his life, then for some obscure purpose. Although she shuddered at the thought, she also found herself wondering why dweomer should frighten her so badly, why she was sure that following the dweomer road would lead her to her death. Suddenly she saw it: she was afraid that if ever she tampered with dweomer, it would bring not only her death, but Rhodry’s. Even though she told herself that the idea was stupid, it was a long time before she could shake the irrational feeling off.


Deverry, 773

All men have seen the two smiling faces of the Goddess, She who gives good harvests and She who brings love to men’s hearts. Some have seen Her stern face, the Mother who at times must chastise her erring children. But how many have ever seen the fourth face of the Goddess, which is hidden even to most women who walk the earth?
The Discourses of the Priestess Camylla

The rider was dying. He slid off his horse to the cobbles, staggered once and fell to his knees. Gweniver flung herself down and grabbed him by the shoulders before he fell on his face. Warm blood oozed through his shirt onto her hands as Claedd peered cloudy-eyed at her.
‘Lost, my lady. Your brother’s dead.’
Blood welled into his mouth and broke into a bubble of death. When she laid him down, his foundered horse tossed its head once, then merely trembled, dripping gray sweat. She got to her feet just as a stable lad came running.
‘Do what you can for that horse,’ she said. ‘Then tell all the servants to pack up and flee. You’ve got to get out of here or you won’t live the night.’
Wiping her hands on her dress, Gweniver ran across the ward to the tall broch of the Wolf clan, which would burn that night beyond her power to save it. Inside the great hall, huddled by the honor hearth, were her mother, Dolyan, her younger sister, Macla, and Mab, their aged serving woman.
‘The Boar’s men must have caught the warband on the road,’ Gweniver said. ‘Avoic’s dead, and there’s an end to the feud.’
Dolyan threw back her head and keened out a wail for her husband and three sons. Macla burst into moist sobs and clung to Mab.
‘Oh, hold your tongues!’ Gweniver snapped. ‘The Boar’s warband is doubtless riding here right now to claim us. Do you want to end up as trophies?’
‘Gwen!’ Macla wailed. ‘How can you be so cold-hearted?’
‘Better cold-hearted than raped. Now hurry, all of you. Get the things you can carry on one horse. We’re riding to the Temple of the Moon. If we live to reach it, the priestesses will give us refuge. Do you hear me, Mara, or do you want to see me and Maccy handed over to the warband?’