"Kerr, Katharine - Westlands 01 - A Time Of Exile v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

Aderyn's fear clutched his throat and turned him mute. Had a great bird swooped down out of that mist and carried her away?
"We could see how far the damp grass stretches," Albaral said. "Seems to go on a ways."
Aderyn was about to answer when he heard-when they all heard-the sound of a silver horn, echoing from some long distance away, and looked up to see at the far horizon a line of riders silhouetted against the setting sun, the horses picked out in black against the blood-red clouds for the briefest of moments, then gone.
"The Guardians," Cal whispered. "Have they taken her?"
Aderyn dropped to his knees and grabbed handfuls of the crumpled grass, the last thing on earth her body had touched. It took the others a long time to make him come away.
All that night, once they were back in camp, Aderyn stayed in their tent and paced endlessly back and forth. At one moment he knew with a heartsick certainty that he'd never see her again; at the next, his hope would well up in a flood of denial to tell him that she'd come back, of course she'd come back, maybe in the morning, maybe in only an hour, that maybe she was walking toward camp this very moment. Then tears would burn in his throat as he told himself that she was as good as dead, gone forever. At dawn he stumbled out and actually walked off in the direction that she'd gone, but of course, he didn't find her. When he came back to camp, everyone else treated him like an invalid, speaking softly around him, offering him food, telling him to lie down, staring at him so sadly that he nearly screamed aloud and cursed the lot of them.
Aderyn slept all that day, vigiled all that night, and the next, and on and on, until seven days had passed with no sign of Dallandra. Only then, toward the dawn of the eighth night, did he finally think of the obvious and call to Nevyn through the fire. The old man responded so quickly that he must have been already awake and up. When Aderyn told him what had happened, his image above the fire seemed to grow even older with grief.
"She promised me once that she'd never leave me," Aderyn said at last. "And like a dolt, I believed her. Not for more than a few days, she said, and I believed her."
"Now here, I can't imagine Dallandra breaking a solemn promise, no matter how much glamour these Guardians have."
"Well, maybe she wouldn't. Nevyn, I just don't know what to think! If I only knew what's happened to her, really knew, I mean. I'm only guessing that the rotten Guardians even took her."
"Why don't you ask them?"
"Ask them? I can't even find them!"
"Have you truly tried?"
Aderyn left the tent and walked outside into the rising dawn. He hadn't really tried, he supposed. In his heart he never wanted to see them again, wanted only to curse them or rage at them or in some way cause them the same heartsick pain that he was feeling. If he did, though, they would most likely never give her back. He left the waking camp and walked out into the grasslands, stumbled along blindly at first, wandering with no purpose, until he felt calm enough to think. From studying the lore, he knew something about the sort of places where the Guardians might appear: boundary places, the crossing of paths, the joining of streams, anywhere that seemed to be a gate or a ford or a marker between two different things. Following a dim memory, he came at last to a place where three rivulets became a proper stream.
"Evandar!" he called out blindly in grief and rage. "Evandar! Give me back my wife!"
His only answer was the grass sighing as it bent in the wind and the stream gurgling over its rough bed. This time his voice screamed in a berserker's howl.
"Evandar! At least give me the chance to fight for her. Evandar!"
"She's not mine to keep or give back."
The voice came from directly behind him. With a yelp he leapt straight up and turned as he came down, panting for breath, close to tears, and faced the seeming-elf. His yellow hair was bright daffodils in the morning sun, and he was wearing a green tunic over leather trousers, a bow slung over his back and a quiver of arrows at his hip.
"She came to us of her own free will, you see," Evandar went on. "Truly she did. I asked for her help, but never would I have stolen her away."
"And I suppose you won't be able to tell me if she'll ever come back."
"Of course she will, when she wants to. We won't keep her against her will."
"But what if she doesn't want to? That's no concern of yours, I suppose."
Evandar frowned, studying the grass, and spoke without looking up.
"I have the strangest feeling round my heart, and all for your sake. I've never felt such a thing before, but you know, I do think I pity you, Aderyn of the Silver Wings. My heart is so heavy and sore that I don't know what else to call it." He looked up at that point and indeed, his luridly blue eyes glistened with tears. "I'll make you a promise. You'll see her again. I swear it, no matter how long she stays."
"Well, I believe you're sincere, but your promise may not do me one jot of good. I'm not elven, you know. My race only lives a little while, a very little while compared with them and even less compared with the likes of you. If she doesn't come home soon, I won't be here. Do you understand?"
"I do." He thought hard, chewing on his lower lip in a completely human gesture. "Very well. I can do somewhat about that. Here, let me give you a pledge . . . oh, what . . . ah, I know. A long time ago my woman gave yours an arrow. Here, take another to go with it. You have my word and my pledge now, Aderyn of the Silver Wings, that she'll come back and that you'll live to have her back."
Aderyn took the arrow and ran his fingers down the smooth, hard wood, cool and solid and as real as the grasslands under him.
"Then you have my thanks in return, Evandar, because I don't have another thing to give you."
"Your thanks will do. Oddly enough."
When Aderyn looked up he was gone, but the arrow stayed, a tangible thing in his hands. He took it back to the camp and his tent, searched through Dallandra's possessions, and found the other arrow, wrapped in an embroidered cloth in one of her saddlebags. He wrapped its fellow up with it, put the bag back, then sat down on the floor and stared at the wall, merely stared, barely thinking, for hours and hours.

To Dallandra, much less than an hour passed on the misty road. Just at sunset Elessario brought her to a vast meadow, a long spill of green flecked with tiny white flowers. Scattered all across it were tables made of gilded wood set with jewels, so that they sparkled in the light of the thousands of candles that stood in golden candelabra. It was night, suddenly, and in candlelight the host was feasting. They were dressed in green and gold, and gold and jewels flashed at throat or wrist or sparkled in their hair; all of them looked like elves but more beautiful than elves to the same degree that elves are more beautiful than human beings. Dallandra was never sure just how many people there were, a thousand maybe, but when she tried to count them, they wouldn't hold still-or so it seemed. Out of the corner of her eye she would see a table with, say, ten individuals; when she turned her head for a better look, the table might be gone, or it would seem that only two or three sat there, or perhaps twenty instead of ten. When she looked at a group from a distance, they seemed to blend together while still remaining distinct, as if they were forms seen in clouds, or flames leaping from a fire. Over the laughter rang music, harp and flute and drum, of such beauty that she felt on the edge of tears for the entire time the music played.
Elessario and Dallandra sat, one to his right, one to his left, at the table Evandar headed. He caught Dallandra's hand and kissed it.
"Welcome. And was your journey an easy one?"
"Oh yes, thank you."
"Good, but still, you must be tired. Here, have some mead."
He handed her a tall, slender goblet of pure silver wrapped a garland of tiny roses made of reddish gold. Although she admired the workmanship, mindful of the old tales Dallandra set it down untouched.
"I'm not thirsty, thank you."
His handsome face turned sharp with rage.
"Why do you turn down my drink?"
"I have no desire to be trapped here, and I won't eat your food, either."
"I've already given you my pledge: you leave when you want to leave and not a moment later. You can drink with us in safety."
"Oh, please, Dalla?" Elessario broke in. "You can't just go hungry the whole time you're here."
She hesitated, then smiled and raised the goblet in his direction. If she kept distrusting them, they would never trust her.
"To your health, Evandar, and to your continuance." She drank off the toast. "Oh, by the gods, this mead is wonderful!"
"It tastes like the mead they made in Bravelmelim."
All at once something came clear in her mind as she studied the feast and the feasters, the fine clothes, the jewelry, the gilded tableware and the intricately embroidered linens.
"All of this is modeled on the lost cities, isn't it?" Dallandra waved her hand randomly round. "Your clothes and everything else."
"Exactly that." He grinned in pleasure at her recognition. "And later we'll have jugglers and acrobats, just like the ones your kings used to watch."