"Sorcerer's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Phyllis Eisenstein)

And so she would see his route, know his destination, and when they spoke through the webs he would have to say that Falconhill was the nearest great holding he could find, where a youth might train under masters to be a knight. He thought she would want to believe that.

Westward he rode, opposite the direction he had taken two years before, and the forest stretched out before him as if there were nothing else In the world. The track narrowed for a time to an animal trail, but on the sixth day of his travels it widened abruptly, scattered with hacked-off trunks and the mushrooms that fed on their dead roots, and he knew that he was approaching the realms of men. The sun was high when he came upon the inn.

It was a rambling structure of weathered stone, with wooden cross braces bleached gray by many summers. Carven shutters flanked its many windows, open wide to the warm air, with white curtains fluttering gently. The inn stood in a narrow cleared space, great trees bending close to it, their leafy boughs brushing against the shingled roof, and among that greenery Cray could make out the thin plume of smoke spouting from the chimney.

A man labored In the yard before the building, cutting back grass with a scythe. He was a tall man, broad in girth, his face and bald pate red with exertion, framed by a peppery fringe of beard and hair. When he saw Cray, he straightened slowly. “May I serve you, sir?”

Cray drew his horse up and smiled at the man. “Are you the landlord?”

He bowed. “I am, sir, and I welcome you to the Sign of the Partridge, We have a fine dinner this day, if you care to stop with us.”

Cray eyed the yard, and the grass that was trimmed short into a fine lawn. Few horses, he guessed, had trampled that carpet in recent times. “Business has been poor lately, has it not?”

The landlord shrugged. “There have been better seasons. But truly, the food excels. I should know, for I am the cook.”

“The cook would hardly be the first to admit that he lacks skill.”

“No one has ever complained of my cooking, sir.” He grinned. “And if you do not like it, you need not pay.”

“In that case, I’ll dine,” said Cray, and he dismounted. He led Gallant across the grass to the front wall of the inn and threaded the reins loosely through an iron ring set in the stonework there. He gave the horse a quick pat, muttered some soothing nonsense in its ear and turned to find the landlord at the door, holding it open that Cray might enter.

Within was a single large room with high rafters and walls hung with hunting trophies. A long table occupied its center, with benches set in either side, and in the vast fireplace beyond, a brace of ducks was roasting, spitted, above a cheerful blaze.

“How many guests have you today?” asked Cray.

The landlord, who walked close behind him, said, “Only one, sir—yourself.”

Cray gestured toward the hearth. “Then that is your dinner, and your wife’s?”

He shook his head. “Mine alone, sir… or so it would have been had you not arrived. I have no wife, and no servants, either, just myself.” He chuckled, a sound that seemed to emanate from the depths of his ample belly. “Do not underestimate the appetite of a man my size, young sir.”

“I would not wish to eat your dinner,” Cray said hesitantly.

The landlord placed his hands on Cray’s shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him to a place on one of the benches. “The dinner is for my guests,” he said, “and only for me when my guests have done with it. What landlord have you ever known who ate before his patrons?”

Cray shrugged. “I’ve never known any landlords but you. I have never visited an inn before.”

“Never?” The man swung a leg over the bench and sat down facing Cray; seated, he was a head taller than the boy. “You mean you camp under the trees and cook your food over an open fire?”

“Yes. I cook quite well, too, or at least to my own taste.”

“Pleasant enough for one night, perhaps, or two, but not for a long journey.” He laughed again. “Else men like me would be hard pressed to earn a living.”

“This is my first long journey,” said Cray.,

“Ah.” The landlord lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “And how far have you to go?”

“To Falconhill.”