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

“I’ll wait.”

“Truly, I know my own capacity. I am half your size, and so I have only half of your appetite, good landlord.”

“Fine food sometimes increases the appetite,” the man said, and he folded his arms across his breast and rocked forward and back as he watched Cray eat. When Cray’s cup emptied, he poured another measure of wine. When Cray looked for salt, he fetched a cellar from the mantelpiece. “I have honeycakes to finish the meal,” he said when only the clean-picked carcass lay on Cray’s trencher.

Cray shook his head. “I could eat neither a honeycake nor a single extra scrap of duck.

Have your dinner, landlord, and I hope that waiting before the fire has not damped its flavor. You spoke truly when you called yourself a good cook. Even my mother does not excel you.”

The landlord bowed. Then he brought out the honeycakes from their cupboard by the hearth and set them in front of Cray before bringing his own meal to the table. “In case you change your mind, young sir,” he said.

After some moments, Cray did change his mind, and he found the cakes excellent. By the time he had eaten a few of them and the food had settled deep enough in his stomach that he felt like riding again, the landlord had finished his meal and complimented his own cooking.

Cray stood up. “Now you can tell me of the route to Falconhill. You said the road forks more than once.”

“Considerably more. But if you follow the left-hand fork three times, twice west and the last time south, you’ll find yourself among folk who can direct you more precisely.

Falconhill rules that land, and the inhabitants surely know where to pay their taxes.”

“Left three times. That sounds simple enough. And now, what is the charge for the fine meal I have just eaten?” He reached for the purse that hung at his belt

“Two coppers, young sir.”

“Two coppers,” said Cray. He found a few of that sort of coin among his silver and passed two of them to the landlord. “And a good season to you. If I come .back this way, I’ll be sure to stop for another meal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gallant was waiting patiently at its tether on the wall, but as soon as Cray swung into the saddle, the horse began to toss its head and to dance from hoof to hoof, as if eager to continue their journey. The boy had only to twitch the reins, and his mount trotted across the grass to the road and headed west upon it.

“Farewell,” called the landlord, walking a few paces down the path behind them. “And good luck.”

Cray glanced over his shoulder once and lifted his arm in salute; the second time he looked back, the trees that overhung the road on either side had already closed in upon the inn and its proprietor, and all Cray could see was forest.

Behind, the landlord watched till the boy was out of sight, till the echo of his horse’s hooves upon the hard ground faded to nothing, till there was no longer any likelihood that he would turn about. Then the big man’s shoulders slumped, and he seemed to fall in upon himself, shrinking, shriveling, his clothes fading, his flesh melting, until all that stood where the burly landlord had been was a small gray squirrel. Gildrum scampered across the grass and up a tree. Beneath that perch, the inn resumed its normal

appearance, great cracks showing in the stone walls, mortar crumbled, gaping holes where shingles had rested, wooden braces chipped and splintered with neglect. Inside, the demon knew, the fire had gone out, the flagon and cups crumbled, the table and benches rotted with damp, the floor overgrown with weeds. Before the front door, the lawn had sprung to its full length, knee-high coarse grass, seed tops waving in the gentle breeze.

Magically, Gildrum flitted to another tree, farther along the road, and watched Cray pass beneath, then went to a third and did the same. After that, though it wished otherwise, it had to return to the errand its master had set it—an errand that should have taken a much smaller fraction of the day, although Rezhyk was not aware of that.

On its way, the demon stopped at Spinweb briefly. But Delivev did not show herself.



The tapestry drew a narrow line westward, with a stop every night and a few during the daytime, when she guessed he found game and paused to cook it, or to water his horse, or to admire wild flowers. He spoke to her occasionally, through the webs, perhaps two nights out of five, but he had little to say, only terse accounts of the vast forest, the birds, the beasts, the sun, the rain. She could see in the tapestry that he was making his slow way to Falconhill, but she never mentioned that to him. She had known for some time that his goal would be either Falconhill or the East March. He had seen other holdings in the webs, richer ones, more powerful ones, no more distant than those two. But his father’s name was not linked to any of them.

Spinweb seemed large and empty without Cray. Delivev had not realized, before he left, how much she depended on his voice, his smile, the clatter of his arms to fill her life, nor how much time she devoted to caring for him. Without his meals to prepare, his clothes to mend, his questions to answer, she felt incomplete. For days she wandered the halls of Spinweb, trying to recapture the life she had known before his birth, lavishing her love on plants and animals. She had thought herself lonely when Mellor left, but now she knew that had been nothing; Mellor, though she loved him, had only been with her a short time, like a dream, vanishing with the morn. Cray she had carried beneath her heart for nine months and kept at her knee for as many years and more; now, he was gone and she felt that part of her was gone as well.

I am getting old, she thought, though in sorcerous terms that was a lie.