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

nothing to fear by going there and claiming my father’s place.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want word of the deed to get back to the East March…”

“And if that is the case, and he is there, he won’t dare to expose himself, and we will still be safe.”

“Until you win your knighthood and leave on some quest…”

Cray half-turned away from him, arms akimbo. “All right, Master Feldar, we will be careful. With you to remind me of such dangers, I’ll be jumping at every shadow in the East March. And I don’t even know who he is.”

“He wore black armor, you know that.”

“With no device on his shield. That was a disguise, I’m sure. But if I should happen to encounter a black knight, I’ll certainly be wary.”

“You’ll kill him, won’t you?” asked Sepwin

“I think he’d be more likely, just now, to kill me,” replied Cray.

“He’s fifteen years older.”

“And fifteen years cannier. Don’t let our little adventure at the village give you an exaggerated notion of my knightly prowess. I’d be no match for a real knight. I don’t intend to throw my life away for vengeance.”

“It’s a better motive than some I could think of.”

Cray gazed at him sidelong. “It wouldn’t bring my father back.”

Sepwin stared down at the ground. “I don’t suppose there’s any magical way…” he murmured.

“He’s dead. Nothing can change that. Not even sorcery.”

“I’m sorry, Cray. Truly I am.”

Cray made no reply, only stood still and looked past Sepwin, at his horse, at the shield, half hidden behind his own; and the silence that had suddenly descended between the would-be knight and the former beggar stretched and stretched until it was broken by a powerful blast of wind.

“What’s happening?” cried Sepwin, and he stumbled sideways, clutching at the branches of the nearest tree to keep from being knocked over.

“The map!” shouted Cray, and his voice could hardly be heard above the roaring that had arisen from nowhere. Tree limbs swayed around him, branches dipping and

crackling in the blow, leaves rattling wildly. Dust from the road kicked up, whipping against his skin like shards of glass, and he covered his eyes and nose and mouth against them with both hands.

The branch that Sepwin grasped broke with a loud snap, and he fell, rolling, till he fetched up against a tree trunk, and he huddled there, white-knuckled hands scrabbling for purchase on the rough bark.

“You wouldn’t do this if my mother were here!” Cray shouted to no one visible, and then he was pushed against a tree and pinned there by empty air while leaves slapped him like so many hands.

Abruptly as it had begun, the wind ceased, and in its wake floated light laughter, receding, ever receding into the dim distance. At Cray’s feet lay a roll of parchment. He bent to pick it up, to unroll it carefully. “The map,” he said, turning it so that Sepwin could see their route laid out on the pale surface.

Sepwin was rising gingerly to his feet. He said, “Is it over?”

“I should think so. Look here—an excellent map.”