"03 - Waterdeep - Richard Awlinson 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Avatar Trilogy)

Midnight came last, still too upset to speak. There was a hollow knot of panic and sorrow in her stomach. Since her sixteenth birthday, she had carefully recorded every spell she could learn in the book, and it had become almost an extension of her soul. Without it she felt barren and worthless, like a mother without children.
Still, all was not lost. Midnight still had several spells firmly committed to memory, and she could copy these down in a new book. Some were so common that, given time and the help of a friendly mage, she could easily re-learn them. With a week or two of research, the raven-haired mage might be able to rebuild others. But a few, such as the phantasmal force and plant growth spells, were so alien to her way of thinking that she could never reconstruct them. Those spells were gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.
All in all, the situation was not as terrible as it had at first seemed. Unfortunately, that realization had not yet diminished Midnight's anger. She desperately wanted to blame somebody for the book's destruction, and since Kelemvor had been the one who had led them to Black Oaks, he was the easiest target.
But in her heart, Midnight knew that the warrior was no more responsible for the crisis than she was. He hadn't thrown the spellbook in the fire, and even the halflings had not burned it in malice. It had been an accident, pure and simple, and nothing would be accomplished by venting her anger on friends.
However, Adon wasn't helping to cool anyone's temper. Several times, he had chastised Kelemvor for leading the company to Black Oaks, reminding the gloomy fighter that the spellbook would be intact if not for that detour. Amazingly, the warrior had accepted the assertion. Aden's angry insight the night before had subdued the brawny warrior as no sword ever would, and Midnight resented the cleric for it. Despite her own pain, she did not enjoy seeing Kelemvor's spirit broken.
Consumed by her melancholy reflections, the magic-user barely noticed as morning passed. By midday, the company was deep in the forest, and she still hadn't set things right with Kelemvor. In part, this was because the path was too narrow for their horses to walk side by side. So, when Adon unexpectedly called a halt, she guided her mount forward and stopped at Kelemvor's right.
"Kelemvor—," she began.
Adon twisted around and held up a silencing hand. "Listen!"
Midnight started to object, then heard a loud rustle ahead. It came from far up the trail, and sounded as though an army were marching over a plain of dried leaves. Creaks and rasps, and then dull, distant thuds began echoing toward the company.
"What is it?" Midnight asked.
"I can't imagine," Adon replied.
Sneakabout slipped off Adon's horse. "This is where I earn my ride," he said, hustling up the path.
The halfling disappeared around a bend. For ten minutes, Midnight, Kelemvor, and Adon sat on their horses. The rustle grew louder, until it could more properly be called an uproar, and the creaks and rasps became squeals and groans. The thuds assumed a rhythmic cadence and grew into thunderous booms.
Finally, Sneakabout quickly came running back, his short legs carrying him at his best sprint. "Off the trail!" he screamed. "Now!"
The halfling's face was so terror-stricken that no one even thought of asking for an explanation. They simply spurred theirs mounts and crashed into the forest, regrouping thirty yards off the trail.
When Sneakabout joined them, Adon started to question him. "What—"
The cleric didn't have an opportunity to finish. A hundred-foot-tall sycamore tree stepped into sight, swinging dozens of branches like arms. As its roots twisted forward, an ear-splitting creak echoed through the forest. The ground trembled as the roots flopped onto the trail. Another sycamore marched behind the first, and behind it, a hundred more.
For an hour, the company watched in flabbergasted silence as grim sycamores marched dlown the trail. By the time the thousandth tree passed, the company's ears were ringing and their heads were spinning. Kelemvor's horse grew skittish, and he managed to keep it under control only with the greatest effort.
Finally, however, the last tree passed out of sight and the company returned to the trail. Their ears rang for the rest of the afternoon, precluding discussion of the peculiar sight. But as they rode northward, they saw thousands of huge holes where every sycamore tree in the forest had torn its roots tree and marched off.
Just before dusk, they reached the northern edge of the forest. Eveningstar lay a mile ahead, oil lamps already lighting its windows. The town was unfortified, with about fifty buildings of significant size. The companions rode to the outskirts of town, then paused before entering. Memories of the murder accusations in Wheloon were fresh in their minds.
As a crossroads village, Eveningstar had a few stables, inns, and provision markets at the edge of town. Toward the center stood shops of skilled craftsmen who produced wine, wool, farm tools, and, Midnight noted, parchment. The streets were clean and peaceful enough. Although the shops had already closed, men and women moved freely about, paying no attention to the four strangers.
After pronouncing it safe to proceed, Adon nudged his mount forward. Midnight asked the party to wait while she knocked at a parchment shop, hoping the proprietor was still there. Unfortunately, except for businesses serving travelers, it appeared Eveningstar closed at nightfall. She would have to wait until morning to buy the materials for a new spellbook.
On Sneakabout's suggestion, the heroes went to the Lonesome Tankard, the only inn in Eveningstar. The inn was clean and warm—a welcome relief after the chill ride. An expansive dining room, crowded with travelers and locals, occupied most of the ground floor. Midnight noted with approval that its wooden floors were free from dirt and grime. A stairway along the left wall led to the lodgings on the upper stories.
Sneakabout bribed the guard who was stationed at the desk to watch for unregistered companies. After accepting the halfling's money, the guard studied Midnight warily. "You wouldn't be a thaumaturgist?" he inquired.
"No, no," Sneakabout answered for her, "she's nothing of the sort. A lady of the arts, that's all."
The guard looked doubtful. "His Majesty King Azoun IV has decreed that enchanters of any type must register with the local herald when traveling in Cormyr."
Sneakabout held out another gold piece. The guard snatched the coin away and said, "Of course, with all the folks on the roads these days, nobody can keep track of 'em anyway." With that, he left the desk and allowed the company to conduct their business with the inn's steward. After the company rented two rooms, the steward showed the four to a table near the back of the taproom.
A young serving girl immediately brought ale and wine, then asked if the company wished to eat. A few minutes later, she returned with steaming plates of sliced turnips, boiled potatoes, and roast pork. In spite of her mood, the aroma was enough to make Midnight hungry. She helped herself to generous portions of turnips and potatoes, but had only one slice of the pork.
Even with the fine food, the group had a dreary meal. Midnight wanted to apologize to Kelemvor, but not in front of her other companions. Adon and Sneakabout were the only ones who felt like making conversation, but not to each other. Adon tried to liven things up with a discussion of their route, but everybody else insisted upon postponing that chore until morning. Kelemvor was lost in his own thoughts, and Midnight's patience was chafing under the relish with which Adon pursued his temporary position as group leader.
When the meal finally ended, the four climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hour was early for sleep, but they had ridden hard that day and would ride as hard tomorrow. Their rooms each contained two cots and a small window overlooking the dark currents of the Starwater.
"The men will take this room," Adon said, indicating the one on the right. "You take that one, Midnight. I don't think anyone will mind if we move a bed into the other room."
"It'll never fit," Sneakabout said. "I'll stay with Midnight."
Kelemvor frowned jealously, but it was Adon who objected. "You can't be serious!"
Midnight ignored Adon and smiled at the halfling. "Thanks, but I prefer Kelemvor's company."
Adon's jaw dropped slack. "But you're—"
"I don't think it's necessary to dictate sleeping arrangements, Adon," Midnight said, her voice calm and even.
Adon shrugged. "You haven't spoken to Kelemvor all day," he said. "But it's none of my business if you want to spend the night with him. I was only being considerate."
Sneakabout sighed. After sharing the saddle with Adon all day, he had hoped to avoid spending the night with the pedantic ex-cleric.
Midnight stepped into her room without saying anything else. When Kelemvor didn't follow her, she stuck her head back into the hall. "Are you coming or not?" Kelemvor shook his head as if to clear it, then stepped inside. Midnight closed the door behind him, leaving Adon and Sneakabout in the hall.
Kelemvor glanced around the room nervously and fumbled at the clasp of his swordbelt. He finally released it and laid the scabbard on the nearest cot.
"What's wrong?" Midnight asked, slipping her damp cape from her shoulders. "This is hardly our first night together."
Kelemvor studied her, wondering whether she had forgiven him or lured him in here to take vengeance. "Your spellbook," he said. "I thought you were angry."
"Angry, yes, and more. But you aren't the one who threw it in the fire." She managed a weak smile. "Besides, I can rebuild it, given time and parchment."
The fighter's face showed no sign of relief.
"Don't you understand?" Midnight asked. "The book's loss wasn't your fault. The halflings threw it in the fire. You couldn't have prevented that."
Kelemvor nodded. "Thanks for forgiving me. But Adon was right. I went to the village for selfish reasons."
"Your reasons weren't selfish," she said, taking his hand. "There's nothing wrong with helping strangers."
For a moment, Kelemvor's fingers remained limp and passive, his emerald eyes searching Midnight's. Then he returned her grasp and pulled her close. A long-smoldering ember flared to life in both their bodies. Midnight's apology had gone further than she intended, but she did not care.
Later that night, Midnight sat awake, Kelemvor snoring in the cot next to hers. Making love with him had been different than it had been before Tantras. The warrior had been gentler, more considerate. She had no doubt that he had truly changed with the lifting of his curse.
But her lover's curse, or lack of it, was not the source of the magic-user's wakefulness. This new Kelemvor was more appealing and attractive than the man he had been before Tantras, and Midnight was thinking about what that difference meant to her. He was more dangerous, for he gave more and therefore demanded more in return. But the mage didn't know how much she could give, for her art had always been, and always would be, her first love.