"Forgotten Realms - The Cleric Quintet 01 - Canticle (1991) (Salvatore, R.A.)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forgotten Realms)

"No, no, nothing like that," the young priest replied immediately, knowing the secretive druids' aversion to such tactics. "I remember you, all three, from your last visit to the library."
"Preposterous!" piped in Cleo. "That was fourteen years ago. You could not have been more than ..."
"A boy," answered the young priest. "So I was, seven years old. You had a fourth to your party, as I recall, an aging lady of great powers. Shannon, I believe was her name."
"Incredible," muttered Arcite. "You are correct, young priest." Again the druids exchanged concerned looks, suspecting trickery here. Druids were not overly fond of anyone not of their order; they rarely came to the renowned Edificant Library, sitting high in the secluded Snowflake Mountains, and then only when they had word of a discovery of particular interest, a rare tome of herbs or animals, or a new recipe for potions to heal wounds or better grow their gardens. As a group, they began to turn away, rudely, but then Newander, on a sudden impulse, spun back around to face the young priest, who now leaned casually on a fine walking stick, its silver handle sculpted masterfully into the image of a ram's head.
"Cadderly?" Newander asked through a widening grin. Arcite, too, recognized the young man and remembered the unusual story of the most unusual child. Cadderly had come to live at the library before his fifth birthday-rarely were any accepted before the age of ten. His mother had died several months before that, and his father, too immersed in studies of his own, had neglected the child. Thobicus, the dean of the Edificant Library, had heard of the promising boy and had generously taken him in.
"Cadderly," Arcite echoed. "Is that really you?" "At your service," Cadderly replied, bowing low, "and well met. I am honored that you remember me, good Newander and venerable Arcite."
"Who?" Cleo whispered, looking curiously to Newander. Cleo's face, too, brightened in recognition a few moments later.
"Yes, you were just a boy," said Newander, "an overly curious little boy, as I recall!"
"Forgive me," said Cadderly, bowing again. "One does not often find the opportunity to converse with a troupe of druids!"
"Few would care to," remarked Arcite, "but you ... are among that few, so it would appear."
Cadderly nodded, but his smile suddenly disappeared. "I pray that nothing has happened to Shannon," he said, truly concerned. The druid had treated him well on that long-ago occasion. She had shown him beneficial plants, tasty roots, and had made flowers bloom before his eyes. To Cadderly's astonishment, Shannon had transformed herself, an ability of the most powerful druids, into a graceful swan and had flown high into the morning sky. Cadderly had dearly wished to join her-he remembered that longing most vividly-but the druid had no power to similarly transform him.
"Nothing terrible, if that is what you mean," replied Arcite. "She died several years back, peacefully."
Cadderly nodded. He was about to offer his condolences, but he prudently remembered that druids neither feared nor lamented death, seeing it as the natural conclusion to life and a rather unimportant event in the overall scheme of universal order.
"Do you know this squirrel?" asked Cleo suddenly, determined to restore his reputation.
"Percival," Cadderly replied, "a friend of mine."
"A pet?" Newander asked, his bright eyes narrowing suspiciously. Druids did not approve of people keeping pets.
Cadderly laughed heartily. "If any is the pet in our relationship, I fear it is I," he said honestly. "Percival accepts my strokes-sometimes-and my food-rather eagerly-but as I am more interested in him than he in me, he is the one who decides when and where."
The druids shared Cadderly's laugh. "A most excellent beast," said Arcite, then with a series of clicks and chits, he congratulated Percival.
"Wonderful," came Cadderly's sarcastic response, "encourage him." The druids' laughter increased and Percival, watching it all from his high branch, shot Cadderly a supercilious look.
"Well, come down here and say hello!" Cadderly called, banging the lowest tree branch with his walking stick. "Be polite, at least."
Percival did not look up from the acorn he was munching.
"He does not understand, I fear," said Cleo. "Perhaps if I translate ..."
"He understands," Cadderly insisted, "as well as you or I. He is just a stubborn one, and I can prove it!" He looked back up to the squirrel. "When you find the time, Percival," he said slyly, "I left a plate of cacasa-nut and butter out for you in my room ... ." Before Cadderly even finished, the squirrel whipped off along a branch, hopped to another, and then to the next tree in line along the road. In a few short moments, the squirrel had leaped to a gutter along the library's roof and, not slowing a bit, zipped across a trail of thick ivy and in through an open window on the northern side of the large structure's third floor.
"Percival does have such a weakness for cacasa-nut and butter," Cadderly remarked when the druid's laughter had subsided.
"A most excellent beast!" Arcite said again. "And yourself, Cadderly, it is good to see that you have remained with your studies. Your masters spoke highly of your potential fourteen years ago, but I had no idea that your memory would be so very sharp, or, perhaps, that we druids had left such a strong and favorable impression upon you."
"It is," Cadderly replied quietly, "and you did! I am glad that you have returned-for the recently uncovered treatise on woodland mosses, I would assume. I have not seen it yet. The headmasters have kept it secured until those more knowledgeable in such matters could come and appraise its value. You see, a band of druids was not wholly unexpected, though we knew not who, how many, or when you would arrive."
The three druids nodded, admiring the ivy-veiled stone structure. The Edificant Library had stood for six hundred years, and in all that time its doors had never been closed to scholars of any but the evil religions. The building was huge, a self-contained town-it had to be, in the rough and secluded
Snowflakes-more than four hundred feet across and half as deep through all four of its above-ground levels. Will staffed and well stocked-rumors spoke of miles of storage tunnels and catacombs beneath-it had survived ore attacks, giant-hurled boulders, and the most brutal mountain winters, and had remained unscathed through the centuries.
The library's collection of books, parchments, and artifacts was considerable, filling nearly the entire first floor, the library proper, and many smaller study chambers on the second floor, and the complex contained many unique and ancient works. While not as large as the great libraries of the Realms, such as the treasured collections of Silverymoon to the north and the artifact museums of Calimport to the south, the Edificant Library was convenient to the west-central Realms and the Cormyr region and was open to all who wished to learn, on the condition that they did not plan to use their knowledge for baneful purposes.
The building housed other important research tools, such as alchemy and herbalist shops, and was set in an inspiring atmosphere with breathtaking mountain views and manicured grounds that included a small topiary garden. The Edificant Library had been designed as more than a storage house for old books; it was a place for poetry reading, painting, and sculpting, a place for discussions of the profound and often unanswerable questions common to the intelligent races. Indeed, the library was a fitting tribute to Deneir and Oghma, the allied gods of knowledge, literature, and art.
"The treatise is a large work, so I have been told," said Arcite. "Much time will be expended in examining it properly. I pray that the boarding rates are not excessive. We are men of little material means."
"Dean Thobicus will take you in without cost, I would expect," answered Cadderly. "Your service cannot be underestimated in this matter." He shot a wink at Arcite. "If not, come to me. I recently inscribed a tome for a nearby wizard, a spellbook he lost in a fire. The man was generous. You see, I had originally inscribed the spellbook, and the wizard, forgetful as most wizards seem to be, never had made a copy."
"The work was unique?" Cleo asked, shaking his head in disbelief that a wizard could be so foolish with his most prized possession.
"It was," Cadderly replied, tapping his temple, "except for in here."
"'You remembered the intricacies of a wizard's spellbook enough to recreate it from memory?" Cleo asked, stunned.
Cadderly shrugged his shoulders. "The wizard was generous."
"Truly you are a remarkable one, young Cadderly," said Arcite.
"A most excellent beast?" the young priest asked hopefully, drawing wide smiles from all three.
"Indeed!" said Arcite. "Do look in on us in the days ahead." Given the druids' reputation for seclusion, Cadderly understood how great a compliment he had just been paid. He bowed low, and the druids did likewise, then they bid Cadderly farewell and moved up the road to the library.
Cadderly watched them, then looked up to his open window. Percival sat on the sill, determinedly licking the remains of his cacasa-nut and butter lunch from his tiny paws.

* * * * *

A tiny drop slipped off the end of the coil, touching a saturated cloth that led down into a small beaker. Cadderly shook his head and put a hand on the spigot controlling the flow.
"Remove your hand from that!" cried the frantic alchemist from a workbench across his shop. He jumped up and stormed over to the too-curious young priest.
"It is terribly slow," Cadderly remarked.
"It has to be," Vicero Belago explained for perhaps the hundredth time. "You are no fool, Cadderly. You know better than to be impatient. This is Oil of Impact, remember? A most volatile substance. A stronger drip could cause a cataclysm in a shop so filled with unstable potions!"
Cadderly sighed and accepted the scolding with a conceding nod. "How much do you have for me?" he asked, reaching into one of the many pouches on his belt and producing a tiny vial.
"You are so very impatient," remarked Belago, but Cadderly knew that he was not really angry. Cadderly was a prime customer and had many times provided important translations of archaic alchemical notes. "Only what is in the beaker, I fear. I had to wait for some ingredients-hill giant fingernails and crushed oxen horn."
Cadderly gently lifted the soaked cloth and tilted the beaker. It contained just a few drops, enough to fill only one of his tiny vials. "That makes six," he said, using the cloth to coax the liquid into the vial. "Forty-four to go."