"Hodgell,.P.C.-.Kencyr.3.-.Seeker's.Mask" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hodgell P. C)

Kindrie Soul-Walker—a healer, Jame’s cousin, the Knorth Bastard
Kinzi—Jame’s great-grandmother, sister-kin to Adirania, killed in the Massacre, the last Knorth Matriarch
Kirien—the Jaran Lordan or Heir, a scrollswoman
Logan—Gorgo’s priest
Lower Town Monster—the demon created by Ishtier around Bane’s soul
Lyra—Caldane’s young daughter, formerly consort to Prince Odalian of Karkinaroth, nicknamed “Lack-wit”
Marc—Jame’s Kendar friend
Pereden—Ardeth’s dead, renegade son, former commander of the Southern Host
Ragga—Mother Ragga, the Earth Wife of Peshtar
Rawneth—the Randir Matriarch
Regonereth—That-Which-Destroys, the Third Face of the Three-Faced-God
River Snake—that offspring of the Serpent’s Brood that lies under the Silver
Rose Iron-thorn—Brier’s mother
Rowan—Torisen’s steward at Gothregor
Rue—a Knorth randon cadet
“Sonny”—Chingetai’s son, the Merikit Favorite
Telarien—Jame’s grandmother, killed in the Massacre
Tieri—Ganth’s young sister, sole survivor of the Massacre
Tiggeri—Caldane’s seventh established son
Tishooo—the Old Man, a wind from the south
Torisen—Lord Knorth of Gothregor, Black Lord (“Blackie”), Highlord of the Kencyrath, Jame’s twin brother
Tungit—a Merikit shaman-elder, Index’s old friend
Vant—a Knorth randon cadet
Yolindra—the Edirr Matriarch


Seeker’s Mask
by
P. C. Hodgell





Part I




I

“The first duty of a Highborn lady is obedience.”
So spoke the young instructress as she swept imperiously back and forth before her even younger class. The extreme tightness of her under-skirt obliged her to walk with tiny, rapid steps, but she did this so smoothly that she might have been mounted on wheels.
“A lady’s second duty is self-restraint,” she said, pivoting on her toes. Her full outer skirt belled out around her, velvet pleats opening to reveal panels of rich embroidery, restraint transformed by long practice into grace.
“Her third duty is endurance.”
The little girls obediently echoed the words after her, fingers busy with the knot stitch which they were currently learning, eyes downcast behind the simple veils that were appropriate to their age and rank. They had already repeated these maxims endless times, both in their home keeps and here in the Women’s Halls at Gothregor—not that their teacher thought of that in terms of endurance. She herself had learned to love the simple dicta that gave shape to her life, and believed that the more often her students heard them, the better.
That had been especially true over the winter just past. Never in her short life had she seen such snows, or felt such cold, or heard such winds as had come howling down the narrow throat of the Riverland. By day, her fingers had blanched with frost even within the halls, while outside birds had plummeted frozen from the sky. At night, she had lain awake in the arms of her sister-friend, hearing the stones groan around them and the distant boom of ironwood trees shattering in the cold. Even on Spring’s Eve, they had to dig into snow banks for the crocus with which to make their vows, guided by the flowers’ violet glow beneath the ice crust.
Under these circumstances, the inmates of the halls hadn’t been home since the previous autumn. True, the younger ones didn’t expect to leave Gothregor before summer, but it made a difference, knowing they couldn’t go home even if they wanted to. Still, thought the instructress, they had better get used to being homesick. Soon they would have to go wherever their lord sent them, to honor whatever contract he chose to make in their behalf. By then, of course, many of them would belong to the community of sister-kinship that would be their only true “home” as adults. At present, though, they were still the children of different, distant homes, in need of all the self-control that the Women’s World could teach them.
Their young teacher had also felt that need, despite the warm arms of her Edirr sister. For her, the snow, the cold, and the wind of the past winter had been nothing compared to its strangeness. With most of the Kencyr Host wintering in Kothifir, the Riverland had been so empty. Now that the snow had finally melted, one heard first-hand accounts of things only rumored before: of weirding mist and Merikit raiders, of strange noises in the earth and air, and of arboreal drift. Why, one hunter even claimed to have heard the demented howls of the Burning Ones, avengers of the slain, far south of their usual haunts—but that was nonsense. Everyone knew that they and their master, the Burnt Man, were mere Merikit superstitions.
Still, things must improve soon, now that Kencyr were beginning to return. The Jaran Heir Kirien had passed by some weeks ago accompanied by the haunt singer Ashe, bound for the Scrollsmen’s College at Mount Alban. More important, only three days ago the first of the lords had returned. That it had been Caldane, Lord Caineron of Restormir, seemed an especially good omen, since she herself was a Coman with two Caineron grandmothers. The Highlord’s garrison, on the other hand, had manned the walls as if expecting an attack.