"Katherine Kerr - Deverry 02 - Darkspell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kerr Katherine)

After a couple of minutes of brisk haggling, Jill handed him five silver pieces, about half of the smith’s
asking price.

‘Come back at sunset,’ Otho said. ‘We’ll see if I’ve been successful or not.’

Rhodry spent the afternoon looking for a hire. Although it was too close to winter weather for
warfare, he did find a merchant who was taking a load of goods back to Cerrmor. For all their dishonor,
silver daggers were in much demand as caravan guards, because they belonged to a band with a
reputation that kept them more honest than most. Not just any man could even become a silver dagger.
A warrior who was desperate enough to take the blade had to first find another silver dagger, ride with
him a while, and prove himself before he was allowed to meet one of the rare smiths who served the
band. Only then could he truly ‘ride the long road’, as the daggers referred to their lives.

And if Otho could blunt the spell, Rhodry would no longer have to keep his dagger sheathed for fear
of revealing his peculiar bloodlines. He hurried Jill through her dinner and hustled her along to the
silversmith’s shop a little before sunset. Otho’s beard was a good bit shorter, and he no longer had any
eyebrows at all.

‘I should have known better than to do a favor for a cursed elf,’ he announced.

‘Otho, you have our humble apologies.’ Jill caught his hand and squeezed. ‘And I’m ever so glad you
didn’t get badly burned.’

‘You’re glad? Hah! Well, come along, lad.’

When Rhodry took the dagger, the blade stayed ordinary metal without the trace of a glow. He was
smiling as he sheathed it.

‘My thanks, good smith, a thousand times over. Truly, I wish I could reward you more for the risk
you ran.’

‘So do I. That’s the way of your folk, though: all fine words and no hard coin.’

‘Otho, please,’ Jill said. ‘There’s not even that much elven blood in him.’

‘Hah! That’s what I say to that, young Jill. Hah!’

All day, the People arrived at the alardan. To a grassy meadow so far west of Eldidd that only one
human being had ever seen it, they came in small groups, driving their herds of horses and flocks of sheep
before them. After they pastured the animals, they set up leather tents, painted in bright colors with
pictures of animals and flowers. Children and dogs raced through the camp; cooking fires blossomed; the
smell of a feast grew in the air. By sunset well over a hundred tents stood there. As the last fire was lit, a
woman began to sing the long wailing tale of Donabel and his lost love, Adario. A harper joined in, then a
drummer, and finally someone brought out a conaber, three joined reedy pipes for a drone.

Devaberiel Silverhand, generally considered the best bard in this part of the elven lands, considered
unpacking his harp and joining in, but he was quite simply too hungry. He got a wooden bowl and spoon
from his tent, then wandered through the feast. Each riding group, or alar to give them their Elvish name,
had made a huge quantity of one particular dish. Everyone strolled around, eating a bit here and there of