"Katherine Kerr - Deverry 10 - The Black Raven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kerr Katherine)

Since nothing could call the years back, regret would only be a waste of time.
She returned to her inventory.
The long narrow bundle turned out to be a sword in a sheath of stained,
cracking leather, an odd thing for a dweomermaster to carry with her, as it
was no ritual weapon but solid Deverry steel. Dallandra drew the blade and saw
marks carved near the hilt: a stylized striking falcon, and just below, a lion
device that at one time had sported a touch of red pigment. Out of curiosity
she held the blade up to sight along it, looking for other marks. When in the
cold room her warm breath touched the steel, a little snake made of moisture
squirmed and ran down the blade. Startled, she nearly dropped it. She sheathed
it and laid it on the table by the book, then opened the sack.
Inside she found a silver dagger in a much newer leather sheath, and a small
something wrapped in silk. She put the dagger on the table and unwrapped the
silk to find a squarish bone plaque, a few inches to a side, engraved with a
portrait of a Horsekin: a warrior, judging from his huge mane of hair and his
facial tattoos. The delicacy and realism of the engraving marked it as elven
work, and of great age.
'Meradan,' Dallandra said softly. 'Someone recorded what the invaders looked
like. I wonder how long the limner lived afterwards.'
For a moment she held the plaque in both hands, as if it were a talisman that
could give her knowledge of those ancient days. She felt nothing. She wrapped
it up again in its silk and laid it by the other objects that Jill had
treasured enough to cany with her through her wandering life. What to do with
them? Dallandra had no idea.
Dallandra had known Jill only a brief time, and Jill had not been an easy
person to understand. Her workings were so far beyond mine, Dallandra thought.
Her knowledge of dweomer lore, too - gods, a thousand times beyond mine! On
the wall hung the small shelf of books that Dallandra had begun to study under
Jill's tutelage. Those, she knew, Jill would have wanted her to keep until the
time came to pass them on to another student of the lore. But what she would
never learn from books was the way Jill lived her dweomer, in complete
surrender and service to the Light that shines beyond all the gods. Although
her compassion had at times been a cold and abstract thing, it had never
wavered, not even when that service had demanded her life.
And what have I been doing? Dallandra thought. Chasing after glamours, living
far from the physical world, turning my back on those I was born to serve! She
had come to despise the physical world, in fact, with all its stinks and pain
and filth. In Evandar's fair country life flowed like mead, smooth and
intoxicating. Yet like the mead its illusions of pleasure wore off soon
enough, leaving the drinker muddled and more than a little sick.
Out in the corridor footsteps were coming toward the door. Dallandra stood
just as Rhodry opened it and walked in, glancing at the table.
'Jill's things?' he said in Elvish.
'Just that. Here, take a look at that sword, will you? I'm curious about those
marks on the blade.'
Rhodry obligingly picked the sword up, drew it full out of the sheath, and
studied the devices. When he looked up, his eyes glistened with tears.
'This belonged to Jill's father, Cullyn of Cerrmor,' he said. 'She must have
carried it with her for his memory's sake.'
The tears spilled and ran. For a moment he stood sobbing like a child, yet