"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 02 - The White Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

you're the equal of young Stirka?
He joined the gulls gliding along the cliff face, watching the ones ahead of him to see how the air
currents were acting, while his joints joined his muscles in complaining. Like the gulls, he scarcely moved
his wings in dynamic gliding except to adjust the wingtips. Their flight only looked effortless; all the tiny
adjustments needed to use the wind instead of wingbeats took less energy, but far, far, more control.
And a body in better condition than mine. I should spend less time inspecting stoneworks and
more time flying!
He could have taken the easier way; he could have gone up instead of down, and flapped along like
the old buzzard he was. But no, I let the updraft seduce me, and now I'm stuck. I'm going to regret
this in the morning.
As if that wasn't bad enough, by the time he got halfway across the bay, he'd collected an audience.
His sharp eyes spared his bruised ego none of the details. Not only were there humans and hertasi
watching him, but someone had brought a dozen bouncing, eager young gryphlets.
A flying class, no doubt. Here to see the Great Skandranon demonstrate the fine details of
dynamic gliding. I wonder how they'll like seeing the Great Skandranon demonstrate the details of
falling beak-over-tail on landing?
But with the pressure of all those eyes on him, he redoubled his efforts and increased the complaints
of his muscles. He couldn't help himself. He had always played to audiences.
And when he landed, it was with a clever loft up over their heads that allowed him to drop gracefully
(if painfully) down onto the road rather than scrambling to get a talonhold on the wall edging the terrace.
He made an elegant landing on one hind claw, holding the pose for a moment, then dropping down to all
fours again.
The audience applauded; the gryphlets squealed gleefully. Skan bowed with a jaunty nonchalance
that in no way betrayed the fact that his left hip felt afire with pain. Temporary pain, thank
goodness—he'd been injured often enough to know the difference between the flame of a passing strain
and the ache of something torn or sprained. He clamped his beak down hard, tried to look clever and
casual, and waited for the pain to go away, because he wasn't going to be able to move without limping
until it did.
Stupid, stupid gryphon. Never learn, do you?
The burning ache in his hip finally ebbed; he continued to gryph-grin at the youngsters, then pranced
off toward the half-finished Council Hall before any of the gryphlets could ask him to demonstrate that
pretty landing again.

***
Amberdrake took his accustomed chair at the table, looked up at the canvas that served as a roof,
and wondered how many more sessions they would meet here before the real roof was on. Right now
the Council Hall was in a curious state of half-construction because its ambitious architecture absolutely
required the participation of mages for anything but the simplest of tasks to be done. The mages hadn't
been able to manage more than the most rudimentary of spells for the past six months, not since the last
mage-storm.
That left the Council Hall little more than the walls and stone floor, boasting neither roof nor any of
the amenities it was supposed to offer eventually.
But the completion of the Council Hall was at the bottom of a long list of priorities, and Amberdrake
would be the last person to challenge the order of those priorities. Just—it would be very nice to look up
and see a real roof—and not wonder if the next windstorm was going to come up in the middle of a
Council session and leave all of them staring up at a sky full of stormclouds.
 The Kaled'a'in mage Snowstar, who had once been the mage that their Lord and Master Urtho had
trusted as much as himself, took his own seat beside Amberdrake. He caught the Chief Kestra'chern's
eye and glanced up at the canvas himself.
"We think the next mage-storm will return things to normal enough for us to get some stonework