"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 03 - The Silver Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

left wondering if Winterhart isn't pushing me so hard expecting me to fail, and half the time I think she's
doing it because everyone knows Skandranon never failed at anything he tried."
Tadrith snorted and mock-scraped his hindfeet, as if burying something particularly noxious from a
previous meal. "He never let it be known how often he failed, which is the same thing to legend-builders."
His brother snorted right back and continued. "And if it isn't Winterhart, it's everyone else, watching,
waiting to see if the old Black Gryphon magic is strong enough in Keenath to enable the youngling to pull
off another miracle." He parted his beak in a sardonic grin. "At least you have a path to follow—I'm
going through new skies in the fog, and I have no idea if I'm going to run up against a cliff-face."
Naturally, Tadrith had his own set of retorts, already primed, proving how much more difficult it was
to have to follow in the wake of the Black Gryphon. It was an old set of complaints, worn familiar by
much handling, and much enjoyed by both of them.
Who can I complain to, if not to my twin? For all that they were unalike in form and temper, they
were bound by the twin-bond, and knew each other with the twin's intimacy. There were other twins
among the gryphons, and one or two sets among the humans, and all the twin-sets agreed; there was a
bond between them that was unlike any other sibling tie. Tadrith often thought that he'd never have been
able to cope with the pressure if Keenath hadn't been around, and Keenath had said the same thing
about his sibling.
Finally the litany of complaints wound to its inevitable conclusion—which was, of course, that there
was no conclusion possible. They ran through the sequence at least once every day, having long ago
decided that if they could not change their circumstances, at least they could enjoy complaining about
them.
"So what has your tail in a knot this time?" Keenath asked. "It wasn't just the meeting."
Tadrith rolled over on his back to let the breeze cool his belly. "Sometimes I think I'm going to do
something drastic if Blade and I don't get assigned soon!" he replied, discontentedly. "What are they
waiting for? We've earned our freedom by now!"
"They could be waiting for you to finally demonstrate a little patience, featherhead," Keenath said,
and had to duck as the pillow made a return trip in his direction.
There might have been more pillows than just the one flying, if Silverblade herself, Tadrith's partner,
hadn't chosen that moment to walk in their open door.
She stood in the doorway, posing unconsciously, with the sun making a dark silhouette of her against
the brilliant sky. Tadrith knew it was not a conscious pose; it was totally out of her nature to do anything
to draw attention to herself unless it was necessary. Blade was the name the gryphons knew her by,
though her childhood name hadn't been the use-name she wore now; it had been "Windsong," so dubbed
by her fond parents in the hopes, no doubt, that she would grow up to resemble one or the other of them.
"Windsong" was a perfectly good name for a trondi'irn or even a kestra'chern or a Kaled'a'in Healer or
mage. But "Windsong" hadn't had the inclination for any of those things.
The young woman who broke her pose and strode into the aerie with the soundless tread of a hunter
was small by Kaled'a'in standards, although there was no mistaking her lineage. Her short black hair, cut
in a way that suggested an aggressive bird of prey, framed a face that could only have graced the head of
one of the Clan k'Leshya, and her beak of a nose continued the impression of a hunting hawk. Her
golden skin proclaimed the lineage further, as did her brilliantly blue eyes. There was nothing of her
mother about her—and very little of her father.
She fit in very well with those members of Clan k'Leshya descended from warrior stock, however.
Despite her small size, she was definitely molded in their image. There was nothing to suggest softness or
yielding; she was hard, lithe, and every bit a warrior, all muscle and whipcord.
Tadrith well recalled the first time he had seen her stand that way. The day she showed her real
personality, one month after her twelfth birthday, a month during which she had suddenly turned overnight
from a lively if undistinguished child to a rough and unpolished version of what she now was.
Amberdrake had been holding a gathering of some sort, which had included the children, and of course
Tadrith and Keenath had been in attendance. Winterhart had addressed her daughter as "Windsong"