"George R. R. Martin - The Lonely Songs of Laren Dorr" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

THE LONELY SONGS OF
LAREN DORR

George R.R. Martin
A DF Books NERDs Release
There is a girl who goes between the worlds.
She is grey-eyed and pale of skin, or so the story goes, and her hair is a coal-black waterfall with
half-seen hints of red. She wears about her brow a circlet of burnished metal, a dark crown that holds
her hair in place and sometimes puts shadows in her eyes. Her name is Sharra; she knows the gates.

The beginning of her story is lost to us, with the memory of the world from which she sprang. The end?
The end is not yet, and when it comes we shall not know it.

We have only the middle, or rather a piece of that middle, the smallest part of the legend, a mere
fragment of the quest. A small tale within the greater, of one world where Sharra paused, and of the
lonely singer Laren Dorr and how they briefly touched.
****
One moment there was only the valley, caught in twilight. The setting sun hung fat and violet on the ridge
above, and its rays slanted down silently into a dense forest whose trees had shiny black trunks and
colorless ghostly leaves. The only sounds were the cries of the mourning-birds coming out for the night,
and the swift rush of water in the rocky stream that cut the woods.

Then, through a gate unseen, Sharra came tired and bloodied to the world of Laren Dorr. She wore a
plain white dress, now stained and sweaty, and a heavy fur cloak that had been half-ripped from her
back. And her left arm, bare and slender, still bled from three long wounds. She appeared by the side of
the stream, shaking, and she threw a quick, wary glance about her before she knelt to dress her wounds.
The water, for all its swiftness, was a dark and murky green. No way to tell if it was safe, but Sharra was
weak and thirsty. She drank, washed her arm as best she could in the strange and doubtful water, and
bound her injuries with bandages ripped from her clothes. Then, as the purple sun dipped lower behind
the ridge, she crawled away from the water to a sheltered spot among the trees, and fell into exhausted
sleep.

She woke to arms around her, strong arms that lifted her easily to carry her somewhere, and she woke
struggling. But the arms just tightened, and held her still. “Easy,― a mellow voice said, and she saw
a face dimly through gathering mist, a man's face, long and somehow gentle. “You are weak,― he
said, “and night is coming. We must be inside before darkness."

Sharra did not struggle, not then, though she knew she should. She had been struggling a long time, and
she was tired. But she looked at him, confused. “Why?― she asked. Then, not waiting for an
answer, “Who are you? Where are we going?"

"To safety,― he said.

"Your home?― she asked, drowsy.

"No,― he said, so soft she could scarcely hear his voice. “No, not home, not ever home. But it will
do.― She heard splashing then, as if he were carrying her across the stream, and ahead of them on the
ridge she glimpsed a gaunt, twisted silhouette, a triple-towered castle etched black against the sun. Odd,
she thought, that wasn't there before.