"Andre Norton - WW - 26 The Mage Stone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

generations reeked of fish!

Here am I, all these years later, still asking questions about kinship. But these particular questions do not
concern missing names from the kin lists of other folk; these questions concern my own kin, and the
farther I pursue them, the more my disquiet grows. I cannot rest until I find answers. For years, I did not
know where to search. I had only guesses, suspicions, fragments that made scant sense by themselves. It
was as if I sought to plan a trading journey without knowing where I was to ride, or what goods I should
take.

Then, nearly two months ago, in the Month of the Shredbark Tree, Dame Gwersa's letter reached me at
Vennesport. I am certain she did not intend it so, but her news was the firebrand that ignited my
accumulated store of worries. From your visits to Rishdale Abbey, you would recall the Dame's special
devotion to the preservation of old records. Since the war, she has endeavored to restore the archives at
her own abbey as well as several others tragically damaged in the fighting. Dame Gwersa is now very old
and blind, but she dictates occasional letters to me, her student from almost seventy years ago.

A visitor to Rishdale Abbey this past summer had brought her word of an amazing discovery across the
sea in Estcarp. Two years before, in the Year of the Kobold, an unprecedented quaking of the earth was
wrought by Estcarp's Witches to halt an invasion across their southern border from Karsten. One of the
subsidiary results was the destruction of parts of the walls and towers at Lormt, the ancient citadel famed
for its archives. Previously unknown storage rooms and cellars were exposed beneath the rubble, adding
an untold wealth of documents to those already prized by kinship scholars.

The moment I read Dame Gwersa's account, I knew that I must journey to Lormt. Until then, I had felt
like a jeweler attempting to assemble a chaplet of Ithdale pearls, but lacking most of the significant gems
needed to complete my pattern. My missing pearls were of two sorts: kin-facts, and knowledge about a
very different kind of jewel. What better place could I seek both than Lormt?

Two primary questions had been--and still are--hammering in my mind: who was my true father, and
whence came my mother's chief legacy to me, that curious jewel she termed my betrothal gift?

From childhood, I had always assumed that I knew who I was. On the day I first met you, I identified
myself on my writing slate--Mereth of far Ferndale, speechless since my birth in the Year of the
Blue-homed Ram. You said that was an appropriate Year Name for one engaged in the wool trade, and
a script as clear as mine should be as useful to a trader as a voice, yet far less likely to be misunderstood.
I was seventeen then, and grateful for your kindness. Not many busy traders would pause to read my
slate, or have the time or patience to answer my questions.

From that initial meeting, you were distinctively different from all the other traders, and not just because
of your singular courtesy. I was bemused when you confided that you had two names: Lundor, given you
by your parents, and Doubt, bestowed on you by the trading community. I recall thinking what a strange
name Doubt was, so I wrote on my slate, "Why `Doubt'?"
 You smiled, and replied that it was due to your deplorable habit of foreseeing all the possible objections
to proposals--all the reasons why suggested plans might not work.

That night, I wrote queries to Mother about you. She laughed aloud, and said you also peppered your
speech with frequent doubts. Assuming a severe expression, she imitated your deep voice, "Oh, I doubt
we shall acquire any usable wool from that Dale this season--excessive rains spoiled their grazing land.
Besides, I doubt they've yet repaired the only bridge allowing access by our wagons. This venture you
propose will go ill, I've no doubt." For all your gloom, she added, you were a very keen trader, and the