"Roger Taylor - Hawklan 2 - Fall Of Fyorlund" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Roger)

that he frowned occasionally as if some troublesome thought kept recurring to him.

The celebration that Loman had referred to was not intended to be anything special. The need for it
seemed to have been agreed by an unspoken consensus among the villagers as an attempt to dispel the
remaining gloom left by the tinker. However, the presence of strangers struck the powerful chord of
hospitality present in all the Orthlundyn, and turned it into a very special occasion indeed.

Jaldaric and his troop found themselves overwhelmed with food, drink, and merriment, in a bright ringing
whirl of dancing and singing and laughter, the predominant feature of which seemed indeed to be Tirilen,
flying through the lines of clapping hands and jigging flutes and fiddles.

Eventually Jaldaric had to concede defeat. Flopping down next to Loman, red-faced and panting, he
said, ‘You dance and sing harder than we do our military exercises. I think your daughter would make an
excellent training officer for our cadets.’ He took a long drink. ‘Not to mention some of the Guards
themselves.’

Then they had to leave. In spite of all protests. Jaldaric held his ground valiantly. They had to be back in
Fyorlund soon or they would be in serious trouble. They would not forget the friendship of Pedhavin and
would surely return one day when time was pressing less on them. They refused all offers of hospitality
for the night, saying that, leave or no, they were bound to certain ways as High Guards, and had to spend
their nights in formal camp.

As Jaldaric leaned down from his horse to take Loman’s hand, the light from the fire seemed to make his
boyish, innocent face look briefly old and troubled and, as he rode away, he seemed ill at ease, not
turning to wave as most of the others did.

****

Too tired to face the long steep climb back to the Castle, Tirilen had begged a bed from Isloman. Now
she revelled in the feel of a different room with all its shapes and shadows and smells: familiar, but free of
her own personality.

Pausing before a mirror, she raised her chin, pushed her head forward and carefully examined the small
scar on her throat. It was noticeably less inflamed and she touched it with a cautious finger. It was
healing, but only slowly. How strangely persistent it had been, like the cut on Loman’s hand. Then she
caught sight of her face in the mirror, incongruous, with lips pursed and chin extended. She put out her
tongue and tossed her hair back with a spectacular flourish before setting about it vigorously with a
delicate metal comb that her father had made for her many years earlier. It shone and sparkled, sending
tiny lights about the room as she swept it repeatedly to and fro, unpicking the dance-swirled tangles.

She jigged about on her seat and sang softly to herself as she combed her hair, her head still full of the
music that had been playing all evening, and her feet still full of dancing. Impulsively she stood up and
swirled round, sending her hair and skirts flying out like canopies. Then, dousing the torchlight, she went
over to the window and stepped out onto the balcony.

The sky was bright with moonlight and hardly any stars could be seen. Looking up she could see the
Great Gate of Anderras Darion gleaming silver, like a star fallen to earth, while looking down she could
see the streets and rooftops of Pedhavin, glistening in the moonlight.

There were still a few people wandering about, talking and laughing, and she acknowledged several