The Familiars: Secrets of the Crown. Adam Epstein

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Dalton lay on a slender bed in the Royal Cleric’s chamber as the palace healer’s black raven ran a wing along his arm. During the whole trip back to the New Palace he had clenched his jaw, never once letting on how excruciating the pain must have been. Now Aldwyn watched as the bird’s healing feathers worked their magic. The stump where Dalton’s little finger once was began to puss and ooze as flesh and bone sprang forth, like a newly forming twig on a sapling. Within seconds, it had regenerated itself and looked as good as new.

      Across the room, Marianne sat before a fireplace where wood crackled warmly in the hearth, having been lit by flint and stone rather than a magic spell. She traced her finger along a wrinkled parchment map, while Jack spun a pear-shaped globe in one and then the other direction.

      “A great big tree,” Marianne repeated. “That only narrows it down to, oh, every forest in Vastia.”

      “Could be in the mountains too,” added Jack.

      Sorceress Edna let out a sigh of frustration as she paced behind them. “This is bad, very bad. Even worse than before, I’m afraid.”

      Aldwyn leaped on to the windowsill and looked outside. Night had fallen, and the moon was beginning to rise up over the Yennep Mountains. It was three-quarters full, just seven days away from reaching the end of its lunar phase, when Paksahara’s grim promise would be fulfilled and a new Dead Army would rise. In the courtyard below, Aldwyn could see Queen Loranella standing with a band of cloaked warriors – some the queen’s finest soldiers, others disenchanted wizards – all beside their steeds. Many were accompanied by their familiars. Among them stood Urbaugh, the bearded spellcaster from the council meeting, and his brother. There had been rumours of suspicious activity on the northwestern border of Vastia, and while it was little to go on, in the face of such a grave threat, even the smallest lead was worth pursuing. The queen touched each of the warriors’ shoulders as they bowed before her, then they took to their steeds and rode off.

      “Hmm-hm hm hm-hmm hm hm…”

      Aldwyn spun round to see that the humming was coming from Gilbert yet again, the same melody that had been stuck in the tree frog’s head since their encounter with Agorus.

      “Gilbert,” snapped Aldwyn, exasperated. “What’s with the humming?”

      “No, wait,” said Skylar, suddenly taking great interest in Gilbert’s out-of-tune music making. “Keep going.”

      “Hm hm hm hmm-hm hm?” continued Gilbert.

      Skylar joined in, chirping along in harmony. “Hmm-hm hm hm-hmm hm hm. I know this song. It’s a lullaby. They used to sing it to us at Nearhurst Aviary.” She searched her memory, then began singing. “Hiding high upon its head, Draped in white shimmering gown, Lie the keys to the past, In the snow leopard’s crown. Gilbert, you’ve been trying to give us clues all this time!”

      “I have?” asked the tree frog. “I mean, I have!”

      “There’s more to it, though,” said Skylar. “That’s just the end. How does it start again?”

      Gilbert hummed to himself for a moment.

      “That’s easy,” he said. “When night falls hear the dog’s bark, Howling to the tallest clouds. Secrets of yore buried, Beneath green needle shrouds.”

      “Go on,” said Skylar.

      “That’s all I remember. I always fell asleep right about then.”

      Some long-forgotten memory was bubbling up in Aldwyn too, and when he opened his mouth, the words just tumbled out.

      “When night falls hear the dog’s bark,

      Howling to the tallest clouds.

      Secrets of yore buried,

      Beneath green needle shrouds.

      Between the root of all roots,

      Where every fear sinks away,

      Are stairs with no bottom,

      Unless eyes find sun’s ray.

      Through brown mist stone arrows point,

      To where the ladybirds rest.

      A supper to be placed,

      In the great spider’s nest.

      Now comes a black crescent sword,

      Cutting through the emerald night.

      At last the waking moth,

      Flies to the rising light.

      Hiding high upon its head,

      Draped СКАЧАТЬ