The Language of Stones. Robert Goldthwaite Carter
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Название: The Language of Stones
Автор: Robert Goldthwaite Carter
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Героическая фантастика
isbn: 9780007398249
isbn:
‘I swear.’
‘Hand on heart?’
‘Hand on heart.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Master Gwydion is a wizard.’
Her mouth opened wide and then her nose wrinkled. ‘No!’
‘It’s true. And I’m his apprentice.’
‘And do they all tell such whopping lies where you come from?’
‘I’m not telling lies! It’s true. I’ll swear to it if you like.’
‘Hand on heart?’
‘Hand on heart.’
She looked at him sidelong, and Will could not be sure but he thought she had decided to believe him.
‘It must be very exciting being a wizard’s apprentice.’
‘It’s a little scary sometimes. You’d be amazed at the things I’ve seen.’
She smiled a doubting smile. ‘Like what?’
‘Oh, all kinds of things. He makes owls fly so slowly that you can count their wingbeats. He makes falling rain stop, right in mid-air. He can whistle up a storm just like that—’ He clicked his fingers and leaned towards her confidentially. ‘And he even summons giants out of the earth. Giants as big as barns. They’re terrifying.’
‘Go on, then,’ she said, her eyes sparkling now. ‘Do a bit of magic for me.’
That stopped him dead, and he wondered what his boasting had led him to, but then he put on his most serious expression. ‘I’d like to, but…’
‘But what?’
He shook his head and sucked in a breath. ‘You must know that magic is dangerous?’
‘Surely not if you know what you’re doing.’
He drew himself up. ‘Oh, no. It’s always dangerous. All magic is dangerous because, you see, it affects the harmony, the balance, the…the way things touch one another, and so on.’
‘Is that right?’
She watched him, waiting for more, while he desperately tried to remember all the things the Wise Woman had told him.
‘It’s quite hard to give magical knowledge to someone who hasn’t had the proper grounding.’
‘So I see. But I don’t want you to give me any magical knowledge. I just want you to do some for me.’
‘I’ll…I’ll think on that.’ He nodded his head gravely. ‘Yes, I’ll think on it. And maybe I’ll show you some tomorrow.’
Her glance slid away from him. ‘Oh, I see. And what makes you think you’ll be seeing me tomorrow?’
‘Well…I mean I’d like to. I really would.’ He felt his composure deserting him so that he couldn’t meet her eye now. ‘That is, if you’re able to…if you want to come back here. They say all things come full circle – that’s a rede, you know.’
Just then, Will heard two piercing whistles and he looked down the slope. There stood a bearded man with his head tilted back and a couple of fingers stuck in his mouth.
‘That’s my father! He’s going back with the others to make ready for the celebrations. Can’t stay. I’m late.’
She jumped up and without another word scampered down the slope.
He was about to call after her, but her father was there and he thought better of it.
‘Willow…’ he said to himself. ‘But what about tomorrow?’
For a while Will lay by himself on the fringe of the forest, knowing he ought to return to face Lord Strange’s wrath, and that the longer he delayed the worse it would be. But something defiant inside him resisted. He looked out at the still waters of the pool. When the thump-thump-thump had ended for the day it had been like the fading away of a toothache. Wisps of smoke still rose up from the charcoal burners’ mounds, but there was no other movement. Everyone, it seemed, had gone down to the village to prepare for the Midsummer.
He sighed, feeling truly alone. At home in the Vale, folk would be dancing and feasting and playing festive games long into the evening, but all that seemed too far away now, and a chill touched him as he lay on his mat of mossy grass. He fell into a sombre mood as he watched the pool and saw the doomed trees reflected there.
After listening to the silence for a while, curiosity roused him and drew him down the slope into a forbidden place. He was mindful of his promise to Gwydion to remain within the Wychwoode, but a desire to know the truth pushed him just a few steps beyond its bounds. Around him stood heaps of rubbish, piles of sawdust and the axe-hacked stumps of large trees. Sheds and shelters clustered round Grendon Mill. Piles of small logs were stacked up ready for charring. Where the sluice leaked there was the sound of water spilling down behind the stationary wheel and tumbling through the race.
He looked inside the mill and saw a great square oaken shaft, toothed wheels, trundles bound in iron and bearings set in stone. There were empty anvils at each of the three trip-hammers and an idle bellows by the covered hearth. Long pincers and mallets hung on the walls. All around lay piles of metal that had been cut into different shapes. Most of it was rusty or fire-blackened, though some of it was burnished bright, but there was no mistaking what was being made here.
‘War,’ he whispered, picking up a half-formed sword blade. ‘Just like Master Gwydion said…’
Excitement thrilled through him as he looked at what had been fashioned. There were blades of different lengths, all as yet without point or edge. Grim-looking axe-heads and war-hammers stood in rows. And thousands of sharpened arrowheads waited to be attached to shafts. In another shed were iron hats and helms, many roughly-made pieces of armour for limb and body. And in the shelter of a thatched lean-to was a mail-maker’s bench with boxes of rivets and pairs of pincers with rags tied round their handles. Thousands of close-linked rings had already been painstakingly fitted together to make hoods of mail like Lord Strange’s guards wore.
Every shed Will looked into was the same. There seemed to be enough iron to arm five hundred soldiers, and if as Willow had said waggons came most days taking away what had been finished, who could say how much had already gone into store?
Does Lord Strange know what’s happening? he wondered. Of course he must know! The sound of those trip-hammers carries far and wide.
He felt suddenly cold inside. His fingers reached for the comfort of the leaping salmon talisman that hung about his neck. He wished Gwydion was here. This is a fine way to spend Midsummer, he thought as he came away.
He was picking his way past the mill-race when he chanced to look down. The sight that met СКАЧАТЬ