[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
The skal tum then turned to Rockingham, its red eyes bright with mischief.
And you, fresh one. I
remember you.
Rockingham didn t know what it was talking about. He could not have forgotten
meeting such a creature, not in a thousand years.
The skal tum rested a finger on Rockingham s chest; he trembled at the touch,
fearing the daggered claw.
The creature leaned nearer and cupped the base of Rockingham s skull. Suddenly
it whipped forward, pressing its black lips tight to his.
No
! Its tongue snaked between his lips as he tried to scream.
Rockingham fought the intrusion, but the skal tum held him firm as it probed
deeper. He spasmed in its grip; his throat constricted, and his heart
thundered blood past his ears.
Just before Rockingham s mind snapped, it ended. The skal tum pulled back and
stepped away.
Rockingham fell to his hands and knees, spitting and gagging.
The skal tum spoke above him. I can taste her spoor in you.
Page 39
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Rockingham vomited into the weeds.
The juggler pushed into the room behind the bards-woman. Sixteen coppers did
not buy much, he noted.
The sleeping quarters were dark, but the chambermaid crossed to the lantern
and flamed the wick. Light did not benefit the small space. The walls were in
need of fresh paint, and the sole bed appeared to be the main source of
sustenance for the handful of moths flitting toward the lamplight. The only
other piece of furniture was a stained cedar wardrobe off to the side. He
stepped over and creaked open one of its crooked doors. Dust and moths
escaped. It was empty.
The room was also in need of an airing out, as it smelled of old candle wax
and unwashed bodies. But its single narrow window, looking out on the inn s
courtyard, had its wooden frame painted shut. Raised voices and the clopping
of many hooves rose from the yard three stories below. The orchard s blaze
still raised a stir among the townsfolk.
But the fire was of no concern to him.
The juggler waited for the chambermaid to slip out of the room after he graced
her palm with a coin. He swung the locking bar in place and stood by the door
until her footsteps faded. No other steps approached. Satisfied that no one
eavesdropped, the juggler turned to the bardswoman, who had settled her bag at
the foot of the bed. She kept the covered lute in her hand and sat softly on
the bed s rumpled coverlet. She kept her face slightly tilted away, her
straight hair a blond drape between them.
The name you used
Er ril
, he said, anxious to get to the core of the mystery, why did you call me by
that name?
It is who you are, is it not? The woman, small as a waif, gently placed the
lute beside her lap, but she kept one hand resting on the instrument.
He ignored her question. And who might you be?
Her voice remained meek, I am Nee lahn, of Lok ai hera. She raised her eyes
to him as if expecting him to recognize the name.
Lok ai hera? Why did that stir a memory? He tried to remember, but he had been
through so many towns and villages. And where is that?
The woman shrank farther from him, withdrawing inward. She slid the lute from
its cover. Again the red wood seemed to stir in whirls in the lamplight. How
soon you forget, Er ril of Standi, she whispered to her lute.
He sighed, tiring of this dance. No one has called me by that name in
hundreds of winters. That man is long dead. He crossed to the window and
pulled away the threadbare curtain. Men with torches milled in the courtyard.
Many others carried buckets and shovels. A wagon pulled up, and men crowded
into the rear. The two draft horses pulling the wagon had to be beat with
switches to haul such a load. Er ril watched the wagon lurch away toward the
road. To the west, an orange glow rimmed the foothills.
He suddenly shivered, remembering when he had last stood in this cursed
valley. Then, too, he had stared out an inn s window toward fires in the
hills.
He spoke with his back turned. Why do you seek me?
In the reflection of the glass, he saw the bardswoman bow her head and finger
the strings of her lute. The lonely notes softened the hard edges of the room.
Because we are the last.
Her notes continued to draw him from this room, pulling him to a faraway
place. He turned to her. The last of what? he mumbled.
The last whispers of power from the distant past, of Chi.
He scowled. He had come to revile the name of the spirit god who had abandoned
Alasea to desecration by the Gul -gotha. His voice hardened. I bear no such
power.
She tilted her head, totally obscuring her small face with the fall of her
Page 40
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
hair. You have lived for five centuries, yet you doubt your power?
It was all my brother s doing. He did this to me.
She whispered a word. Shorkan.
Er ril started slightly at the mention of his brother s name. He raised an
eyebrow and looked closer at the woman. How do you know so much about me?
I have studied the old stories. She reached out a slender finger and pulled
aside a stream of blond hair to reveal a single violet eye. And ancient
words: Three will become one and the Book will be bound.
Old words from a forsaken time.
Her eye narrowed at him. You are no longer like the man described in the
stories. That man rescued the
Book, protected it. He searched the lands, trying to raise resistance to the
Gul gothal overlord. That man is rumored still to be roaming the land.
Like I said, old stories.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]