Читать книгу Grand Conspiracy - Janny Wurts, Janny Wurts - Страница 15

On the snow-dusted moors of Araethura, the herbalist’s cottage stands empty and cold, the enchantress who lived there gone north to ply her talents in the stews by the Morvain quay, where street children snatch life by robbery and wits; and knife wounds acquired by randy sailors and the unending afflictions of poor quarter harlots will take her mind far from the betrayal enacted through a black-haired shepherd boy’s trust …

The day before Prince Lysaer’s sealed orders reach Caithwood, the Sorcerer Asandir stands under the frost-turned crown of a great oak, his expression like chisel-cut granite; over his head, the winds of late autumn thrash the leaves to a song of rare fury, and the drumming of twigs and the moaning of pines transmit the tattoo outward through the forest like the ripples cast across a stilled pool …

In the teeming port city of Innish, on the south coast, a fair young man entrusted as merchant’s factor sits by the wavering light of a candle, reading a letter in sharp, coded script that describes a specific tavern in Southshire where dispatches are to be left, and closes with the laughing, wishful observation, ‘Keep your harpy of a sister well clear of my affairs, or one better, tell her I’ll play tasteless ballads for her wedding if she’ll find the good grace to exchange feckless seafaring for marriage …’