df.therunelords-第17部分

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e　singled　out　castles；　striking　with　ferocity；　overwhelming　his　opponents；　then　consolidated　his　position　before　moving　on。
　It　seemed　odd　to　Sylvarresta　that　Raj　Ahten　would　target　Heredon。　It　was　not　the　closest　neighbor　to　Raj　Ahten。　Nor　was　it　the　least　defensible　of　the　northern　realms。
　Yet　he　recalled　his　chess　game　from　so　many　years　ago。　The　way　Raj　Ahten　struggled　to　control　even　far　corners　of　the　hoard。　Though　Heredon　was　at　the　edge　of　Raj　Ahten's　board；　the　consequences　of　its　loss　would　be　devastating：　Raj　Ahten　would　take　a　Northern　country；　forcing　Fleeds　and　Mystarria　to　defend　on　fronts　both　to　their　north　and　south。　Heredon　was　not　a　poor　country。　Sylvarresta's　smiths　were　the　finest　makers　of　arms　and　armor　in　Rofehavan；　and　the　land　was　rich　in　cattle　for　food；　sheep　for　wool；　in　timber　to　build　fortifications　and　engines　of　war；　and　in　vassals　to　give　endowments。
　Raj　Ahten　would　need　all　of　these　to　take　the　North。
　My　wife　is　his　cousin；　Sylvarresta　reminded　himself。　Perhaps　he　imagines　she　is　a　danger　to　him。　The　Powers　know；　Venetta　Sylvarresta　would　have　stabbed　Raj　Ahten　in　his　sleep　years　ago；　if　she'd　had　the　chance。
　Is　this　part　of　a　grander　scheme？　Sylvarresta　worried。　Attacks　like　this　could　be　taking　place　in　every　castle　in　Rofehavan。　If　all　the　assassins　struck　simultaneously；　Sylvarresta　would　not　have　time　to　warn　his　fellow　kings。
　He　rubbed　his　eyes；　lost　in　speculation。
　　
　BOOK　2
　　
　DAY　20　IN　THE　MONTH　OF　HARVEST
　　
　A　DAY　OF　SACRIFICE
　　
　Chapter　6
　MEMORIES　OF　SMILES
　　
　In　the　forests　of　the　Dunnwood；　Prince　Gaborn　rode　in　silence　through　the　starlight；　avoiding　the　narrow　gullies　and　darker　woods　where　wights　might　congregate。
　The　trees　above　him　were　twisted　things；　with　limbs　half…bare；　the　yellow　birch　leaves　waggling　in　the　night　wind　like　fingers。　The　carpet　of　leaves　beneath　his　horse's　hooves　was　deep　and　lush；　making　for　a　quiet　ride。
　Shortly　after　dusk　the　sorcerous　mists　had　begun　to　fail。　Raj　Ahten　no　longer　needed　such　mists　to　hide　him。　Instead；　now　the　stars　overhead　shone　with　unnatural　clarity；　perhaps　because　of　some　spell　cast　by　Raj　Ahten's　flameweavers；　gathering　light　so　that　they　might　let　the　Wolf　Lord's　army　pick　their　way　through　the　woods。
　For　hours　Gaborn　had　been　circumventing　Raj　Ahten's　army；　evading　pursuers。　He'd　managed　to　kill　two　more　Frowth　giants；　and　he　shot　an　outrider　from　his　saddle。　But　Gaborn　had　seen　no　sign　of　pursuit　for　three　hours。
　As　he　rode；　he　wondered。　The　Dunnwood　was　an　old　wood；　and　a　queer　place　by　any　standard。　The　headwaters　of　the　River　Wye　were　said　to　be　magical　places；　where　three…hundred…year…old　sturgeons　as　wise　as　any　sage　lived　in　the　deep　pools。
　But　it　was　not　these　that　Gaborn　wondered　at。　It　was　the　woods'　legendary　affinity　for　〃right〃　and　〃law。〃　Few　outlaws　had　ever　penetrated　the　forest。　There　was　Edmon　Tillerman；　who　came　into　the　woods　as　an　outlaw；　a　madman　who　took　endowments　of　brawn　and　wit　from　bears　until　he　became　a　creature　of　the　wood　himself。　According　to　the　folktales；　he　left　off　his　stealing；　and　in　time　became　a　heroavenging　poor　farmers　wronged　by　other　outlaws；　protecting　the　woodland　creatures。
　But　there　were　stranger　stories　still：　the　old　woman　centuries　ago　who　was　murdered　and　hidden　in　a　pile　of　leaves　in　the　Dunnwood；　who　then　became　a　creature　of　wood　and　sticks　that　hunted　down　her　killers。
　Or　what　of　the　giant　〃stone　men〃　that　some　said　walked　these　woods？　Creatures　that　sometimes　came　to　the　edge　of　the　forest　and　stood　gazing　thoughtfully　to　the　south？
　There　was　a　timecenturies　agowhen　these　woods　loved　man　more　than　they　did　now。　A　time　when　men　could　travel　them　freely。　Now；　a　stillness；　a　heaviness；　had　e　under　the　trees；　as　if　the　wood　itself　were　outraged　and　considering　retaliation　against　so　many　uninvited　men。　Certainly　the　heat　of　the　flameweavers；　the　iron…shod　hooves　of　horses；　the　mass　of　men　and　giants　would　all　cause　some　damage　to　the　forest。
　The　owls　had　fallen　silent　this　night；　and　twice　Gaborn　had　seen　huge　harts　bounding　through　the　trees；　shaking　their　great　antlers　from　side　to　side　as　if　prepared　to　fight。
　Off　to　his　right；　the　armies　marched。　A。　feeling　pervaded　the　forest；　like　the　electric　thrill　of　a　brewing　storm。
　For　long　hours；　Gaborn　rode　through　the　trees；　a　heaviness　growing　in　his　heart；　a　drowsiness　fogging　his　mind。　It　was　a　sweet；　organic　tirednesslike　that　brought　on　by　mulled　wine　while　one　sits　beside　a　fire；　or　like　the　drugged　sleep　induced　by　an　herbalist's　concoction　of　poppy　petals。
　Gaborn's　eyelids　began　to　feel　weighty。　He　half…dozed　as　he　rode　up　a　ridge；　around　a　peak；　and　back　down　into　a　valley；　where　brambles　and　limbs　blocked　his　every　path。
　He　became　angry；　drew　his　saber；　and　considered　hacking　his　way　through　the　trees；　but　stopped　when　he　heard　curses　just　ahead；　and　the　sound　of　someone　else；　a　man　in　armor；　hacking　through　the　same　copse。
　Almost　too　late　he　recognized　the　source　of　the　danger。　Somehow　he'd　turned　around　in　his　ride。
　The　trees。　He　wondered　if　they　had　led　him　to　danger。
　In　the　shadowed　woods；　Gabon　stopped。　He　glimpsed　one　of　Raj　Ahten's　patrols。　A　dozen　scouts　hacked　a　path　through　the　brush；　while　Gaborn　held　perfectly　still。
　They　passed　in　the　darkness。　Gaborn　feared　even　to　breathe。
　He　reined　in　his　horse；　hard；　and　inhaled　deeply。　For　long　moments　he　tried　to　focus　his　thoughts。　No　harm；　he　wanted　to　say　to　the　woods。　I　mean　you　no　harm。
　It　required　all　his　will　to　merely　sit　a　horse；　to　keep　from　riding　headlong　toward　destruction。　Sweat　broke　out　on　Gaborn's　forehead；　his　hands　trembled；　and　his　breathing　came　ragged。
　I　am　your　friend；　he　wanted　to　say。　Feel　me。　Test　me。　For　long　moments；　he　tried　to　open　himself；　his　mind　and　heart；　to　municate　to　the　wood。
　He　felt　the　tendrils　of　thought　move　slowly；　seeking　him；　grasping　him　as　a　root　might　grasp　a　stone。　He　could　feel　their　ponderous　power。
　The　trees　seized　him；　infiltrated　every　portion　of　his　mind。　Memories　and　childhood　fears　began　to　flash　before　Gaborn's　eyesunwanted　bits　of　dreams　and　adolescent　fantasies。　Every　hope　and　deed　and　desire。
　Then；　just　as　slowly；　the　seeking　tendrils　began　to　withdraw。
　〃Bear　me　no　malice；〃　Gaborn　whispered　to　the　trees　when　at　last　he　could　speak。　〃Your　enemies　are　my　enemies。　Let　me　pass　safely；　that　I　may　defeat　them。〃
　After　many　long　heartbeats；　the　heaviness　around　him　seemed　to　ease。　Gaborn　let　his　mind　drift　and　dream；　though　with　his　stamina　he　needed　no　sleep。
　He　thought　upon　the　thing　that　had　brought　him　north；　his　desire　to　see　Iome　Sylvarresta。
　On　a　mad　impulse　last　year；　he　had　e　secretly　to　Heredon　for　the　autumn　hunt；　so　that　he　could　take　the　measure　of　her。　His　father　came　annually　for　Hostenfest；　the　autumn　celebration　of　the　great　day；　some　sixteen　hundred　years　past；　when　Heredon　Sylvarresta　had　speared　a　reaver　mage　here。　Now；　each　year　in　the　Month　of　Harvest；　the　lords　of　Heredon　rode　through　the　Dunnwood；　hunting　the　great　boars；　practicing　the　same　skills　with　lance　that　had　been　used　to　defeat　the　reavers。
　So　Gaborn　had　e　to　the　hunt　hidden　in　his　father's　retinue　as　if　he　were　a　mere　squire。　His　father's　soldiers　all　knew　he'd　e；　of　course；　but　none　dared　openly　speak　his　name　or　break　his　cover。　Even　King　Sylvarresta　had　noted　Gaborn's　presence　during　the　hunt；　but　because　of　his　fine　manners　dared　not　speak　of　it；　until　Gaborn　chose　to　reveal　himself。
　Oh；　Gaborn　had　played　his　part　as　squire　well　for　the　casual　observer；　helping　soldiers　don　their　armor　for　the　tournament　games；　sleeping　in　Sylvarresta's　stables　at　night；　caring　for　horses　and　gear　through　the　week's　hunt。　But　he'd　also　been　able　to　sit　at　table　in　the　Great　Hall　during　the　feast　marking　the　end　of　Hostenfest；　though　as　a　mere　squire　he　sat　at　the　far　end；　away　from　the　kings　and　nobles　and　knights。　There　he'd　gawked　openly；　as　if　he'd　never　eaten　in　the　presence　of　a　foreign　king。
　All　the　better　to　view　Iome　at　a　distance；　her　dark　smoldering　eyes　and　dark　hair；　her　flawless　skin。　His　father　had　said　she　was　beautiful　of　face；　and　by　recounting　tales　of　things　she'd　said　over　the　years；　Gaborn　felt　convinced　she　was　beautiful　of　heart。
　He'd　been　well　schooled　in　etiquette；　but　he　learned　a　bit　about　Northern　manners　at　that　dinner。　In　Mystarria；　it　was　customary　to　wash　one's　hands　in　a　bowl　of　cool　water　before　the　feast；　but　here　in　the　North　one　washed　both　hands　and　face　in　bowls　that　were　steaming　hot。　While　in　the　South　one　dried　one's　hands　by　wiping　them　on　one's　tunic；　here　in　the　North　thick　towels　were　provided；　then　draped　over　one's　knee　afterward；　where　they　could　be　used　for　wiping　grease　or　for　blowing　one's　nose。
　In　the　South；　small　dull　knives　and　tiny　forks　were　provided　for　feasts；　so　that　if　a　fight　broke　out；　no　one　would　be　properly　armed。　But　here　in　the　North；　one　ate　with　one's　own　knife　and　fork。
　The　most　disgusting　difference　in　custom　came　in　the　matter　of　dogs。　In　the　South；　a　gentleman　always　threw　his　bones　over　the　right　shoulder　to　feed　the　dogs。　But　here　in　the　Great　Hall；　all　the　dogs　had　been　taken　outside；　so　bones　were　left　cluttering　the　platein　a　most　b