tw.thestoneoffarewell-第17部分

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ll　wearing　their　costumes；　came　into　the　room。　Lenti　had　taken　off　his　Death　mask；　his　sullen　eyes　peered　out　of　a　face　that　was　pinker；　but　not　a　great　deal　livelier；　than　the　one　he　had　doffed。
　　〃Make　them　fortable；　Lenti；〃　Streawe　said。　〃Then；　lock　the　door　behind　you　and　e　back　to　help　me　into　my　litter。〃
　　As　the　nodding　Cadrach　was　rousted　from　his　chair；　Miriamele　turned　on　the　count。　〃How　could　you　do　this？〃　she　sputtered。　〃I　had　always　remembered　you　fondly…you　and　your　treacherous　garden！〃
　　〃Ah；　the　garden；〃　Streawe　said。　〃Yes；　you　would　like　to　see　that　again；　wouldn't　you？　Don't　be　angry；　Princess。　We　will　talk　more…I　have　much　to　tell　you。　I　am　charmed　to　see　you　again。　To　think　that　pale；　shy　Hylissa　should　have　birthed　such　a　fierce　child！〃
　　As　Lenti　and　the　others　hustled　them　out　into　the　rain；　Miriamele　caught　a　last　glimpse　of　Streawe。　The　count　was　staring　at　the　gate；　his　white…haired　head　nodding　slowly　up　and　down。
　　
　　They　brought　her　to　a　tall　house　full　of　dusty　hangings　and　ancient；　creaking　chairs。　Streawe's　castle；　perched　on　a　spur　of　Sta　Mirore；　was　empty　but　for　a　handful　of　silent　servants　and　a　few　nervous…looking　messengers　who　crept　in　and　out　like　stoats　through　a　fence　hole。
　　Miriamele　had　her　own　room。　It　might　have　been　pretty　once；　long；　long　ago。　Now　the　faded　tapestries　showed　only　dim　ghosts　of　people　and　places；　and　the　straw　of　her　mattress　was　so　old　and　brittle　and　dry　that　it　whispered　in　her　ears　all　night。
　　She　dressed　every　morning　with　the　help　of　a　heavy…faced　woman　who　smiled　tightly　and　spoke　very　little。　Cadrach　was　being　kept　somewhere　else；　so　she　had　no　one　to　talk　with　during　the　long　days　and　little　to　do　except　read　an　old　Book　of　the　Aedon　whose　illuminations　had　faded　until　the　cavorting　animals　were　mere　outlines；　as　though　carved　in　crystal。
　　From　the　moment　she　was　brought　to　Streawe's　house；　Miriamele　schemed；　dreaming　of　ways　she　might　get　free；　but　for　all　its　air　of　stuffy　disuse；　the　count's　decaying　palace　was　harder　to　escape　than　the　Hayholt's　deepest；　dankest　cells。　The　front　hallway　door　of　the　wing　in　which　she　was　housed　was　kept　firmly　locked。　The　rooms　along　the　passageway　were　similarly　barred。　The　woman　who　dressed　her　and　the　other　servants　were　brought　in　and　out　by　a　broad…boned　and　serious…looking　warder。　Of　all　the　potential　routes　of　escape；　only　the　door　at　the　other　end　of　the　long　hallway　was　ever　left　open。　Beyond　this　door　lay　Streawe's　walled　garden；　and　that　was　where　Miriamele　spent　most　of　her　days。
　　The　garden　was　smaller　than　she　remembered；　but　that　was　not　surprising：　she　had　been　very　young　when　she　had　seen　it　last。　It　seemed　older；　too；　as　if　the　bright　flowers　and　greenery　had　grown　a　bit　weary。
　　Banks　of　red　and　yellow　roses　lined　the　garden；　but　they　were　being　gradually　supplanted　by　exuberantly　snaking　vines　whose　beautiful　bell…shaped　flowers　shone　the　color　of　blood；　and　whose　cloying　scent　mingled　with　a　myriad　of　other　sweet；　sad　odors。　Columbine　clung　to　the　walls　and　door…frames；　its　spurred　blossoms　dotting　the　twilight　like　softly…glowing　stars。　Here　and　there　streaks　of　even　wilder　colors　flashed　among　the　tree　branches　and　flowering　shrubs…the　tails　of　shrill…voiced；　onyx…eyed　birds　from　the　Southern　Islands。
　　The　top　of　the　high…walled　garden　was　open　to　the　sky。　Her　first　morning　in　the　garden　Miriamele　tried　to　climb　the　wall；　but　quickly　discovered　that　the　stone　was　too　smooth　for　fingerholds；　the　vines　too　flimsy　to　offer　support。　As　if　to　remind　her　of　the　proximity　of　freedom；　tiny　hill　birds　frequently　spiraled　down　through　this　sky…window；　hopping　from　branch　to　branch　until　something　startled　them　and　they　leaped　away　into　the　air　once　more。　Occasionally　a　gull；　swept　far　in　from　the　sea；　flapped　down　to　pace　and　preen　before　the　more　colorful　denizens　of　the　garden；　keeping　an　urchin's　eye　open　all　the　while　for　scraps　from　Miriamele's　meals。　But　even　with　the　unfenced　sky　churning　with　clouds　just　a　short　distance　away；　the　brilliantly…plumed　island　birds　stayed　where　they　were；　squawking　resentfully　in　the　green　shadows。
　　Some　evenings　Streawe　joined　her　in　the　garden；　carried　in　by　sullen　Lenti　and　propped　in　a　high…backed　chair；　the　count's　useless；　withered　legs　covered　with　a　figured　lap　robe。　Unhappy　in　her　captivity；　Miriamele　deliberately　made　little　response　when　he　tried　to　amuse　her　with　funny　stories　or　sailors'　gossip　and　rumors　from　the　port。　Still；　she　found　she　could　not　truly　hate　the　old　man；　either。
　　As　the　futility　of　trying　to　escape　became　clear　to　her；　and　as　the　passing　days　wore　away　the　edge　of　her　bitterness；　she　came　to　find　an　unexpected　fort　in　sitting　in　the　garden　while　late　afternoon　turned　to　evening。　At　the　end　of　each　day；　as　the　sky　overhead　turned　slowly　from　blue　to　pewter　to　black　and　the　candles　burned　down　in　their　sconces；　Miriamele　mended　garments　she　had　torn　on　her　journey　south。　While　the　night　birds　sang　their　first　hesitant　notes；　she　drank　calamint　tea　and　pretended　not　to　listen　to　the　old　count's　stories。　When　the　sun　had　gone　down；　she　put　on　her　riding　cloak。　It　had　been　an　unmonly　cold　Yuven…month；　and　even　in　the　sheltered　garden　the　nights　were　brisk。
　　When　Miriamele　had　been　prisoned　for　nearly　a　week　in　Streawe's　castle；　he　came　to　her　sadly　and　told　her　of　the　death　of　her　uncle　Duke　Leobardis　in　bat　before　the　walls　of　Naglimund。　The　duke's　eldest　son　Benigaris…a　cousin　that　she　had　never　much　cared　for…had　returned　to　rule　Nabban　from　the　throne　of　the　Sancellan　Mahistrevis。　With　help；　Miriamele　presumed；　from　his　mother　Nessalanta；　another　relative　who　had　never　been　one　of　Miriamele's　favorites。　The　news　upset　her：　Leobardis　has　been　a　kind　man。　Also；　his　death　meant　Nabban　had　quit　the　field；　leaving　Josua　without　allies。
　　Three　days　later；　as　the　evening　of　the　first　day　of　Tiyagar…month　came　on；　Streawe　poured　her　a　bowl　of　tea　with　his　own　trembling　hand　and　told　her　that　Naglimund　had　fallen。　Rumor　said　there　had　been　great　slaughter；　that　few　had　survived。　He　held　her　awkwardly　in　his　dry…stick　arms　as　she　sobbed。
　　
　　
　　The　light　was　waning。　The　patches　of　sky　that　showed　through　the　dark　embroidery　of　leaves　were　the　unwholesome　blue　of　bruised　flesh。
　　Deornoth　stumbled　on　an　unseen　root　and　Sangfugol　and　Isorn　crashed　to　the　ground　beside　him；　Isorn　losing　his　grip　on　the　harper's　arm　as　he　fell。　Sangfugol　rolled　to　a　halt　and　lay　groaning。　The　bandage　around　his　calf；　strips　of　thin　cloth　from　one　of　the　ladies'　underskirts；　reddened　with　fresh　blood。
　　〃Oh；　the　poor　man；〃　Vorzheva　said；　limping　forward。　She　squatted；　spreading　out　the　skirt　of　her　tattered　dress；　then　took　Sangfugol's　hand。　The　harper's　eyes　were　fixed　in　an　agonized　stare　on　the　tree　limbs　overhead。
　　〃My　lord；　we　must　stop；〃　Deornoth　said。　〃It　is　growing　too　dark　to　see。〃
　　Josua　turned　slowly。　The　prince's　thin　hair　was　disarranged；　his　face　distracted。　〃We　should　walk　until　full　dark；　Deornoth。　Every　moment　of　remaining　light　is　precious。〃
　　Deornoth　swallowed。　It　made　him　feel　almost　ill　to　contradict　his　liege lord。　〃We　must　make　a　secure　place　for　the　night；　my　prince。　It　will　be　hard　to　do　that　after　dark。　And　the　wounded　are　even　more　at　risk　if　we　continue　to　travel。〃
　　Josua　looked　down　at　Sangfugol；　his　expression　distant。　Deornoth　did　not　like　the　change　he　was　seeing　in　his　prince。　Josua　had　always　been　quiet；　and　many　thought　him　strange；　but　still　he　had　been　a　decisive　leader…even　in　the　last　terrible　weeks　before　Naglimund　fell。　Now　he　appeared　unwilling　to　do　anything；　in　small　matters　as　well　as　large。
　　〃Very　well；〃　the　prince　said　at　last。　〃If　you　think　so；　Deornoth。〃
　　〃I　beg　pardon；　but　might　we　not　move　just　a　little　farther　up　this。。。　this　defile？〃　Father　Strangyeard　asked。　〃It　is　only　another　few　steps；　and　it　seems　safer　than　making　camp　in　the　bottom　of　a　gulley…doesn't　it？〃　He　looked　expectantly　at　Josua；　but　the　prince　only　grunted。　After　a　moment；　the　archivist　turned　to　Deornoth。　〃Do　you　think？〃
　　Deornoth　looked　around　at　the　ragged　party；　at　the　white；　frightened　eyes　in　the　dirt…streaked　faces。　〃That　is　a　good　idea；　Father；〃　he　said。　〃We　shall　do　that。〃
　　
　　They　made　a　tiny　fire　in　a　hastily…dug　pit　surrounded　with　stones；　more　for　light　than　anything　else。　Heat　would　have　been　most　wele…with　nightfall；　the　forest　air　was　turning　bitterly　cold…but　they　could　not　risk　so　much　of　a　display。　There　was　nothing　to　eat；　in　any　case。　Their　pace　had　been　far　too　hurried　for　any　hunting。
　　Together；　Father　Strangyeard　and　Duchess　Gutrun　were　cleaning　Sangfugol's　wound　and　rewinding　the　bandage。　The　white　and　black　feathered　arrow；　which　had　knocked　the　harper　down　late　yesterday　afternoon；　seemed　to　have　struck　the　bone。　Despite　the　care　taken　with　its　removal；　not　all　the　arrowhead　had　e　out。　When　Sangfugol　could　talk；　he　plained　that　the　feeling　in　his　leg　was　nearly　gone；　at　the　moment；　he　was　in　shallow；　uneasy　sleep。　Vorzheva　stood　nearby；　looking　on　sorrowfully。　She　had　been　pointedly　shunning　Josua；　who　did　not　seem　much　bothered。
　　Deornoth　silently　cursed　his　thin　cloak。　If　I　had　only　known　we　would　be　tramping　the　open　woods；　he　lamented；　I　would　have　brought　my　fur…hooded　riding　cloak。　He　smiled　grimly　at　his　own　thoughts　and　suddenly　laughed　aloud；　a　short　bark　of　amusement　that　caught　the　attention　of　Einskaldir；　squatting　nearby。
　　〃What's　funny？〃　the　Rimmersman　asked；　frowning　as　he　worked　his　hand…axe　up　and　down　a　small　whetstone。　He　held　it　up；　testing　the　blade　with　his　callused　thumb；　then　laid　it　back　against　the　stone　once　more。
　　〃Nothing；　really。　I　was　just　thinking　about　how　stupid　we've　been…　how　unprepared。〃
　　〃Waste　of　time；　crying；〃　Einskaldir　growled；　his　eyes　never　leaving　the　blade　as　he　lifted　it　to　the　red　firelight。　〃Fight　and　live；　fight　and　die；　God　waits　for　all。〃
　　〃It's　not　that。〃　Deornoth　stopped　for　a　moment　and　considered。　What　had　begun　as　an　idle　thought　had　grown　into　something　more；　suddenly；　he　was　afraid　to　lose　his　grip　on　it。　〃We　have　been　pushed　and　pulled；〃　he　said　slowly；　〃driven　and　drawn。　We　have　been　chased　for　three　days　since　we　escaped　Naglimund；　with　barely　a　mo