tw.thestoneoffarewell-第51部分

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r　mounts；　currying　the　rams'　thick　fleeces；　leaning　in　close　to　sing　softly　and　intimately　while　the　sheep　blinked　their　yellow；　slotted　eyes。　Soon　it　would　be　time　for　salty　tea　and　dried　meat　and　quiet；　laughing　conversation。
　　Except；　of　course；　there　would　not　be　as　much　laughter　today；　the　third　morning　since　the　hillside　battle　with　the　giants。　Binabik's　folk　were　a　cheerful　people；　but　a　little　bit　of　the　frost　lodged　in　Simon's　heart　seemed　to　have　touched　them；　too。　A　folk　that　laughed　at　cold　and　at　dizzying；　breakneck　falls　at　every　turning　of　every　trail　had　been　chilled　by　a　shadow　they　could　not　understand…not　that　Simon　understood　much　himself。
　　He　had　spoken　truly　to　Binabik：　somehow；　he　had　thought　things　would　get　better　once　they　found　the　great　sword　Thorn。　The　blade's　power　and　strangeness　was　so　palpable　it　seemed　impossible　that　it　would　not　make　a　change　in　the　struggle　against　King　Elias　and　his　dark　ally。　But　perhaps　the　sword　by　itself　was　not　enough。　Perhaps　whatever　the　rhyme　had　spoken　of　would　not　happen　until　all　three　swords　had　been　brought　together。
　　Simon　groaned。　Even　worse；　perhaps　the　queer　rhyme　from　Nisses'　book　meant　nothing　at　all。　Didn't　people　say　Nisses　was　a　madman？　Even　Morgenes　had　not　known　what　the　rhyme　truly　meant。
　　
　　When　frost　doth　grow　on　Claves'　bell
　　And　Shadows　walk　upon　the　road
　　When　water　blackens　in　the　Well
　　Three　Swords　must　e　again
　　
　　When　Bukken　from　the　Earth　do　creep
　　And　Hunen　from　the　heights　descend
　　When　Nightmare　throttles　peaceful　Sleep
　　Three　Swords　must　e　again
　　
　　To　turn　the　stride　of　treading　Fate
　　To　clear　the　fogging　Mists　of　Time
　　If　Early　shall　resist　Too　Late
　　Three　Swords　must　e　again　。　。　。
　　
　　Well；　Bukken　had　certainly　crept　from　the　earth；　but　the　memory　of　the　squealing　diggers　was　not　one　he　wanted　to　pursue。　Ever　since　the　night　of　their　attack　on　Isgrimnur's　camp　near　St。　Hoderund's；　Simon　had　never　felt　the　same　way　about　the　solid　earth　beneath　his　feet。　That　was　the　only　advantage　he　could　think　of　to　traveling　over　Sikkihoq's　unforgiving　stone。
　　As　for　the　rhyme's　mention　of　giants；　with　Haestan's　death　so　fresh　in　his　mind　that　seemed　like　a　cruel　joke。　The　monsters　hadn't　even　needed　to　descend　from　the　heights；　because　Simon　and　his　friends　had　been　foolish　enough　to　venture　into　their　mountain　territory。　But　the　Hunen　had　left　their　high　refuges　which　Simon　knew　as　well　as　anybody。　He　and　Miriamele…the　thought　of　her　brought　a　sudden　yearning…had　faced　one　in　Aldheorte　Forest；　only　a　week's　ride　from　the　very　gates　of　Erchester。　
　　The　rest　did　not　make　much　sense　to　him；　but　none　of　it　seemed　impossible。　Simon　did　not　know　who　Claves　was；　or　where　his　bell　might　be；　but　it　seemed　that　soon　there　would　he　frost　everywhere。　Even　so　what　could　the　three　swords　do？
　　I　wielded　Thorn；　he　thought。　For　a　moment　he　felt　the　power　of　it　once　more。　In　that　instant；　I　was　a　real　knight；　wasn't　I？
　　But　had　it　been　Thorn；　or　had　it　only　been　that　he　had　stood　up　and　put　fear　aside？　If　he　had　done　the　same　with　a　less　mighty　sword；　would　he　have　been　any　less　brave？　He　would　have　been　dead；　of　course；　　　　just　like　Haestan；　just　like　An'nai；　Morgenes；　Grimmric。。。　but　did　that　matter？　Didn't　great　heroes　die？　Hadn't　Camaris；　Thorn's　true　master；　died　m　the　angry　seas？
　　Simon's　thoughts　were　wandering。　He　felt　himself　sliding　back　toward　sleep。　He　almost　let　it　happen；　but　he　knew　it　would　only　be　a　short　while　before　Binabik　or　Sludig　would　be　shaking　him　awake。　Last　night　they　had　both　said　he　was　a　man　or　nearly　so。　Just　for　once　he　didn't　want　to　be　awakened；　last　a　child　allowed　to　sleep　while　the　grown…ups　talked。
　　He　opened　his　eyes；　letting　the　light　in；　and　groaned　again。　Uncurling　himself　from　the　cloak　he　picked　loose　twigs　and　clusters　of　pine　needles　from　his　clothing；　then　shook　the　cloak　out　before　quickly　wrapping　it　around　himself　once　more。　Suddenly　unwilling　to　be　parted　even　for　a　short　while　from　his　few　miserable　possessions；　he　picked　up　his　pack；　which　had　pillowed　his　head；　and　took　it　with　him。
　　The　morning　was　chilly；　a　light　scatter　of　snow　in　the　air。　Stretching　the　kinks　out　of　his　muscles；　he　walked　slowly　to　the　fire；　where　Binabik　sat　talking　to　Sisqi。　The　pair　were　seated　side　by　side　before　the　low；　translucent　flames；　their　hands　clasped。　Thorn　lay　propped　on　a　tree　stump　beside　them；　a　dull　black　bar　that　reflected　no　light。　From　behind；　the　two　trolls　looked　like　children　talking　earnestly　about　a　game　they　might　play　or　an　interesting　hole　they　might　explore；　and　Simon　felt　a　strong　protective　urge　toward　them。　A　moment　later；　as　he　realized　they　were　probably　discussing　how　to　keep　Binabik's　people　alive　if　the　winter　did　not　abate；　or　what　they　should　do　if　more　giants　found　them；　the　illusion　shredded　and　blew　away。　They　were　not　children；　and　if　not　for　their　bravery　he　would　be　dead。
　　Binabik　turned　and　saw　him　staring。　The　little　man　smiled　a　greeting　as　he　listened　intently　to　Sisql's　rapid　Qanuc　words。　Simon　grunted；　bending　to　take　the　lump　of　cheese　and　heel　of　bread　that　Binabik　pointed　out；　set　on　a　stone　near　the　fire。　He　took　his　meal　and　went　to　sit　by　himself。
　　The　sun；　still　hidden　from　view　behind　Sikkihoq；　was　not　visible。　The　mountain's　shadow　lay　over　the　campsite　but　the　tops　of　the　mountains　in　the　west　glowed　with　the　sun's　rising　light。　The　White　Waste　below　was　sunk　in　gray　dawn…shadow。　Simon　took　a　bite　of　dry　bread　and　chewed　as　he　stared　out　across　the　Waste　at　the　distant　line　of　forest　which　lay　on　the　horizon　like　dark　cream　in　a　milk　pail。
　　Qantaqa；　who　had　been　lying　at　Binabik's　side；　got　up；　stretched；　and　padded　silently　toward　Simon。　Her　muzzle　was　red…flecked　with　the　lifeblood　of　whatever　poor　animal　had　surrendered　itself　for　her　morning　feeding；　but　the　last　traces　were　even　now　being　scoured　away　by　her　long　pink　tongue。　She　approached　Simon　briskly；　ears　up；　as　if　on　some　clearly…defined　errand；　but　when　she　arrived　she　only　stood　for　a　moment　to　let　him　scratch　her；　then　curled　up　beside　him；　exchanging　one　napping　spot　for　another。　Her　bulk　was　such　that　when　it　pushed　against　his　leg　he　was　almost　forced　off　his　stone　seat。
　　He　finished　his　meal　and　opened　the　flap　of　his　pack；　rooting　for　his　water　bottle。　A　bright　tangle　of　blue　came　up　with　it；　wound　on　the　carrying　cord。
　　It　was　the　scarf　Miriamele　had　given　him；　the　one　he　had　worn　around　his　neck　on　the　way　up　the　dragon…mountain。　Jiriki　had　removed　it　while　nursing　him　back　to　health；　but　had　thoughtfully　stowed　it　with　the　rest　of　Simon's　meager　belongings。　Now　it　lay　in　his　hands　like　a　stripe　of　sky；　the　sight　brought　the　sting　of　almost…tears　to　his　eyes。　Where　in　the　great　world　was　Miriamele？　Geloe；　in　their　brief　moment　of　contact；　had　not　known。　Where　in　Osten　Ard　was　the　princess　wandering？　Did　she　ever　think　of　Simon？　And　if　she　did；　what　did　she　think？
　　Probably：　〃Why　did　I　give　my　nice　scarf　to　a　dirty　kitchen　boy？〃　He　enjoyed　a　brief　twinge　of　self…pity。　Well；　he　was　not　just　any　scullion。　As　Sludig　said；　he　was　a　kitchen　boy　who　sworded　dragons　and　slew　giants。　Just　at　this　moment；　however；　he　would　rather　be　a　kitchen　boy　in　a　nice　warm　kitchen　in　the　Hayholt　and　nothing　more。
　　Simon　tied　Miriamele's　scarf　about　his　neck；　tucking　the　ends　under　the　collar　of　his　tattered　shirt。　He　took　a　swallow　of　water；　then　rummaged　in　the　pack　again；　but　could　not　find　what　he　was　looking　for。　He　remembered　after　a　moment　that　he　had　put　it　in　his　cloak　pocket　and　felt　a　moment　of　panic。　When　would　he　learn　to　be　more　careful？　It　could　have　easily　fallen　out　a　hundred　times。　He　was　happily　reassured　to　feel　its　outline　through　the　cloth。　After　some　digging；　he　lifted　it　out　into　the　morning　light。
　　Jiriki's　mirror　was　icy　cold。　He　buffed　it　on　his　sleeve；　then　held　it　up；　staring　at　his　reflection。　His　beard　had　e　in　more　thickly　since　he　had　last　surveyed　himself。　The　reddish　hairs；　almost　brown　in　the　dim　light；　were　beginning　to　obscure　the　line　of　his　jaw…but　the　same　old　nose　poked　out　above　the　beard；　and　the　same　blue　eyes　stared　back　at　him。　Being　a　man；　it　seemed；　would　not　mean　being　anything　other　than　a　slightly　different　type　of　Simon；　which　was　a　faintly　saddening　thought。
　　The　beard　did　hide　most　of　his　spots；　so　there　was　something　for　which　to　be　grateful。　But　for　a　blemish　or　two　on　his　forehead；　he　thought　he　looked　like　a　reasonable　approximation　of　a　young　man。　He　tilted　the　glass；　staring　at　the　white　streak　burned　into　his　reddish　locks　by　the　dragon's　blood。　Did　it　make　him　look　older？　More　manly？　It　was　hard　to　tell。　His　hair　was　curling　on　his　shoulders；　though。　He　should　ask　Sludig　or　someone　to　cut　it　shorter；　as　many　of　the　king's　knights　had　worn　theirs。　But　why　bother？　They　would　probably　all　be　dead　at　the　hands　of　giants　before　it　grew　long　enough　to　get　in　his　way。
　　He　lowered　the　mirror　to　his　lap；　staring　down　into　it　as　though　it　were　a　pool　of　water。　The　frame　was　finally　beginning　to　warm　beneath　his　fingers。　What　was　it　Jiriki　had　told　him？　That　the　mirror　would　be　no　more　than　a　mere　looking　glass　unless　Simon　needed　him？　That　was　it。　Jiriki　had　said　that　Simon　could　talk　to　him　。　。　。　with　the　mirror？　In　the　mirror？　Through　the　mirror？　It　had　not　been　clear　at　all；　but　for　a　moment　Simon　very　much　wanted　to　call　for　Jiriki's　help。　The　thought　crept　over　him　unbidden；　but　its　claws　were　not　easily　dislodged。　He　would　call　Jiriki　and　tell　him　that　they　needed　help。　The　Storm　King　was　an　enemy　that　mortals　alone　could　not　defeat。
　　But　the　Storm　King　is　not　here；　Simon　thought；　and　Jiriki　knows　everything　about　the　situation　that　he　needs　to。　What　would　I　tell　him？　That　he　should　e　running　back　to　the　mountains　because　a　kitchen　boy　is　scared　and　wants　to　go　home？
　　Simon　stared　into　the　mirror；　remembering　when　it　had　shown　him　Miriamele。　The　princess　had　been　on　a　ship；　staring　out　over　the　railing　at　cloudy　skies；　gray　and　cloudy　skies。。。
　　As　he　watched　his　own　face　in　the　upturned　mirror；　it　suddenly　seemed　that　he　could　again　see　that　misty　sky；　tatters　of　cloud　floating　across　the　mirror's　surface　obscuring　his　features。　A