Hohol_95: переводы

→“It looks fine,” she said. “Rook, my father’s name was Owen and he came here a long time ago to be with my mother, whose name was Laurelin. Grand-Jane thinks they’re both dead. Did you know them?”

→They stepped out of the forest. Under their feet, the grass was wet with dew. Across the wide meadow, tents were arrayed, billowing silk tinged pink by the dawn light. Rook stopped and pointed. “That tent in the middle, the big white one, is for the Lady.” The other, smaller tents were sky blue and the darker blue-green of the sky just after sunset, and grass-green, and fern-green, and the purple of the violets that grew on the forest floor. “The blue tent at the edge there—” He pointed. “That’ll be for you.”

→“Has spring come to the land on the other side of the Way?” the green woman asked.

→Fer nodded.

→The Lady had the power to make spring blossom out of winter? How had she done it?

→“It is magic,” Rook answered, his voice rough against the soft night. “It comes from her. From the Lady.”

→After a few minutes of walking, Fer paused and sniffed. The air didn’t smell like the cold nub end of winter. She sniffed again. It smelled of rich, damp dirt. A breeze blew through the tree branches and—did she hear leaves rustling? Alongside the narrow path, ferns crowded in. She crouched. In the moonlight, the ferns were graceful dark curls edged with silver, their smell sharp and green. She touched one and it unfurled under her fingers.

→Her face reminded Fer of a statue, pale and chiseled out of the finest translucent marble. Her short, black hair was held back with a silver cord. Her eyes shone like stars. She sat straight and slim on the back of a tall black horse that wore no saddle and had a bridle made from a silver chain.

→Behind her, Fer heard hoofbeats muffled by dried grass, the jingling of harnesses, and soft whispers. Shaking off the wrongness, she got to her feet, feeling the same fierceness she’d felt when she’d saved Rook from the wolves—ready to find a big stick and bash whoever had killed the stag. A horse and rider loomed over her. The shadows shifted and the moonlight revealed a woman.

→Before she took her next shaking breath, the stag’s eye turned glassy. The thread that connected them snapped, and Fer felt his death as a wrongness that rolled up from the bloodstained grass and into her, making her hands shake and her vision waver. She could feel the stag’s hot blood as it seeped into the dirt, deeper and deeper, a black stain that could never be washed away. But the stain had power, too, a kind of black, sparking power that spread outward from the clearing, passing like a shadow over the moon. Fer blinked, shaking her head. The night seemed dimmer, darker than it had before.

→Fer tore her arm from Rook’s grasp and raced across the grass to the stag. He lay in a puddle of moonlight, black blood flowing from his mouth. “Oh, no,” Fer whispered. She knelt beside the stag. His eye fixed on her, deep as a forest pool.