Книга только для ознакомления
. ALL THAT KEEPS
ANY OF US HERE IS THE KNIGHTS, WHO THINK THEY
CAN HOLD THIS PLACE WITH HONOR ALONE.
HONOR IS WELL AND GOOD, BUT IT DON'T STOP A
SPEAR, BOYS. BEST IT CAN DO IS LEAVE A CLEANER
WOUND.
BUT DON'T FRET, BOYS, he concluded, looking
directly at me with those huge gray eyes that the folk tales
say are the sign of marksmen or madmen, I forget which.
DON'T FRET, FOR AT LEAST YOU'VE FOUND
YOURSELF A WARM PLACE TO DIE.
Not a comforting philosophy to take with you back into
the upper chambers, where there were swords and armor to
be polished, and wine and a warmer hearth, and where the
truth muttered below you, scarcely heard for the crackling
of the fire, like a ghost in the stables or the barracks.
MARKSMEN, she tells me. GRAY EYES FOR THE
MARKSMAN. Then was it green for the lunatic or for the
poet?
Instead of the legends of eyes let me talk of monotony, of
the boredom in waiting for battle. It is no quick thing, no
gap between lightning and thunder, but a long waiting in
which breastplate and sword shimmer uselessly, in which
you worry the horses into a sleek and healthy gloss, in
which you watch the sky and speculate on wonders. No
time to be slow-witted, this waiting for battle, but a time to
attend to tasks, to trivial duties, until the duties become
reflex and you return to your thoughts alone
|
