Книга только для ознакомления
. The horses plodded amiably, away
from the setting sun.
Seated between Tasslehoff and Woodrow on the buckboard, reins in
one hand, Gisella mopped her damp brow with a vivid, orange silk
scarf.
"Gods, it's warm," she sighed. "That rain helps, though.
Shouldn't be so warm this time of year." Raindrops gathered in
shimmering pools on her unusually red hair and ran through it in wavy
streams.
"It's a bad omen, I think," said Woodrow, voicing the first
opinion either the kender or the dwarf had heard from him. His
almost-white hair clung to his head in wet, arrow-straight clumps. He
pushed his bangs aside, sending drops of water flying in a shower.
"A bad omen?" asked Tas, whose braided topknot of hair looked
the same wet as dry. Looking up at the falling rain, he tucked his
parchment map into his vest to keep it dry. "What do you mean,
exactly?"
"When it's this hot in late autumn," Woodrow began, "we're in
for a harsh winter."
"That's a trend or a cycle, not an omen," Gisella commented. "I
don't believe in omens and superstitions."
"You don't?" said Woodrow, looking at the dwarf with an odd
combination of disbelief and pity. "You mean you would actually walk
past a nesting bird during a full moon? Or drink ale from a chipped
flagon? Or... or even use a candle that had been lit in the presence
of a dead body?"
"I don't take any pains not to," said Gisella. "What's supposed
to happen when I do those things?" "Oh, terrible things will happen!"
Woodrow gasped
|
