Битва королей

Jon

           

           Itseemedtosproutfromsolidrock,itspalerootstwistingupfromamyriadoffissuresandhairlinecracks.Thetreewasslendercomparedtootherweirwoodshehadseen,nomorethanasapling,yetitwasgrowingashewatched,itslimbsthickeningastheyreachedforthesky.Wary,hecircledthesmoothwhitetrunkuntilhecametotheface.Redeyeslookedathim.Fierceeyestheywere,yetgladtoseehim.Theweirwoodhadhisbrother’sface.Hadhisbrotheralwayshadthreeeyes?

           Notalways,camethesilentshout.Notbeforethecrow.

           Hesniffedatthebark,smelledwolfandtreeandboy,butbehindthattherewereotherscents,therichbrownsmellofwarmearthandthehardgreysmellofstoneandsomethingelse,somethingterrible.Death,heknew.Hewassmellingdeath.Hecringedback,hishairbristling,andbaredhisfangs.

           Don’tbeafraid,Ilikeitinthedark.Noonecanseeyou,butyoucanseethem.Butfirstyouhavetoopenyoureyes.See?Likethis.Andthetreereacheddownandtouchedhim.

           Andsuddenlyhewasbackinthemountains,hispawssunkdeepinadriftofsnowashestoodupontheedgeofagreatprecipice.BeforehimtheSkirlingPassopenedupintoairyemptiness,andalongvee-shapedvalleylayspreadbeneathhimlikeaquilt,awashinallthecolorsofanautumnafternoon.

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