df.therunelords-第2部分

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　With　much　ceremonial　nodding；　Dreys　had　agreed；　had　looked　at　the　book　absently。　The　Chronicles　of　Owatt；　Emir　of　Tuulistan。　A　thin　volume　bound　in　lambskin。　Dreys　had　pocketed　it；　thinking　to　pass　it　along　at　dawn。
　Dreys　hurt　so　terribly　now　that　he　could　not　shout；　could　not　move。　The　world　spun；　he　pulled　free　of　the　assassin；　tried　to　turn　and　run。　His　legs　felt　as　weak　as　a　kitten's。　He　stumbled。　The　assassin　grabbed　Dreys'　hair　from　behind；　yanking　his　chin　up　to　expose　his　throat。
　Damn　you；　Dreys　thought；　haven't　you　killed　me　enough？　In　one　final　desperate　act；　he　yanked　the　book　from　his　pocket；　hurled　it　across　the　Butterwalk。
　There　on　the　far　side　of　the　street　a　rosebush　struggled　up　an　arbor　near　a　pile　of　barrels。　Dreys　knew　this　place　well；　could　barely　see　the　yellow　roses　on　dark　vines。　The　book　skidded　toward　them。
　The　assassin　cursed　in　his　own　tongue；　tossing　Dreys　aside；　and　limped　after　the　book。
　Dreys　could　hear　nothing　but　a　dull　buzz　as　he　struggled　to　his　knees。　He　glimpsed　movement　at　the　edge　of　the　streetthe　assassin　groping　among　the　roses。　Three　larger　shadows　came　rushing　down　the　road　from　the　left。　The　flash　of　drawn　swords；　starlight　glinting　off　iron　caps。　The　City　Guard。
　Dreys　pitched　forward　onto　the　cobblestones。
　In　the　predawn；　a　flock　of　geese　honked　as　it　made　its　way　south　through　the　silvery　starlight；　the　voices　sounding　to　him　for　all　the　world　like　the　barking　of　a　distant　pack　of　dogs。
　　
　Chapter　2
　THOSE　WHO　LOVE　THE　LAND
　　
　That　morning　a　few　hours　after　the　attack　on　Dreys　and　a　hundred　or　so　miles　south　of　Castle　Sylvarresta；　Prince　Gaborn　Val　Orden　faced　troubles　that　were　not　so　harrowing。　Yet　none　of　his　lessons　in　the　House　of　Understanding　could　have　prepared　the　eighteen…year…old　prince　for　his　encounter　with　a　mysterious　young　woman　in　the　grand　marketplace　at　Bannisferre。
　He'd　been　lost　in　thought　at　a　vendor's　stall　in　the　south　market；　studying　wine　chillers　of　polished　silver。　The　vendor　had　many　fine　iron　brewing　pots；　but　his　prize　was　the　three　wine　chillerslarge　bowls　for　ice　with　plementing　smaller　pitchers　that　fit　inside。　The　bowls　were　of　such　high　quality　that　they　looked　to　be　of　ancient　duskin　workmanship。　But　no　duskin　had　walked　the　earth　in　a　thousand　years；　and　these　howls　could　not　have　been　that　old。　Each　bowl　had　the　clawed　feet　of　a　reaver　and　featured　scenes　of　hounds　running　in　a　leafy　wood；　the　pitchers　were　adorned　with　images　of　a　young　lord　on　a　horse；　his　lance　at　the　ready；　bearing　down　on　a　reaver　mage。　Once　the　pitchers　were　set　into　their　silver　bowls；　the　images　plemented　one　anotherthe　young　lord　battling　the　reaver　mage　while　the　hunting　dogs　surrounded　them。
　The　ornaments　on　the　wine　chiller　were　all　cast　using　some　method　that　Gaborn　could　not　fathom。　The　silversmith's　detailed　workmanship　was　breathtaking。
　Such　were　the　wonders　of　Bannisferre's　goods　that　Gaborn　hadn't　even　noticed　the　young　woman　sidle　up　to　him　until　he　smelled　the　scent　of　rose　petals。　（The　woman　who　stands　next　to　me　wears　a　dress　that　is　kept　in　a　drawer　filled　with　rose　petals；　he'd　realized；　on　some　subconscious　level。）　Even　then；　he'd　been　so　absorbed　in　studying　the　wine　chillers　that　he　imagined　she　was　only　a　stranger；　awed　by　the　same　marvelous　bowls　and　pitchers。　He　didn't　glance　her　way　until　she　took　his　hand；　seizing　his　attention。
　She　grasped　his　left　hand　in　her　right；　lightly　clasping　his　fingers；　then　squeezed。
　Her　soft　touch　electrified　him。　He　did　not　pull　away。　Perhaps；　he　thought；　she　mistakes　me　for　another。　He　glanced　sidelong　at　her。　She　was　tall　and　beautiful；　perhaps　nineteen；　her　dark…brown　hair　adorned　with　mother…of…pearl　bs。　Her　eyes　were　black；　and　even　the　whites　of　her　eyes　were　so　dark　as　to　be　a　pale　blue。　She　wore　a　simple；　cloud…colored　silk　gown　with　flowing　sleevesan　elegant　style　lately　making　its　way　among　the　wealthy　ladies　of　Lysle。　She　wore　a　belt　of　ermine；　clasped　with　a　silver　flower；　high　above　the　navel；　just　beneath　her　firm　breasts。　The　neckline　was　high；　modest。　Over　her　shoulders　hung　a　silk　scarf　of　deepest　crimson；　so　long　that　its　fringes　swept　the　ground。　She　was　not　merely　beautiful；　he　decided。　She　was　astonishing。　She　smiled　at　him　secretively；　shyly；　and　Gaborn　smiled　back；　tight…lipped…hopeful　and　troubled　all　at　once。　Her　actions　reminded　him　of　the　endless　tests　that　one　of　his　hearthmasters　might　have　devised　for　him　in　the　House　of　Understandingyet　this　was　no　test。
　Gaborn　did　not　know　the　young　woman。　He　knew　no　one　in　all　the　vast　city　of　Bannisferrewhich　seemed　odd；　that　he　should　not　have　one　acquaintance　from　a　city　this　large；　with　its　towering　gray　stone　songhouses　with　their　exotic　arches；　the　white　pigeons　wheeling　through　the　blue　sunlit　sky　above　the　chestnut　trees。　Yet　Gaborn　knew　no　one　here；　not　even　a　minor　merchant。　He　was　that　far　from　home。
　He　stood　near　the　edge　of　a　market；　not　far　from　the　docks　on　the　broad　banks　of　the　south　fork　of　River　Dwindella　stone's　throw　from　Smiths'　Row；　where　the　open…air　hearths　gave　rise　to　the　rhythmic　ring　of　hammers；　the　creaking　of　bellows；　and　plumes　of　smoke。
　He　felt　troubled　that　he'd　been　so　lulled　by　the　peacefulness　of　Bannisferre。　He'd　not　even　bothered　to　glance　at　this　woman　when　she　had　stood　next　to　him　for　a　moment。　Twice　in　his　life；　he'd　been　the　target　of　assassins。　They'd　taken　his　mother；　his　grandmother；　his　brother　and　two　sisters。　Yet　Gaborn　stood　here　now　as　carefree　as　a　peasant　with　a　stomach　full　of　ale。
　No；　Gaborn　decided　quickly；　I've　never　seen　her；　she　knows　I'm　a　stranger；　yet　holds　my　hand。　Most　bewildering。
　In　the　House　of　Understanding；　in　the　Room　of　Faces；　Gaborn　had　studied　the　subtleties　of　bodily　municationthe　way　secrets　revealed　themselves　in　an　enemy's　eyes；　how　to　differentiate　traces　of　worry　from　consternation　or　fatigue　in　the　lines　around　a　lover's　mouth。
　Gaborn's　hearthmaster；　Jorlis；　had　been　a　wise　teacher；　and　over　the　past　few　long　winters　Gaborn　had　distinguished　himself　in　his　studies。
　He'd　learned　that　princes；　highwaymen；　merchants；　and　beggars　all　wore　their　expressions　and　stances　as　if　part　of　some　agreed…upon　costume；　and　so　Gaborn　had　mastered　the　art　of　putting　on　any　costume　at　will。　He　could　take　mand　of　a　roomful　of　young　men　simply　by　standing　with　head　high；　cause　a　merchant　to　lower　his　prices　with　a　balking　smile。　Concealed　by　nothing　more　than　a　fine　traveling　cloak；　Gaborn　learned　to　lower　his　eyes　in　a　busy　marketplace　and　play　the　pauper；　slinking　through　the　crowd　so　that　those　who　saw　him　did　not　recognize　a　prince；　but　wondered；　Ah；　where　did　that　beggar　boy　steal　such　a　nice　cloak？
　So　Gaborn　could　read　the　human　body；　and　yet　he　remained　a　perpetual　mystery　to　others。　With　two　endowments　of　wit；　he　could　memorize　a　large　tome　in　an　hour。　He'd　learned　more　in　his　eight　years　in　the　House　of　Understanding　than　most　moners　could　learn　in　a　life　of　concerted　study。
　As　a　Runelord；　he　had　three　endowments　of　brawn　and　two　of　stamina；　and　in　battle　practice　he　could　easily　cross　weapons　with　men　twice　his　size。　If　ever　a　highwayman　dared　attack　him；　Gaborn　would　prove　just　how　deadly　a　Runelord　could　be。
　Yet　in　the　eyes　of　the　world；　because　of　his　few　endowments　of　glamour；　he　seemed　to　be　little　more　than　a　startlingly　handsome　young　man。　And　in　a　city　like　Bannisferre；　with　its　singers　and　actors　from　across　the　realm；　even　beauty　such　as　his　was　mon。
　He　studied　the　woman　who　held　him；　considered　her　stance。　Chin　high；　confident；　yet　slightly　tilted。　A　question。　She　poses　a　question　of　me。
　The　touch　of　her　handweak　enough　to　indicate　hesitancy；　strong　enough　to　suggest。。。ownership。　She　was　claiming　him？
　Is　this　an　attempt　at　seduction？　he　wondered。　But　nothe　body　stance　felt　wrong。　If　she　had　wanted　to　seduce；　she'd　have　touched　the　small　of　his　back；　a　shoulder；　even　his　buttock　or　chest。　Yet　as　she　held　him　she　stood　slightly　away；　hesitating　to　claim　his　body　space。
　Then　he　understood：　a　marriage　proposal。　Very　uncustomary；　even　in　Heredon。　For　a　woman　of　her　quality；　the　family　should　have　easily　arranged　a　marriage。
　Gaborn　surmised；　Ah；　she　is　orphaned。　She　hopes　to　arrange　her　own　match！
　Yet　even　that　answer　did　not　satisfy　him。　Why　did　not　a　wealthy　lord　arrange　a　match　for　her？
　Gaborn　considered　how　she　must　see　him　now。　A　merchant's　son。　He'd　been　playing　the　merchant；　and　though　he　was　eighteen；　his　growth　had　not　e　in　fully。　Gaborn　had　dark　hair　and　blue　eyes；　traits　mon　in　North　Crowthen。　So　he'd　dressed　like　a　fop　from　that　kingdom；　one　with　more　wealth　than　taste；　out　wandering　the　town　while　his　father　conducted　more　important　business。　He　wore　green　hose　and　pants　that　gathered　above　the　knee；　along　with　a　fine　white　cotton　shirt　with　ballooning　sleeves　and　silver　buttons。　Over　the　shirt；　he　wore　a　jerkin　of　dark　green　cotton　trimmed　in　finely　tooled　leather；　decorated　with　freshwater　pearls。　pleting　the　disguise　was　a　broad…brimmed　hat；　on　which　an　amber　clasp　held　a　single　ostrich　plume。
　Gaborn　had　dressed　this　way　because　he　did　not　want　to　travel　openly　on　his　mission　to　spy　out　Heredon's　defenses；　to　gauge　the　true　extent　of　the　wealth　of　its　lands；　the　hardin