Читаем A Feast for Crows полностью

“We all have our family traditions.” Darkstar sheathed his sword. “The moon is rising, and I see your paragon approaching.”

His eyes were sharp. The horseman on the tall grey palfrey did indeed prove to be Ser Arys, white cloak fluttering bravely as he spurred across the sand. Princess Myrcella rode pillion behind him, swaddled in a cowled robe that hid her golden curls.

As Ser Arys helped her from the saddle, Drey went to one knee before her. “Your Grace.”

“My lady liege.” Spotted Sylva knelt beside him.

“My queen, I am your man.” Garin dropped to both knees.

Confused, Myrcella clutched Arys Oakheart by the arm. “Why do they call me Grace?” she asked in a plaintive voice. “Ser Arys, what is this place, and who are they?”

Has he told her nought? Arianne moved forward in a swirl of silk, smiling to put the child at ease. “They are my true and loyal friends, Your Grace. and would be your friends as well.”

“Princess Arianne?” The girl threw her arms around her. “Why do they call me queen? Did something bad happen to Tommen?”

“He fell in with evil men, Your Grace,” Arianne said, “and I fear they have conspired with him to steal your throne.”

“My throne? You mean, the Iron Throne?” The girl was more confused than ever. “He never stole that, Tommen is. ”

“. younger than you, surely?”

“I am older by a year.”

“That means the Iron Throne by rights is yours,” Arianne said. “Your brother is only a little boy, you must not blame him. He has bad counselors. but you have friends. May I have the honor of presenting them?” She took the child by the hand. “Your Grace, I give you Ser Andrey Dalt, the heir to Lemonwood.”

“My friends call me Drey,” he said, “and I should be greatly honored if Your Grace would do the same.”

Though Drey had an open face and an easy smile, Myrcella regarded him warily. “Until I know you I must call you ser.”

“Whatever name Your Grace prefers, I am her man.”

Sylva cleared her throat, till Arianne said, “Might I present Lady Sylva Santagar, my queen? My dearest Spotted Sylva.”

“Why do they call you that?” Myrcella asked.

“For my freckles, Your Grace,” Sylva answered, “though they all pretend it is because I am the heir to Spottswood.”

Garin was next, a loose-limbed, swarthy, long-nosed fellow with a jade stud in one ear. “Here is gay Garin of the orphans, who makes me laugh,” said Arianne. “His mother was my wet nurse.”

“I am sorry she is dead,” Myrcella said.

“She’s not, sweet queen.” Garin flashed the golden tooth Arianne had bought him to replace the one she’d broken. “I’m of the orphans of the Greenblood, is what my lady means.”

Myrcella would have time enough to learn the history of the orphans on her voyage up the river. Arianne led her queen-to-be to the final member of her little band. “Last, but first in valor, I give you Ser Gerold Dayne, a knight of Starfall.”

Ser Gerold went to one knee. The moonlight shone in his dark eyes as he studied the child coolly.

“There was an Arthur Dayne,” Myrcella said. “He was a knight of the Kingsguard in the days of Mad King Aerys.”

“He was the Sword of the Morning. He is dead.”

“Are you the Sword of the Morning now?”

“No. Men call me Darkstar, and I am of the night.”

Arianne drew the child away. “You must be hungry. We have dates and cheese and olives, and lemonsweet to drink. You ought not eat or drink too much, though. After a little rest, we must ride. Out here on the sands it is always best to travel by night, before the sun ascends the sky. It is kinder to the horses.”

“And the riders,” Spotted Sylva said. “Come, Your Grace, warm yourself. I should be honored if you’d let me serve you.”

As she led the princess to the fire, Arianne found Ser Gerold behind her. “My House goes back ten thousand years, unto the dawn of days,” he complained. “Why is it that my cousin is the only Dayne that anyone remembers?”

“He was a great knight,” Ser Arys Oakheart put in.

“He had a great sword,” Darkstar said.

“And a great heart.” Ser Arys took Arianne by the arm. “Princess, I beg a moment’s word.”

“Come.” She led Ser Arys deeper into the ruins. Beneath his cloak, the knight wore a cloth-of-gold doublet embroidered with the three green oak leaves of his House. On his head was a light steel helm topped by a jagged spike, wound about with a yellow scarf in the Dornish fashion. He might have passed for any knight, but for the cloak. Of shimmering white silk it was, pale as moonlight and airy as a breeze. A Kingsguard cloak beyond all doubt, the gallant fool. “How much does the child know?”