gc.thewhiterose-第9章
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ling those passages； Corbie smiled grimly。 He might be the only man alive able to puzzle through those sometimes fragmentary sentences。 〃Benefit of a classical education；〃 he would murmur with a certain sarcasm。 Then he would bee reflective； introspective。 He would take one of his late night walks to shake revenant memory。 One's own yesterday is a ghost that will not be laid。 Death is the only exorcism。
He saw himself as a craftsman； did Corbie。 A smith。 An armorer cautiously forging a lethal sword。 Like his predecessor in that house； he had dedicated his life to the search for a fragment of knowledge。
The winter was astonishing。 The first snows came early； after an early and unusually damp autumn。 It snowed often and heavily。 Spring came late。
In the forests north of the Barrowland； where only scattered clans dwelt； life was harsh。 Tribesmen appeared bearing furs to trade for food。 Factors for the furriers of Oar were ecstatic。
Old folks called the winter a harbinger of worse to e。 But old folks always see today's weather as more harsh than that of yore。 Or milder。 Never； never the same。
Spring sprung。 A swift thaw set the creeks and rivers raging。 The Great Tragic； which looped within three miles of the Barrowland； spread miles beyond its banks。 It abducted tens and hundreds of thousands of trees。 The flood was so spectacular that scores from town wandered out to watch it from a hilltop。
For most； the novelty faded。 But Corbie limped out any day Case could acpany him。 Case was yet possessed of dreams。 Corbie indulged him。
〃Why so interested in the river； Corbie？〃
〃I don't know。 Maybe because of its grand statement。〃
〃What？〃
Corbie swung an enpassing hand。 〃The vastness。 The ongoing rage。 See how significant we are？〃 Brown water gnawed at the hill； furious； fumbling forests of driftwood。 Less turbulent arms hugged the hill； probed the woods behind。
Case nodded。 〃Like the feeling I get when I look at the stars。〃
〃Yes。 Yes。 But this is more personal。 Closer to home。 Not so？〃
〃I guess。〃 Case sounded baffled。 Corbie smiled。 Legacy of a farm youth。
〃Let's go back。 It's peaked。 But I don't trust it with those clouds rolling in。〃
Rain did threaten。 Were the river to rise much more； the hill would bee an island。
Case helped Corbie cross the boggy parts and up to the crest of the low rise which kept the flood from reaching cleared land。 Much of that was a lake now； shallow enough to be waded if some fool dared。 Under grey skies the Great Barrow stood out poorly； reflecting off the water as a dark lump。 Corbie shuddered。 〃Case。 He's still there。〃
The youth leaned on his spear； interested only because Corbie was interested。 He wanted to get out of the drizzle。
〃The Dominator； lad。 Whatever else did not escape。 Waiting。 Filling with ever more hatred for the living。〃
Case looked at Corbie。 The older man was taut with tension。 He seemed frightened。
〃If he gets loose； pity the world。〃
〃But didn't the Lady finish him in Juniper？〃
〃She stopped him。 She didn't destroy him。 That may not be possible 。 。 。 〃
〃Well； it must be。 He has to be vulnerable somehow。 But if the White Rose couldn't harm him 。 。 。 〃
〃The Rose wasn't so strong； Corbie。 She couldn't even hurt the Taken。 Or even their minions。 All she could do was bind and bury them。 It took the Lady and the Rebel 。 。 。 〃
〃The Rebel？ I doubt that。 She did it。〃 Corbie lunged forward； forcing his leg。 He marched along the edge of the lake。 His gaze remained fixed on the Great Barrow。
Case feared Corbie was obsessed with the Barrowland。 As a Guard； he had to be concerned。 Though the Lady had exterminated the Resurrectionists in his grandfather's time； still that mound exerted its dark attraction。 Monitor Sweet remained frightened someone would revive that idiocy。 He wanted to caution Corbie； could think of no polite way to phrase himself。
Wind stirred the lake。 Ripples ran from the Barrow toward them。 Both shivered。 〃Wish this weather would break；〃 Corbie muttered。 〃Time for tea？〃
〃Yes。〃
The weather continued chill and wet。 Summer came late。 Autumn arrived early。 When the Great Tragic did at last recede； it left a mud plain strewn with the wrecks of grand trees。 Its channel had shifted a half mile westward。
The woodland tribes continued selling furs。
Serendipity。 Corbie was near done renovating。 He was restoring a closet。 In removing a wooden clothes rod he fumbled。 The rod separated into parts when it hit the floor。
He knelt。 He stared。 His heart hammered。 A slim spindle of white silk lay exposed 。 。 。 Gently； gently； he put the rod back together； carried it upstairs。
Carefully； carefully； he removed the silk； unrolled it。 His stomach knotted。
It was Bomanz's chart of the Barrowland； plete with notes about which Taken lay where； where fetishes were located and why； the puissance of protective spells； and a scatter of known resting places of minions of the Taken who had gone into the ground with their captains。 A cluttered chart indeed。 Mostly annotated in TelleKurre。
Also noted were burial sites outside the Barrowland proper。 Most of the ordinary fallen had gone into mass graves。
The battle fired Corbie's imagination。 For a moment he saw the Dominator's forces standing firm； dying to the last man。 He saw wave after wave of the White Rose horde give themselves up to contain the shadow within the trap。 Overhead； the Great et seared the sky； a vast flaming scimitar。
He could only imagine； though。 There were no reliable histories。
He miserated with Bomanz。 Poor foolish little man； dreaming； seeking the truth。 He had not earned his dark legend。
Corbie remained fixed over the chart all night； letting it seep into bone and soul。 It did little to help him translate； but it did illuminate the Barrowland some。 And even more； it illuminated a wizard so dedicated he had spent his entire adult life studying the Barrowland。
Dawn's light stirred Corbie。 For a moment he doubted himself。 Could he bee prey to the same fatal passion？
Chapter Nine：THE PLAIN OF FEAR
The Lieutenant himself stirred me out。 〃Elmo's back； Croaker。 Eat some breakfast； then report to the conference room。〃 He was a sour man getting sourer every day。 Sometimes I regret having voted for him after the Captain died in Juniper。 But the Captain wished it。 It was his dying request。
〃Be there soonest；〃 I said； piling out without my customary growl。 I grabbed clothing； stirred papers； silently mocked myself。 How often did I doubt voting for the Captain himself？ Yet when he wanted to resign； we did not let him。
My quarters look nothing like a physician's den。 The walls are floor to ceiling with old books。 I have read most； after having studied the languages in which they are written。 Some are as old as the pany itself； recounting ancient histories。 Some are noble genealogies； stolen from widely dispersed old temples and civil offices。 The rarest； and most interesting； chronicle the rise and growth of the Domination。
The rarest of all are those in TelleKurre。 The followers of the White Rose were not gentle victors。 They burned books and cities； transported women and children； profaned ancient works of art and famous shrines。 The customary afterglow of a great conflagration。 So there is little left to key one into the languages and thinking and history of the losers。 Some of the most plainly written documents I possess remain totally inaccessible。
How I wish Raven were with us still； instead of dwelling among the dead men。 He had a passing familiarity with written TelleKurre。 Few outside the Lady's intimate circle do。
Goblin stuck his head in。 〃You ing or not？〃
I cried on his shoulder。 It was the old lament。 No progress。 He laughed。 〃Go blow in your girlfriend's ear。 She might help。〃
〃When will you guys let up？〃 It had been fifteen years since I wrote my last simpleminded romance about the Lady。 That was before the long retreat which led the Rebel to his doom before the Tower at Charm。 They do not let you forget。
〃Never； Croaker。 Never。 Who else has spent the night with her？ Who else goes carpet…flying with her？〃
I would rather forget。 Those were
