Martin, książki, po angielsku, m
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TheLonelySongsofLarenDorr
THE LONELY SONGS OF LAREN
DORR
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TheLonelySongsofLarenDorr
c
George R.R. Martin
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TheLonelySongsofLarenDorr
A DF Books NERDs Release
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TheLonelySongsofLarenDorr
There is a girl who goes between the worlds.
She is grey-eyed and pale of skin, or so the story goes, and her hair is a coal-black waterfall with half-
seen hints of red. She wears about her brow a circlet of burnished metal, a dark crown that holds her hair
in place and sometimes puts shadows in her eyes. Her name is Sharra; she knows the gates.
The beginning of her story is lost to us, with the memory of the world from which she sprang. The end?
The end is not yet, and when it comes we shall not know it.
We have only the middle, or rather a piece of that middle, the smallest part of the legend, a mere
fragment of the quest. A small tale within the greater, of one world where Sharra paused, and of the
lonely singer Laren Dorr and how they briefly touched.
* * * *
One moment there was only the valley, caught in twilight. The setting sun hung fat and violet on the
ridge above, and its rays slanted down silently into a dense forest whose trees had shiny black trunks and
colorless ghostly leaves. The only sounds were the cries of the mourning-birds coming out for the night,
and the swift rush of water in the rocky stream that cut the woods.
Then, through a gate unseen, Sharra came tired and bloodied to the world of Laren Dorr. She wore a
plain white dress, now stained and sweaty, and a heavy fur cloak that had been half-ripped from her
back. And her left arm, bare and slender, still bled from three long wounds. She appeared by the side of
the stream, shaking, and she threw a quick, wary glance about her before she knelt to dress her wounds.
The water, for all its swiftness, was a dark and murky green. No way to tell if it was safe, but Sharra was
weak and thirsty. She drank, washed her arm as best she could in the strange and doubtful water, and
bound her injuries with bandages ripped from her clothes. Then, as the purple sun dipped lower behind
the ridge, she crawled away from the water to a sheltered spot among the trees, and fell into exhausted
sleep.
She woke to arms around her, strong arms that lifted her easily to carry her somewhere, and she woke
struggling. But the arms just tightened, and held her still. “Easy,” a mellow voice said, and she saw a
face dimly through gathering mist, a man's face, long and somehow gentle. “You are weak,” he said,
“and night is coming. We must be inside before darkness."
Sharra did not struggle, not then, though she knew she should. She had been struggling a long time, and
she was tired. But she looked at him, confused. “Why?” she asked. Then, not waiting for an answer,
“Who are you? Where are we going?"
"To safety,” he said.
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TheLonelySongsofLarenDorr
"Your home?” she asked, drowsy.
"No,” he said, so soft she could scarcely hear his voice. “No, not home, not ever home. But it will do.”
She heard splashing then, as if he were carrying her across the stream, and ahead of them on the ridge
she glimpsed a gaunt, twisted silhouette, a triple-towered castle etched black against the sun. Odd, she
thought, that wasn't there before.
She slept.
* * * *
When she woke, he was there, watching her. She lay under a pile of soft, warm blankets in a curtained,
canopied bed. But the curtains had been drawn back, and her host sat across the room in a great chair
draped by shadows. Candlelight flickered in his eyes, and his hands locked together neatly beneath his
chin. “Are you feeling better?” he asked, without moving.
She sat up, and noticed she was nude. Swift as suspicion, quicker than thought, her hand went to her
head. But the dark crown was still there, in place, untouched, its metal cool against her brow. Relaxing,
she leaned back against the pillows and pulled the blankets up to cover herself. “Much better,” she said,
and as she said it she realized for the first time that her wounds were gone.
The man smiled at her, a sad wistful sort of smile. He had a strong face, with charcoal-colored hair that
curled in lazy ringlets and fell down into dark eyes somehow wider than they should be. Even seated, he
was tall. And slender. He wore a suit and cape of some soft grey leather, and over that he wore
melancholy like a cloak. “Claw marks,” he said speculatively, while he smiled. “Claw marks down your
arm, and your clothes almost ripped from your back. Someone doesn't like you."
"Something,” Sharra said. “A guardian, a guardian at the gate.” She sighed. “There is always a guardian
at the gate. The Seven don't like us to move from world to world. Me they like least of all."
His hands unfolded from beneath his chin, and rested on the carved wooden arms of his chair. He
nodded, but the wistful smile stayed. “So, then,” he said. “You know the Seven, and you know the
gates.” His eyes strayed to her forehead. “The crown, of course. I should have guessed."
Sharra grinned at him. “You did guess. More than that, you knew. Who are you? What world is this?"
"My world,” he said evenly. “I've named it a thousand times, but none of the names ever seem quite
right. There was one once, a name I liked, a name that fit. But I've forgotten it. It was a long time ago.
My
name is Laren Dorr, or that was my name, once, when I had use for such a thing. Here and now it
seemed somewhat silly. But at least I haven't forgotten
it
."
"Your world,” Sharra said. “Are you a king, then? A god?"
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