"L. Warren Douglas - The Veil of Years 1 - The Sacred Pool" - читать интересную книгу автора (Douglas L Warren)

Anselm's stronghold, he would meet his flock on their way back, and shame them for their murderous
intent.

Then he reconsidered his resistance to the castellan's command: the Burgundian could request a more
docile priest. He sighed, picked up the reliquary, and held it reverently on supine palms. There was
surely no harm in carrying it forth; the saint, herself a fugitive, might even take pity on Elen and cast
confusion over her pursuers. Surely she would do Elen no harm.

***

The rough voices of the villagers neared. Elen heard a curse as someone fell. "Hold! Wait for the priest
and Saint Claire. Marius says they're coming!" Elen lost herself to despair. Even gentle, loving Otho had
at last completed his transformation, his rejection of her. He would bring his magical bones to sniff her
out.

"They're closer," whispered Pierrette. "What shall we do?" But the decision wasn't hers. As villagers,
priest, and holy bones drew near, Elen felt the Christian magic overpower Guihen's pitiful spell, driving
off her hard-won obscurity with its baleful might, with unforgiving Faith. The Moon's round disk again
emerged, and the light that shone on Elen was not the Huntress's visage, but a cold, bright, silver lamp
that belonged to Otho's celestial God.

"Mother!" gasped Marie, seeing Elen. She ran to her, with Pierrette close behind. Both girls, one seven
and in skirts, the other five, clad in a boy's tunic and small Frankish trousers, clung to her arms as she

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 - Chapter 1

tried to rise. "Mother, we must flee! ListenтАФthey come."

"Marie, hear me," Elen said desperately. "They mustn't find you with me. Run to the Eagle's Beak. Stay
with Anselm. Go!" The moon was bright. Even the stars seemed unnaturally intense, and she knew there
was no hopeтАФbut the children must get away.

"Mother, come!" But the sharp crack of Elen's palm on her cheek cut off Marie's words.

"Obey! Go now. Take your sister." She pressed a small, soft leather sack in her youngest daughter's
hand. "Take this, my sweet. Give it to Anselm."

It was not her mother Marie saw then, shedding the two girls from her skirts; it was the masc Elen, the
witch, and Marie was suddenly cold with fear of sorceries, unnatural moonlight, and darkness among the
trees. With a tiny, despairing cry Marie fled, pulling Pierrette after.

Alone, Elen waited, now hearing the priest's sweet tenor joining the chant, guiding it, inspiring it to ever
greater volume and power.

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