"Edghill,.Rosemary.-.Empty.Crown.Trilogy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Edghill Rosemary)

Mugged. Definitely.

Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find. His eyes focused on her
and he moved, painfully, to sit up.

"My sword," the stranger said. "Where is it?"

Ruth stared into his eyes and couldn't think of a single thing to
say.

Mistaking her silence for a number of things it probably wasn't, the
stranger-elf began the laborious process of attempting to get to his
feet.

Ruth backed away and looked wildly around for someone, anyone, even
Philip, to enlist in the solution of her peculiar problems. Finding
none, she looked for the sword.

Ruth's experience with swords was not as limited as that of other women
her age. She'd never joined the Society for Creative Anachronism
(though Naomi, who cooked for the local revels, had suggested it often)
but Ruth had been a medievalist by inclination all her life-and she'd
practically lived in the Hall of Arms and Armor at the Met.

So Ruth looked around for a two- to four-foot piece of metal with a
handle, with X- or cross- or basket-shaped hilt, in a scabbard or
without one, covered with gold and jewels and enamel or just very
plain.

She saw nothing fitting the description.

When she looked back at him, the elf was standing. He was taller than
she was but not as tall as Michael, which was a good height to be.

Standing, his clothes were covered with a long dark cloak, making his
face seem to float unsupported in the shadows. He met her eyes.

Fair, that face; fair as a flower despite the puffiness around the jaw,
the split and still bleeding lip. Fair, and ageless as a nun's.

"It isn't here, is it, human girl?" The elf brushed back his hair and
winced. A large plain ring on his finger flashed mirror-bright. His
hand came away wet with blood, black under the streetlamps.

"Are you hurt?" Ruth asked, since one must say something, no matter
how stupid. The elf sighed.

"I am hurt; I am slain; I am- Where am I, precisely?"