"Eisenstein, Phyllis - Born to Exile (v1.0)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eisenstein Phyllis)

Stands a tower of mystery,
Long abandoned, long alone,
Built of weary desert stone
For a purpose now unknown . . . '
Afterward, the King nodded. 'I haven't heard that song in years. There was a minstrel who stopped here for a while once and sang that quite well. What was his name?'
'It was Dall, Father,' said the girl in green. 'Five years ago.' She eyed Alaric with half-concealed interest, and when he met her glance she dropped her eyes. She concentrated on a square of green
satin in her hands, twisting it and winding it around her fingers as if the action had some use. Alaric was fascinated by the smooth white skin of her hands - untouched by sun, wind, or work - and by her delicate, tapering fingers.
'Ah, yes, Dal,Т said the King. 'He stayed the winter, I remember, and left with the spring thaw. Palace life was too soft for him, I guess.'
'He was my teacher,' Alaric said.
The King chuckled. 'Now I know why you do so well at your trade. He was a master, that fellow. Whatever became of him?'
'He was murdered by bandits eight months ago,' Alaric replied.
The princess gasped, then her left hand flew to cover her mouth, and she turned her face away.
The King frowned sympathetically. 'Ah, that's a shame. Were the culprits punished?'
Alaric shook his head. 'I... I wasn't able to catch them.' The vivid picture of Ball's scarlet blood splashed over the dry leaves and mould of the forest floor returned once more to haunt him.
'It's hard to watch someone you love die unavenged, I know, lad. But at least his place was taken by someone worthy of it. You're more than welcome here. Join the table.' He gestured toward the left side of the hall, where twenty or thirty brightly dressed men were eating. At the movement of his hand, the noise level, temporarily low during and after the song, regained its former height.
Alaric bowed low and went to a vacant seat at one end of a table, preferring the solitude of his own thoughts and an opportunity for observation to the boisterous conversation of the courtiers. Taking wine and beef from two passing stewards, he pretended to be engrossed in eating. Presently, he noticed the jester wandering through the crowd, joking and capering, but coming unmistakably in his direction. With a last cartwheel, the jester was beside him, jarring the bench a trifle with the impact of his small but solid frame.
'What ho, minstrel!'
'What ho, indeed, motley.'
'Here's a silver coin,' said the jester, holding out one hand. 'Now show me its brother.'
The youth looked at him quizzically for a moment, then he recognized the reference. 'Sorry, that was just a figure of speech. I haven't even a copper in my pocket.'
'Tch,' said the dwarf. 'Here I thought you were slyly hinting that you were a magician as well as a singer.'
'Not at all. I can make food disappear, but that's my only conjuring trick.'
'Then let me try.' The jester's empty hand darted toward the lute that hung over Alaric's shoulder and seemed to pluck a coin from it. 'Both for you, from the King, with his invitation to stay until he tires of you.'
'You're the magician, not I,Т said Alaric.
'Wrong both ways,' the jester replied. 'The magician is over there.' He pointed across the room to a small, lonely table occupied by a bearded man in long black robes. 'That's Medron, said to be a cockatrice in disguise. I believe it. Without the beard, he'd turn his own mother to stone. This trick? Nothing, my boy. Medron can pluck gold coins from the King's mouth.' The jester cleared his throat. 'As long as he's gotten them from the King's purse beforehand.'
'He's not a magician?'
'So some would say. Myself, I don't look cross-eyed at him. He doesn't have to be a magician to put itching powder in your clothes.'
'My clothes?'
'What I mean, boy, is that if you do know any sleight-of-hand tricks, don't use them. And don't ask me to teach you any. Medron's a good wizard. He makes gold out of lead, though I've never seen any of it. But that won't stop him from denouncing you as a witch if he thinks you're competition. And he has lots of little tricks that would convince even you of your guilt.'
'But the King-'
'Burned three witches last year, just outside the castle walls. Good thing, too. The time before that was inside the courtyard, and the place stank for a week.'
Alaric swallowed slowly. 'Thanks for the warning. Thanks very much.'
'Nothing at all. I like to keep the ship rolling along smoothly. My last message is from the Princess Solinde: she wants you to sing in her sitting room at sundown. Second stairway on the left, three flights up, the door has gilded birds carved into it.' He grinned and did a back flip off the bench. 'Keep your wits about you,' he said as he walked away on his hands. 'My grandmother was an owl.'

Alaric ate automatically as he watched the dwarf meander back toward the dais, which was now occupied only by the King. The brother and sister had gone.
Toward sunset, blazing torches were scattered around the room, and the twin fireplaces at either end of the hall were loaded up against the approaching chill of night. The courtiers abandoned the tables and clustered around the two hearths, laughing, playing with their huge hunting dogs, and gambling with dice. Alaric plucked idly at his lute for a while, and then he made his way toward the stairway that the jester had indicated. He was stopped at the top of the steps by a blue-uniformed guard who stood beneath a wall-bracketed torch and carried a spear.
'I was invited to sing for the Princess Solinde,Т Alaric said.
The guard peered into Alaric's knapsack and shook his lute before allowing the boy to walk on, and he pivoted on one foot to watch the minstrel all the way to the door of the carved birds.
Alaric knocked.
The oaken panel swung inward, revealing the beautiful girl and her handsome brother surrounded by giggling, chattering young attendants. The crowd parted in the middle to allow Alaric to enter. He found himself in a small but sumptuously appointed chamber hung with brilliant tapestries depicting opulent, idealized banquet scenes and lit by dozens of large candles hanging in a chandelier. The floor, instead of being strewn with rushes, was covered by an exquisite purple and blue carpet of oval shape and intricate, swirling design. Upholstered chairs of various bright hues were scattered on the rug, and his host and hostess waved Alaric to one of them.
'I am Solinde,Т said the pale, dark-haired girl. Her lips curved upward in the faintest of smiles - a smile that betokened the poise and confidence of a woman twice her age. 'And this is my brother Jeris.'
Alaric bowed, not quite certain that he should sit in the presence of royalty, even though the royalty was no older than himself.
'Sit down, sit down,' said young Jeris. 'You made me tired by standing up all through your song for Father this afternoon.' The prince threw himself into the nearest chair, his head resting on one upholstered arm and his legs dangling over the other.
Princess Solinde seated herself on a velvet-covered divan, and the dozen or so young courtiers sank to the floor around her couch. Only then did Alaric perch gingerly on the edge of his chair.
'Dall always sat when he entertained us,Т said Jeris.
'Did you know him well, Your Highness?' Alaric inquired.
'He was a fine fellow. He used to play hide-and-seek with us, and draughts, and follow-the-leader. We always hoped he'd come back some time.'
'Be quiet, Jeris,Т said his sister. 'The minstrel came to entertain us, not we him. Do you know any of Dall's other songs?'
'I know all of them, Your Highness.'
'Then play us a happy air.'