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

Alaric complied with the amusing tale of the butcher's wife and the magic bull. While he sang, he noticed that the princess watched him very closely. Her eyes were green, fringed with thick lashes, and they met his boldly now instead of lowering. She looked him up and down until he wondered what she could be searching for.
Jeris whooped at the conclusion of the song, which found the butcher's wife hanging by her heels from the rafters of her husband's shop, waving a cleaver at all the customers. 'He never sang us that one, sister. I'll wager he thought it too salty for young children.'
'Yes, he did consider us children,Т she murmured. 'Tell us something about his life these last few years.'
'How did he die?' Jeris demanded, sitting forward eagerly. 'Was it a fair fight, and what were the odds?'
'Oh, Jeris, let's not ask about his death! It's bad enough that he is dead; let's not dwell on the circumstances.' She glanced around at the young people gathered about her. 'Out! All of you out! I Wish to speak to this minstrel privately. Not you, Jeris. How would it look to leave me alone with a stranger? My maid Brynit may also stay.'
The room emptied as fast as the youngsters could bow or curtsey and flash through the doorway. The last one out closed the door Behind himself.
'Tell us now, Master Alaric,Т the princess said breathlessly, leaning forward in her chair, 'was his hair still jet black and his manner ,'Proud but kindly?'
'Faugh!' muttered Jeris. 'She wishes it were he sitting there of you. I shall be sick if you speak of him again in that way, Solinde.'

'Very well, brother. We shall satisfy your curiosity now and mine at some other time.' Daintily, she folded her hands in her lap. 'Did he suffer much, Master Alaric?'
'No. It was a broad-bladed hunting arrow, and he bled to death quickly.' Alaric remembered too much too well: Bending over the knapsack to count the gleaming coppers won in the marketplace of Bedham Town, his shoulder brushing DallТs as the two of them knelt by the fire. The smell of burning hickory branches that almost covered the lighter scent of the rich, black earth around them. Crickets chirping a mindless chorus. And then, the snick of an arrow being loosed from a longbow somewhere to his left. Alaric vanished reflexively, without thinking, and found himself at their campsite of the previous night, still clutching the knapsack and a handful of coins. He returned to Dall instantly, but it was too late. The grey-feathered shaft had pierced the singer's chest - a shaft aimed at Alaric, that had passed through the space he had suddenly ceased to occupy and struck his friend. Desolated, the boy blamed himself.
'In a sense, it was my fault. The arrow was meant for me, but I moved just before it struck.' He felt a tear grow in his eye and petulantly brushed it away. 'I'm sorry, Your Highness. I think about it often and bitterly. I loved him as if he were my father.'
Solinde sighed and leaned back. 'We loved him, too. And we shall always think of you as part of him. I'm glad you came to us, Master Alaric.'
'He wanted to return, Your Highness. He spoke of it often. He never told me why, but I see now that it must have been because of you and your brother.' Mentally, he crossed his fingers over that white lie. Dall had always said that fortune awaited them at Castle Royale, and now Alaric understood that he had meant the patronage of the heirs to the throne.
That's . . . very good to know,' she murmured. 'You had better leave now, minstrel; it grows late.'
Alaric stood up and bowed deeply. 'Good night, Your Highnesses,' he said and backed politely to the door. As he slipped out and gently shut the heavy carven panel, he heard a sobbing beyond it and wondered whether it were the princess herself or her little maid, who had sat silently in the far corner of the salon throughout the interview.
The guard at the top of the stairs gave him leave to descend with a curt nod, and when he reached the main floor and the Great Hall, Alaric found preparations for sleep in progress. Many of the courtiers who had dined at the long table on the left side of the room had no private apartments in Castle Royale,- they were solitary knights and minor nobles without retinues seeking temporary hospitality from their overlord or desiring audiences with him. A few were pilgrims in sackcloth, and these huddled close to one fireplace, as if their very bones were perpetually chilled. A number of maidservants were moving through the throng with quilts and blankets, heaping them over cushions or couches as bedding for the guests. One by one the men settled down, some with their dogs posted beside them, some with more congenial bedmates. Alaric found himself alone with a voluminous, multicoloured down-stuffed comforter,- he squeezed into a narrow space near the pilgrims, wrapped himself in the coverlet, and lay down with his knapsack as a pillow and the lute under his protecting arm.
The pilgrims were murmuring to each other in low tones.
'Listen to the wind wail,' said a bent-backed oldster in a coarse, hooded robe. 'It's a night for evil.'
'It's a night for rain,Т replied one of his companions, a younger man with a blond moustache and no eyebrows.
'See the flames flicker and blow? The Dark One himself will be out with his witches tonight,' insisted the first.
'How many days before we come to the Holy Well?' asked a third companion, a swarthy, grizzled fellow in his fifties.
'Two more, and not soon enough for me. I feel the Darkness creeping up to strangle me.'
'We're safe enough here, uncle,' said the fourth member of the group, a beardless youth. They say Lord Medron has powerful spells wound all around this castle, keeping the Dark One always outside.'
'I don't know why our good King trusts him. Witches are evil, nephew, every one of them. At night they turn invisible for their foul purposes, and they fly to the ends of the earth for their filthy revels. Darkness oozes from their limbs like honey from a crushed hive.'
'I saw nothing oozing from Lord Medron,' said the boy.
'After our visit to the Holy Well, perhaps you will see things differently. My old eyes know a witch when they see one.' He glanced suspiciously around the room, his eyelids narrowed to slits.
Alaric felt every muscle in his body stiffen as the old man's gaze swept past him. Was there really some unmistakable visual clue to a witch's identity - the colour of an eye or the tilt of a nose or the thickness of a brow - that would be apparent to a knowledgeable observer? Alaric had never noticed anything physically special about his body, but that might only mean that he didn't know what to look for. Had that grey-feathered arrow been loosed at him because he possessed a double handful of coppers or because he was obviously a witch who could only be destroyed by stealth and surprise? Would it be best to leave instantly before anyone recognized the power that he always felt glowing softly inside him?
'Perhaps the King has a talisman that binds Medron to his bidding suggested the grizzled pilgrim.
'Well, our good King is surely a likely person to possess such,' the old man muttered, and then he launched into an arcane discussion of talismans and their hypothetical attributes.
Alaric relaxed slowly. The elderly pilgrim had seen his face and not blinked an eye. The man was wrong about Medron, too, Alaric remembered what the jester had said about the court magician being a clever fake. But that in no way lessened the very real danger that the old man presented: he was convinced that he could identify witches, and there was no way of knowing what insignificant action might cause him to raise a cry. More and more, Alaric wondered if he wasn't wrong about seeking his fortune at Castle Royale. One slip, like the reflexive self-defence of that day in Bedham Forest, would mean outlawry and perpetual pursuit. In eight months, he had not used his power once, had steeled himself to forget it existed, but it glowed deep within him still, as strong as ever. He balanced the advantages: acceptance, companionship, physical comfort, and infinite diversion in Castle Royale against the nomadic existence of his childhood. There was no in-between. He was a minstrel, like it or not, and he had no desire to become a farmer or a man-at-arms for some small baron. He had to have a single rich patron or wander from village to village for a few coppers a year. Without a companion, the latter was no pleasant prospect. So he had to take his chances here, stifle the glow, and pretend to be a normal human being. He felt like a bird that had given up the lonely freedom of the skies for the security of a golden cage.
He turned his face away from the whispering pilgrims and drifted to sleep, and the delicate, pale face of Princess Solinde loomed in his dreams.
In the morning, he forced himself to greet the four pilgrims and break fast with them. He inquired after their destination as if he had not overheard their conversation the previous night.
'We go to the Holy Well at Canby,' said the old man, 'to drink and bathe and be cleansed.'
'I wish you good speed on your journey,' Alaric said.
'And good speed to yourself, minstrel, on your journey through life,' replied the old man, his gnarled fingers drawing a fleeting holy sign in the air in front of Alaric's nose. 'May you and your fine songs, that we heard yesterday, ever be safe from evil.'
Alaric watched them troop out of the Great Hall in single file, the old man leading and the boy bringing up the rear. It seemed a good, though ironic, omen that a pilgrim as resolutely holy and evil-hating as the old man should denounce a false witch and bless a real one.
In midmorning, the King strode into the room - having broken fast in private - to judge civil and criminal cases among the nobility. The jester ambled in behind him, trailing a tiny wheeled cart containing variously shaped trinkets. He planted himself at the King's knee and sorted his coloured baubles into two piles according to some plan known only to himself. Occasionally, he juggled three or four objects at once while His Majesty deliberated. Alaric watched and listened for a time, but finding the proceedings overlong, complex, and tedious, he drifted away, his lute slung over his shoulder. His pack he left safe in the hands of the Palace Oversteward. Navigating the twisting, branching corridor through which he had first entered the Palace with ease, he returned to the Side door that led to the cobblestone courtyard. Outside, in the brilliant summer sunlight, his eyes were dazzled for a moment, and when his vision cleared, he noted that a number of men who had been practising combat there the previous day were clustered about a pair of fighters in a corner of the yard. One figure about his own size, garbed in quilted grey cloth 'armour' and steel helmet, tested his swordsmanship against a heftier man in dirty blue. The two were slashing furiously with wooden swords, and their wooden Shields were splintered and cracked. At last the smaller one heaved a strong overhand blow at the heavier man's helm, striking the metal with a loud clunk, and that signalled the end of the match.
'Well struck, my Lord Prince!' exclaimed the man in blue, and he took off his helmet to reveal the ruddy, sweating face and balding pate of a seasoned veteran. That would have split my head open!'
Prince Jeris removed his own helm and handed it to the retainer who had stepped forward to receive it. Dark hair was plastered in wet points across his forehead, and he was breathing heavily, but he grinned his satisfaction at his prowess and the compliment.
'Damn, it's hot, Palmar. I've got to get out of this suit!'
A second retainer stepped behind the young prince and deftly began to undo the complex lacings that held the quilted armour together. In a few moments, Jeris was able to shrug off the shirt and kick the leggings aside. Underneath, he wore only abbreviated breeches.
'Ho, it's the minstrel!' he exclaimed, spying Alaric in the throng. 'Step aside and sing me a short song while I clear the dust from my throat.' Jeris trotted to the scant shade of an overhanging roof, where a table of wines and cheeses was spread for his refreshment. He poured three cups of wine, handed one to his sparring partner, and indicated that the third was for Alaric.
'Thank you, Your Highness.'
The prince tossed down his drink. 'You can call me my Lord, minstrel. It feels less formal and far less cumbersome than spouting Your Highness in every sentence. The rest of you can go about your usual business.' He waved at the crowd, which immediately dispersed, except for two unobtrusive armed guards who stood a few yards away. Jeris glanced sideways at Alaric. 'Were you betting on me?'
'I wasn't aware that wagering was going on, my Lord.'
'It was. Father doesn't allow it, but that won't stop them. They think it flatters me.'
'And does it, my Lord?'
'Only Palmar's own praise flatters me.' He poured himself a second cup of wine and sipped at it. 'I see our jester has been thrown out of His Majesty's High Court, as usual.' He pointed past Alaric's left shoulder.
The minstrel turned and saw the dwarf skipping across the cobblestones toward them, his little wagon bouncing along behind. He chanted: