"Eisenstein,.Phyllis.-.Elementals.2.-.1988.-.Crystal.Palace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eisenstein Phyllis)

give her payments back. It seems youТve made her rich; since last year, her
two-room hut has become a mere annex to a much grander house, and she has
acquired two servants as well. She doesnТt even shear her own sheep any more.Ф
Delivev stood up slowly. УAll that from a few emнbroidered hangings? IТm
flattered that my work should be worth so much at market!Ф
Gildrum laughed. УThe hangings decorate her new home. ItТs the wool that brings
her wealthЧher wonнderful wool thatТs fine enough for sorcerers. ItТs in demand
and therefore carries a high price even for ordinary mortals. And plenty of
herdsmen have paid even better for the use of her rams as breeding stock.Ф He
circled her waist with one arm. УShe made a good bargain with you.Ф
She leaned against him, her head tilted to his shoulнder. УLet her be rich. As
long as she sells me wool.Ф
He kissed her forehead. УMy dearest Delivev, how many other sorcerers would say
something like that? Most of them would just take all her wool and leave her
poverty.Ф He kissed her nose. УBut then, you are a most unusual sorcerer, in
every way.Ф
Cray picked up the load of wool, slung it over his shoulder. УIТll put this away
for you, Mother.Ф
УIf you like,Ф she replied, but her eyes were all for Gildrum.
Her workroom was a tower chamber. There, her spinning wheel and looms stood, and
a multitude of half-completed projects awaited her pleasureЧtapesнtries,
fabrics, hoop after hoop of embroidery, crewel, needlepoint. And everywhere were
skeins and spools of every sort of fiber, coarse and fine, dull and shiny, and
every color of the rainbow. Cray dropped his bundle beside the loom that held a
silk brocade, a rich maroon and black fabric worked with golden threads. It was
for a dressing gown, he knew, a gift for Gildrum. The demon needed no clothing,
of course; it could manufacture garments from its own substance. But Delivev
took pleasure in creating such things, and in seeing them used. She had already
made Cray a simнilar gown, and he wore it sometimes to please her, though it was
really too magnificent for his own taste. She had made him many gifts over the
years. And though he had given in return gold and wood given form by his own
hands, still he felt it had never been enough.
He had meant the tree as another gift. From a window of the tower chamber, he
could see it, candlelight glimmering faintly on its gold-flecked trunk. He
leaned in the window for a time, looking down, frownнing. At last, the candles
guttered.
Patience, he told himself. Patience.
When he returned to the garden, it was empty and silent; Delivev and Gildrum had
retired for the night. By starlight alone, Cray made his way to the tree. He
could barely see it, but that did not matter. He knew every twig, every leaf; he
had touched it a thousand times, guiding its growth with the warmth of his flesh
and the words of his spells. He reached out for the branch he had chosen, the
flower he had caressed. The blossom was gone; he knew it must lie shriveled
somewhere near his feet. In its place was a new bud, as small and hard as a
pearl. He whispered to it. УMy beauty,Ф he called it, and it warmed beneath his
touch. He could feel the force of life within it, stronger than in any other
flower of the garden. He smiled in the darkness.
Patience, he thought.
* * *
Some days later, he was in his workshop weighing odds and ends of gold when a