"Eisenstein,.Phyllis.-.Sorcerer's.Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eisenstein Phyllis)

Gildrum smiled. "Leave that to me."
Rezhyk's gaze traveled the length of the demon's girl-body. "You suit me well; but for her ... for her we must give you another form.'*
"Tall," said Gildrum. Tall and lean and just past the first flush of youth."
Rezhyk worked two days and two nights to model Gildrum's new form in terra-cotta. Life-sized he made it, strong of arm and broad of shoulder, sinewy and lithe, the essence of young manhood. Other sorcerers, when they gave then* servants palpable forms, made monsters, misshapen either by device or through lack of skill, but Rezhyk molded his to look as if they had been born of human women. Complete, the figure seemed almost to breathe in the flickering light of the brazier.
Satisfied with his work, Rezhyk set his seal upon it: an arm ring clasped above the left elbow, a band of plain red gold, twin to the one he wore on his finger, incised with Gildrum's name. Gently, but with a strength that would seem uncanny in so slight a body, were it truly human, Gildrum lifted the new-made figure hi her arms and carried it across the workshop to a large kiln whose top and front stood open. She set the clay statue inside, upon a coarse grate.
Rezhyk nodded. "Enter now, my Gildrum."
The demon-as-girl smiled once at her lord's handiwork, and then she burst into flame, her body consumed in an instant, leaving only the flames themselves to dance in a wild torrent of light. Billowing, the fire rose toward the high ceiling, poised above the kiln and, like molten metal pouring into a mold, sank into the terra-cotta figure and disappeared. The clay glowed red and redder, then yellow, then white-hot
Rezhyk turned away from the heat; by the tight of the figure itself he entered its existence, the hour, and the date hi the notebook marked with Gildrum's name. By the time he looked back, the clay was cooling rapidly. When it reached the color of ruddy human flesh, a dim glow compared to the yellow of the brazier, if began to crumble. First from the head, and
then from every part, fine powder sifted, falling through the grate at its feet to form a mound in the bottom of the kiln. Yet the figure remained, though after some minutes every ounce of terra-cotta had been shedЧthe figure that was the demon, molded within the clay, remained, translucent DOW, still glowing faintly from the heat of its birth. The ring that had been set upon the clay now clasped the arm of the demon, its entire circle viable through the ghostly flesh. Then the last vestige of internal radiance faded, the form solidified, and the man that was Gildrum stepped forth from the kiln.
He stretched his new muscles, ran his fingers through his newly dark hair. "As always, my lord," he said hi a clear tenor voice, "you have done well."
**I hope she thinks as much." He slipped the ring from Gildrum's arm and tossed it into the drawer from which he had taken the gold bar. "There must be nothing that smells of magic about youЧabove all, nothing to link you with me."
Gildrum nodded. "I shall steal human trappings, I know of a good source."
"You must not fail."
"Have I ever failed yon, lord?"
"No, my Gildrum. Not yet."
"And not now." His form wavered, shrank, altered to that of thb fourteen-year-old girl, naked in the light of the brazier. "Will you give me the seed for the child, my lord? Or must I find some beggar on the road?"
He took her hand. Til give it"
Rain poured down upon the forest from clouds crowded close above the treetops. On the muddy track below, a large black horse, tail and mane matted with wet and filth, trudged toward the nearest sign of life, a high-spired castle overgrown with ivy. The horse's rider slumped forward over the pommel of the saddle, one arm hanging limp on either side of his steed's drooping neck. He was dressed hi chain mail, a mud-spattered surcoat plastered atop the links; he had no helm, and his shield hung by a loose strap, bouncing against his leg in the slow rhythm of the
horse's walk. On his left side, where the surcoat was ripped and the chain snapped to make a hole a hand-span wide, blood seeped out sluggishly, easing down his thigh in a rain-diluted wash.
As they neared the castle, the horse picked up its pace, sensing the shelter ahead. The storm drove from beyond the fortress, and so there was respite from both wind and wet in its lee. Almost at the arch of the gate, the animal stopped and bent to drink from a puddle and to crop a bit of soaked grass; its rider fell then, slid silently off its back and dropped to the mud in an awkward heap.
Inside, warm and dry and surrounded by the things she loved, was Detivev Ormoru, mistress of Castle Spinweb. She expected no visitors, neither on a stormy night nor a clear one; no one had knocked at the gates of Spinweb in many years, and she was pleased with that state of affairs. But when the ivy curled in her bedroom window, when a small brown spider scurried across its tendrils to report a stranger outside, she was curious. The stranger had not requested entry, had not pounded on the heavy wooden gate or shouted or beat sword upon shield to attract attention through the noise of the storm, yet why would he be there but to enter? She looked out her. window, but the outer wall was too high for her to see anything close beneath it. She could have spun a web to view there, but walking would take no greater time, so she went.
The gateroom was wide, floored with polished stone, and hung with thick tapestries against drafts. Even so, she felt the storm there. Through a peephole hi the carven portal, she saw darkness, streaming rain, and then, by a flash of lightning, him lying on the ground, the horse grazing nearby. She opened the door. Her first impulse was to step outside and turn him over with her own hands to see if he were dead, but she stifled that and sent a few snakes instead, in case he should be shamming with evil intent The snakes were not happy to be out in the wet, but they obeyed. They nosed about the body, which did not move, and they reported it warm and breathing and leaking blood. She waved an arm, and they wriggled under him, a living mattress, living rollers to move him over the
rain-slick grass. They conveyed him through the door. The horse shied at the snakes, rearing wide-eyed and snorting, and Delivev had to grasp its bridle in her hands and murmur many calming words before she could coax it inside. She locked the gate behind it then, locked the storm out and the stranger and his horse in her home.
She led the animal to the roofed-over courtyard that sheltered many of her own pets and left it there with a mound of towels rubbing it down sans human assistance. She returned to the gateroom to find the snakes arrayed in.a ring about the injured knight, who lay unmoving upon the floor, his limbs at odd angles, water dripping from his flesh and clothing. A red stain was forming at his left side. Delivev found the wound quickly, guessed it a mighty sword cut so to cleave through heavy chain mail, and wondered why the young knight's opponent had not finished him. Because the miking pattern of the chain lay within the province of her magic, though the metal itself did not, she scattered it with a nod. His clothing parted as well, exposing him naked to her ministrations, and while she bound his side she could not help admiring his youthful beauty. She felt of his head for fever and found none, though her fingers lingered long upon his cheeks. She leaned her ear against his chest and heard his heart beat strong and steady beneath the smooth skin, beneath the firm muscle. She chafed his wrists and spoke softly to him, and at last his eyelids flickered.
His eyes were the deepest blue she had ever seen.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"I am Deh'vev Ormoru. Your horse brought you to my home."
"You are kind to take me hi."
"I could not leave a wounded man to the storm."
"My name is Mellor," he said, and then he gasped and clutched with weak hands at his side.
"You must not speak. There will be time for that later." She summoned a blanket, wrapped him in it, motioned the snakes to crawl under him once more and transport him to an inner room and a couch. His eyes widened at the sight of the snakes, at their uu-
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dulating touch, but he said nothing. "I am a sorceress," she said. "These are my servants, and they will not harm you."
He smiled his trust, and she smiled back, and as the snakes bore him into the heart of her castle, he found himself staring at her. She walked beside him, her gown of green feathers swaying with each step. She wore feathers, he knew, so that no one could turn her magic back upon her person, and even her hair, cut to many lengths, seemed like a crown of brown feathers on her head. How beautiful she is, thought Gildrum, who called himself Mellor.
"* CHAPTER TWO
She found him walking in the small garden that her castle walls enclosed. The day was sunny and warm, the climbing roses were in full bloom, the morning glories just closing their, petals to the noon light
"Don't you think it too soon to be so far from your bed?" she asked, stepping close to take his arm and support him.
"I was feeling well. I heard the birds singing and I couldn't lie still any longer." He wore the robe of blue silk she had woven for him, to match his eyes.
"You look well," she said. "You heal quickly. Youth always heals quickly." She smiled. "Come, sit down with me. Don't push yourself too far; a wound like that needs gentle care."
"I can never thank you enough for your gentle care, Delivev." Stiffly, he eased himself to the sun-warmed
stone bench. "I would have died that night if not for ^ you." ^
"It was a foul night for swordplay."
"The swordplay was in the daytime, under a clear sky. It was quite finished when the storm began.'*
From the lush growth at her feet, she plucked a handful of varicolored flowers and began to twine their stems together in a wreath. "You have not told me your tale yetЧwhere you come from, how you received that wound, what happened to your adversary. I have waited patiently while you slept the days away and drank my soup. I hope I won't have to wait any longer.**
"I don't consider it a very interesting tale.**
"Let me judge it"
"Very well. I am the younger son of a younger son, so far removed from nobility that I inherited nothing but the right to become a knight. When I gained my arms, I left home to travel the wide world. Since then, I have roamed far, serving petty men in their personal wars, surviving partly through skill and partly through luck. Most recently, I swore two years' allegiance to the Lord of the East March, a better man than some. I had been with him almost a year when he entrusted me with a message to his cousin at FalconhillЧI was on my way there when I was stopped on the road and challenged by a rather large and angry-looking knight. I don't know what I did to provoke him; perhaps his teeth hurt and he was trying to find something to take his mind off the pain. We fought on foot, sword to sword, and he was a good fighter, but I was better. He did catch me in the side, but it was too late for him: at almost the same instant I struck him a mortal blow. At first, I hardly noticed that I had been touched, but when I tried to dig a grave for him, I almost fainted. I knew then that he would have to remain unburied, and I climbed on my horse and started out to look for help. I remember the sky darkening and the rain wetting me, but no more until I woke in your castle."
Delivev settled the wreath on her hair. "Knighthood," she said. "You like it?"
"I know nothing else."
"There are other trades. Safer trades."