"Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 06 - The Fathomless Caves" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forsyth Kate)

In contrast, his wife, Iseult, was sitting very straight, the goblet of
wine before her untasted. She was dressed severely in white, her mass of
red-gold curls was pulled back from her brow and hidden within a white
snood, and she wore only two rings, a moonstone on her right hand, a
dragoneye on her left hand. But unlike the plainness of Isabeau's white
witch-robes, Iseult's austerity was a matter of choice. As the Banr├мgh of
Eileanan, Iseult could have been dressed as richly and gaily as any other
lady at the Beltane feast. Her only adornment, however, was the clan
brooch that clasped her snowy-white plaid about her shoulders.

The brooch was exactly the same as that which pinned together the
white folds of Isabeau's plaid, a circle formed by the stylized shape of a
dragon, rising from two single-petalled roses surrounded by thorns, for
the two women seated side by side at the high table were twins, as alike
as mirror images. If it was not for Isabeau's scarred and maimed left
hand, and the staff and witch-rings that showed her status as a member
of the Coven, a stranger could well have had difficulty in telling them
apart.

The chill silence between the R├мgh and Banr├мgh had affected the
spirits of all the other lords and ladies at the royal table. Most had gone
to seek more cheerful company on the dance floor or by the ale barrels.
Elfrida NicHilde, who could not overcome her lifelong indoctrination
against any kind of merrymaking, had gone to brood over her young son,
Neil, sleeping upstairs in the nursery suite with the other children. Her
husband, Iain MacF├│ghnan of Arran, had been drawn into a political
argument with some of the other prionnsachan, while the ancient
Keybearer of the Coven, Meghan NicCuinn, had sought her bed some
time ago. There was only Isabeau, Iseult and Lachlan left, all of them
somber and preoccupied.

Connor, the R├мgh's young squire, knelt by Lachlan's side with a
crystal decanter of whiskey. "It is near midnight, Your Highness," he said
respectfully as he once again refilled the R├мgh's goblet. Lachlan looked at
him rather blankly, his eyes bloodshot. "It's time for the crowning o' the
May Queen," Connor prompted, rising again and stepping back.

"O' course," Lachlan said, his words rather slurred. "The May
Queen. How could I forget?" There was a slight trace of sarcasm in his
voice and Isabeau felt her twin stiffen, drawing herself up even further.
Isabeau roused herself from her own miserable thoughts to turn and look
at her sister, but the Banr├мgh's face was averted, her profile as cold and
white as if carved from marble.

Lachlan leapt up onto the table, his black wings sweeping out and
back so the movement was as swift and graceful as the soaring of an
eagle. "My good people," he called, his voice ringing out across the
tumult of laughter, chatter and music. Immediately everyone stilled and
turned to face him, for Lachlan's voice had a rare magic in it, as
compelling as the song of any sea-singer.