"Esther M. Friesner - Hallowmass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

"Take her, then," the bishop spat. But his venom was all in his eyes, and these
were aimed elsewhere. Master Giles saw the poisonous look he and his son
received from my lord bishop, and he felt his bowels go cold.

"I may not," the lady's lordly brother replied. "If it were so easy, would I
have troubled your petty rites? She may not be taken unless she is freely
given."

"Well, then, consider it so. I give her back to you more than freely gladly!"
The bishop used his crozier in the same style that Margaret had used her broom
to shoo away unwanted visitors. A child in the mob giggled.
Still the elvenlord demurred. "She is not yours to give." His eyes scanned the
press and met eyes that could not tell that they were sought. "She is his. Let
him give her up and we will go."

They tore Benedict from his father's grasp and hustled the lad before the
bishop, before the Faerie host. The boy's unseeing gaze rose as the elf-lord
uttered his demand again: "Release her, boy, and we may yet depart leaving you
as we found you."

Master Giles wrung his hands, for he knew his son's response even before the
words left Benedict's lips: "That I will not. I can't give what isn't any man's
to hold."

They fell upon him with words at first -- both sides of the quarrel, elven and
mortal. The bishop and all his suite exhorted the lad not to be a fool, to speak
sense, to give this unholy congregation of visitants whatever it took to effect
their banishment. Only do that, they told him, and his insane blasphemy (Whoever
heard of an elvenlady in the company of saints? Merciful God above!) might in
time be absolved. On their side the elves spoke less and said more. Would he
choose to give them what they asked or did he want to die? It was that simple.

Then all fell silent again, and Benedict replied, "I've already said all I can
say: I can't give what isn't mine. Her soul is her own, God have it in keeping.
I have only offered it a haven, a shell of stone it must outgrow, soon or late,
as surely as the flower breaks the seed that holds it safely through the
winter."

The elvenlord's laughter was like perfect music with the heart torn from it, all
a fair seeming, but meaningless. "You speak of souls in the same breath with our
kind, boy? Are you so ignorant, or do you play some idiot game? I am in no
sportive mood, I would be gone quickly. I tell you, it is like an agony of cold
iron in my eyes to have to remain in your midst, seeing the crudeness of your
mortal cities, the ugliness of your mortal faces. I have not come here for
pleasure; I have come for my own."

"If she were your own, you'd have her," the boy replied mildly.

"Come now!" the bishop cried, thumping Benedict smartly on the shoulder with his