"Simon Hawke - The Iron Throne" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

denied.

Aedan could still recall that day with vivid clarity.

That was another peculiarity that came with age, he thought. His
memories of long ago were easily accessible, and yet, for some strange
reason, he often struggled to remember something that had taken place
just a week before. But that day had been a memorable one. On the day
that Michael had been born, Aedan's father brought him in to see the
infant prince, lying cradled in his mother's arms.

"This is your lord, my son," his father told him.

"Kneel and pay him homage."

Aedan was only six years old then, but he already knew his duty. He had
understood that the tiny, wrinkled creature lying nestled in its
mother's arms would become the most important person in his life.

He had bowed his head and gone down to one knee before the empress, who
was lying propped up

by pillows in the large, canopied gilt bed. He could still recall how
radiant and beautiful she looked, with her long, golden hair hanging
loose around her shoulders.

"What is my lord's name, Your highness?" he had asked.

The empress had smiled and said, "Michael."

"Michael," Aedan murmured softly to himself, repeating the name now as
he had then. Almost as if in answer, a sudden gust of wind blew in
through the window and the candles flickered.

Sensing a presence in the room behind him, Aedan turned from the window.
In the dim glow of the flickering candlelight, he saw a tall, dark, and
slender figure appear in the center of the chamber.

His full-length, hooded cloak billowed in the dissipating wind of his
arrival, then settled down around him, giving the brief impression of
wings being folded back.

"Am I intruding on your vigil, Lord Aedan?"

The voice was unmistakable. It was deep, musical, and resonant, with
the old, familiar, lilting elvish accent.

"Gylvain!" said Aedan. "By Haelyn, is it really you, or am I dreaming?"

The elven mage pulled back the hood of his dark green, velvet cloak,