"Lackey, Mercedes - Bedlam's Bard 01 - Knights of Ghosts and Shadows (with Ellen Guon) 1.4" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

No wonder he's DOA. Their blood must he at least sixty proof. He felt sorry for the Security guy, trying to push the three in the direction of the Faire exit. Not my idea of a fun job.

The Wood loomed before him now, oak branches curving overhead to create thick darkness beneath. Dark and forbidding, to anybody who didn't know it.

But it was as familiar as an old friend to Eric, who'd played there for years: on the Wood Stage, and on the streets filled with travelers and Faire folk.

His pace slowed, and he felt a pang, thinking about how this would all go under a bulldozer's blade. God, but I love this place. It's the only place I've ever really felt at homeЧeven when I want to escape from everything, there's that grove, hidden at the edge of the Fairesite . . .

It occurred to him that since Irish Hill was occupied, he might want to play there for a while tonight, just get away from everybody and everything and play until he couldn't think or feel anything anymore . . .

Damn it, Maureen, everything was fine! How could you walk out on me like this?

He walked to the edge of the haybale rows that were the seats for the Wood Stage. A group of musicians was seated on the stage, playing. Eric smiled sadly, recognizing the tune even before he saw the players. "Banish Misfortune" . . . yeah, I wish it could.

The reality of the fightЧand what it meantЧhit him. He began to feel empty inside, and lost; like he'd lost more than just Maureen. Like he'd lost his way and he'd never find it again. Black despair came down on him, so palpable that he was mildly surprised that he wasn't surrounded by a dark fog like a cartoon character.

God. I don't know where I'm going, what I'm doing. Nothing makes sense anymore . . .

All of the Celtic musicians were on the stage, some still wearing their Faire costumes, others in denim jeans and sweaters. All his friends, his favorite people. Linda and Aaron, fiddling like crazy, with Ross and red-bearded Ian pounding out the fast tempo on their Irish war drums. Judy standing over her dulcimer, the hand-held hammers moving so fast they blurred, with Jay sitting next to her, playing tinwhistle.

And four of the visiting Northerners, two fiddler girls looking like a matched set, one with short curly hair, the other a blonde; off in the back, a serious dark-haired woman concentrating on an intricate rhythm on a dumbek, and that blond bearded fellow playing the bouzouki.

Together they sounded better than any professional group Eric had heard in six years of busking, and the music was magnetic, drawing him to them. He half-reached for his flute, then sighed. Not tonight. I can't pretend that nothing's happened, pretend to be cheerful and happy. They'll know I'm pretending, they'll hear it in my music. No, they're having fun. Better not to spoil it.

"Hey, Eric, you crazy whistler, come down here!" Judy called to him.

He forced a laugh and shook his head, calling back to her over the loud music. "Not tonight, sweetheart, I have a previous engagement." He grinned. "Maybe afterwards."

Judy laughed and said something he didn't catch, though from the look on her face it was probably salacious. He just kept his mouth stretched in that phony grin and hurried past them, hoping none of them would decide to follow and haul him back.

"Hey, Eric!" Beth hailed him from behind.

Oh shit. I didn't want to talk to anyoneЧespecially not somebody who saw the fight.

Beth could hear Eric groan, but he stopped, and turned to face her.

"Beth, I'm not in the moodЧ" he began. She shoved a flask into his long, fine-boned hand before he could finish his statement.

"Have a pull on that," she ordered. "I only heard the tail end of the fight, but I suspect you need it. Besides, we can stay here and talk about it, if you want. I may have to go take care of the rumor-mill after that ruckus."

And I want to know, because you don't usually go around making women screaming mad on purpose, Banyon, she thought wryly. You may not think about things before you do them, but you don't screw up on purpose. And I don't think you would knowingly hurt a fly.

Beth remembered Kathie, and how she'd used this lad to get herself into the Texas Faire, then into a pro band, then dropped him like a hot rock.

In your own peculiar way, you're the gentlest man I know. And, in your own peculiar way, the most forgiving. You forgave Kathie, and I never would have. Hell, I still haven't, and I wasn't the one who got it in the teeth.

"I'd almost rather not talk about it," he said plaintively, shaking his shoulder-length chestnut hair out of his eyes.

God, how can anyone be that pretty? He looks like Sophia Loren at sixteen. With the appropriate male accoutrements. Very . . . nice.