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

Most people wouldn't come back this far, past the last palm-reader's booth and the faint lingering chemical reek of the porta-johns. Dirt and trees and me. Seems real good right now.

It was in a small grove of oaks, set back against the hillside, where Eric finally set down his flute case on a handy rock. He sat on the ground beside it, opened the case and took out the silver pieces of his flute, carefully fitting them together, as if, by taking especial care with the task, he could put his life back together again. For a moment he just sat there, the chilled metal slowly warming against his fingertips.

This wasn't the first time he'd broken up with a girl, but it had to be one of the worst. Maureen had beenЧnice. Not pushy. Always there for himЧthe way he'd tried to be there for her.

Only it was pretty likely she wasn't going to be there anymore. Until this moment, he hadn't realized what that meant in terms of loneliness. He'd gotten used to not being lonely.

God, it hurts inside, it hurts. I can't believe she's left me. I just can't. We were so tight . . . Maureen, Maureen,

I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't want this to happen.

His fingers moved gently on the familiar flute keys; remembered patterns so deep he didn't have to think about them, bringing back other memories, of music, laughter, late evenings with his friends, drinking and playing.

God, it hurts . . .

He brought the flute up to his lips, taking a deep breath and playing a soft note, hesitant. It hung in the air for a moment, followed by another note, quavering, equally uncertain.

Then the notes grew stronger, louder, more confident. He began to play an ancient Irish air, "Brian Boru." It was a melody created a thousand years before he was born, by someone else who was also mourning, hurting. Someone else who had longed after something that had beenЧor was it something that could never be? The tune seemed to hold all of his heartache.

The last note drifted away, fading into the darkness around him. Damn. Is this what it always comes to, sitting alone, playing sad music? Trying to say whatever's inside me, when I can't say the words out loud? I always end up in a place like this, alone and lonely, no one in sight. Christ. Is this how I'm gonna end, too? What's the use? When am I ever going to find somebody who can hear what I'm trying to say, instead of hearing what they want me to say?

His fingers shifted on the flute, as though of their own accord, forming the first notes of "Sheebeg Sheemore." Yeah, old O'Carolan, now there was a modern bard. Crazy old blind guy, wandering the Irish countryside and writing melodies for his friends. Like this one. What a story, you don't even need to know what it's about to feel it. The elves of Eire, two rival groups of FaerieЧkind against kind, kin against kin. Maybe even once-love against once-love, love gone sour and turned into hate.

But it's a pretty melody, not like "Boys of Ballysadare," where you can almost see the Scottish bodies piling up. I guess elves don't believe in really ripping each other apart, not like us humans. Not like Maureen, anyhow. Yeah, a beautiful song, even if there's no such thing as Faerie.

He could feel the music starting to change as he stopped thinking about it; just playing, trying to take what was aching inside him and transform it into the melody. It was as though something had taken hold of his mind and body, and that something was flowing through him and the music. Like his soul was talking directly through the flute, pure, unambiguous. It was the feeling he had once in a long while, when he was playing and everything was working and it just clicked.

And it was happening now, as he played the O'Carolan tune, every note flawless and clear as crystal, every inflection and trill absolute perfection. But not a cold perfection, mechanicalЧno, this was music straight from his heart, all emotion, with no unhuman intellectualism intervening.

Eric felt a hush, a quietude, as though the grove itself was suddenly still, not a single bird echoing his flute, as though the night itself was holding its breath. As though everything that could hear his playing was listening to him, to the music, to what the music was saying; listening with every pore, and watching him. The ancient oak trees, branches gnarled and bent, seemed to draw closer to him, as though concentrating intently.

He closed his eyes, ignoring them. What an illusion. Oak trees can't move. Too much whiskey, Eric, m'lad.

He continued playing, adding all the extra trills and ornaments he'd always wanted to, but never dared try. Then he reached the last delicate run, straight down the scale, that was the end of the tuneЧ

Чand he kept going. Something inside him, all the pain and sorrow, was suddenly in the music, and he couldn't stop. It was a different melody now, his own, original. And the music was flowing through him, wild and fey, relentlessly pulling him onward.

It built to an impossible climax, a last fiercely defiant high note that seemed to shatter the still air, thenЧ

Чsilence. Profound and absolute. As though the world was waiting, watching for something to happen. Nothing marred it, it was the kind of silence born of anticipation, as though a door was opening, and everything paused for a moment, expecting Someone to step throughЧ

Eric took a deep breath, hearing a quivering echo from the trees as the last notes faded away. His heart was pounding, his fingers clenched tight upon the flute, trembling. Damn. Was that really me?

God, I should have some lady break my heart more often, if that's what it does to my music!

Something startled him, and he sat up suddenly. For a moment, Eric thought he heard something, an answering song from the grove, not just the last echoing notes of his melody.

Then the wind kicked up, sending swirls of dust and dead leaves scattering around him. Eric's eyes began to sting from the dustЧas he blinked to clear them, he saw something glinting across the grove, a brief flicker of green light.