"Mercedes Lackey - Firebird" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

room. The servants were all in their beds by now, except for the girl his brother was
with, and it was in her interest not to attract his attention. And as for his
brothersтАФwell, Sasha was likely as full of contentment as Ilya was and unlikely to
pick a quarrel, and the rest were full of drink and snoring. The night was hisтАФ
Or it was until a hand shot out of the darkness and seized his wrist.
For one moment, Ruslan's wild tales of the vengeful and dangerous domovoi
raced through his mind, and he bit a yell as he grabbed for the hand holding him. In
the next moment, he recognized the feel of the shabby vestments and the skinny arm,
and he plucked the clutching hand off his wrist with a feeling of annoyance.
"What are you doing here?" he asked Father Mikail crossly. "It's late. If you're
going to be up, shouldn't you be praying or something?"
"I have been praying, knowing what you were probably doing," the old priest said
reproachfully. "Ilya, Ilya, you aren't even pretending repentance for despoiling
another poor girl!"
"She was already nicely despoiled before I got to her," he retorted, stung. What
was wrong with the old man? Jealousy?
That might be the case, since it sounded as if Mikail was not going to give in
tonight.
"And that makes it better?" Mikail's voice took on a querulous tone, which only
irritated Ilya more. "It is no less a sin, and worse because you are unrepentant!"
He throttled his irritation; he was not going to let the old crow ruin a perfectly fine
evening. "Look, I'm not going to quarrel with you," he replied abruptly in a low
whisper. "It's too late, and I'm not going to attract a horde of servants by having an
argument out here in the open where we can wake them up. You can call me to task
in the morning if you're still of the same mind."
With that, he thrust the instrument into the priest's hands and stalked away, and
his irritation melted. For all intents and purposes, the argument was over before it
began. Father Mikail was too timid to pursue him tonight, and too diffident to
confront him by daylight, especially as he must know that Ruslan would not agree
with him on this subject. He must have seen me going out, and he's been praying
for my soul ever since, he thought, amusement returning to him. Poor old man. He
must never have been young; all he can think about is sin and damnation, and
he's so desperate to keep his soul clean that he never enjoys anything for fear it's
sinful. That's not the life for me! Plenty of time to repent before I dieтАФright now I
want to make sure I have lots of things to repent of when I'm old!
There was not even a whisper in the darkness behind him;
Father Mikail had faded into the shadows, obediently carrying the balalaika with
him.
Ilya sighed. Poor Mikail. Only the priest and the shaman were held in greater
contempt by Ivan and his sons than the despised Ilya. It was hard to believe that
anyone could be lower in the palace hierarchy than Ilya, but the very things that the
two men represented were the things that Ivan despised the most.
But if Mikail was despised, the shaman was actually in worse case. He didn't even
have quarters in the palace; he was relegated to a hut next to the bathhouse.
Poor old Ruslan. Bad enough that he is a shaman; it is worse that he is an
inheritance from Grandfather.
Ivan's father, Vasily, who had not styled himself a tsar but a boyar, had been a
thorough-going pagan. He had believed, fervently and wholeheartedly, in every sort
of spirit ever imagined, from bannik to rusalka, from leshii to vodianoi.
On his orders, every means of propitiating those spirits had been utilized. He