"Patricia A. McKillip - Song for the Basilisk" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

beginning of the pursuit. Hexel, she noted, had forgotten his loathing for the composer and was galloping over the keys. A strand of
her hair slid free and drifted above the lavandre's mouth, fluttering with every note she played. She ignored it, though the prince's
daughter Damiet, her eyes opening slightly at Giulia, seemed to have found something at last to interest her.
The hunt reached its climax; something was slain by an unexpected chord. The harpsichord paced itself to a peaceful walk, while the
lavandre sang a pretty lament for the dead. Midway through it, Giulia saw the prince's eyes, beneath slow, heavy lids, fix on her
face, as if she played jewels instead of notes, and every one belonged to him.
He came up to her afterward, while the musicians were putting their instruments away, and the guests picked daintily at what looked
like butterfly wings and hummingbird hearts. Giulia, who saw the Prince of Berylon rarely and at a distance, swept her magister's
robe into a deep curtsy, wondering if she had mortally offended him with a turn of phrase.
Rising, she looked into his eyes. The skin around them was lightly crumpled with age, but they were still powerful, at once searching
and opaque, like a light too bright to be looked at, but which illumined everything. This year would mark his sixty-fifth birthday, the
thirty-seventh year of his ascent to power over Berylon. His fine face, gilded by sun and symmetrical as a mask, seemed not so much
aging as drying. It was as if, Giulia thought, his skin were a husk within which blood and bone were busily transforming themselves
into something else entirely.
She lowered her eyes, wondering suddenly if he had read her thoughts. He said only, "You play my music very well."
"Thank you, my lord."
"As I would play it, if I were that proficient. As if you like it."
"Then I must," she answered in her low, clear voice. Years in Berylon had smoothed the provincial quirks out of her speech. "I don't
play well what I don't like."
"Did you think the lament a trifle long?"
Surprised, she lifted her eyes again, to glimpse the tentative composer behind the ruler. "No, my lord. You made me see a stately
animal, maybe with mythical qualities, that had been slain. Something to touch the heart. Not just something to be viewed as supper.
A stag?"
"Or a griffin," he suggested, with his tight, still charming smile. "I have heard you play here before. You teach at the school."
"Yes, my lord."
"How long have you been there?"
"Five years as a student, my lord, and five as a teacher."


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McKillip, Patricia A. - Song for the Basilisk

"You are a northerner." She hesitated, surprised again; his smile deepened. "I hear it in your voice. You came to the school young,
then. And were given assistance? You are not a land baron's daughter."
"YesтАФno, my lord. My grandfather still farms or the northern slopes. He sent me here at fourteen, thinking that I would astound the
magisters of the Tormalyne School with my music."
"And did you?"
"Yes, my lord. They had never heard such noise in their lives."
For a moment his smile reached his eyes. "What were you playing for them?"
"My picochet. They locked it in a closet, and forbade me to touch it for five years. They taught me to play more civilized
instruments."
"I am not familiar with the picochet."
"It is a peasant's instrument, my lord."
"And one you still play?"
For a breath he caught her wordless. She felt the blood gather in her face, under his bright, unblinking gaze. She said finally, "Yes,
my lord."
"I know many uncivilized instrumentsтАж But not that. You live at the school?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good. Then I will know where to find you."
"My lord?"