"Judith Tarr - The Isle of Glass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tarr Judith)

"An envoy, then." Jehan regarded him, as fascinated by his face as Alf had
been. "He looks like the elf-folk. You know that story, don't you, Brother
Alf? My nurse used to tell it to me. She was Rhiyanan, you see, like my
mother. She called the King the Elvenking."
"I've heard the tales," Alf said. "Some of them. Pretty fancies for a
nursery."
Jehan bridled. "Not all of them. Brother Alf! She said that the King was so
fair of face, he looked like an elven lord. He used to ride through the
kingdom, and he brought joy wherever he went; though he was no coward, he'd
never fight if there was any way at all to win peace. That's why Rhiyana never
fights wars."
"But it never refuses to intervene in other kingdoms' troubles."
"Maybe that's what this man has been doing. There's been fighting on die
border between Gwynedd and Anglia. He might have been trying to stop it."
"Little luck he's had, from the look of him."
"The King should have come himself. Nurse said no one could keep up a quarrel
when he was about. Though maybe he's getting too feeble to travel. He's
terribly old."
"There are the tales."
"Oh," Jehan snorted. "That's the pretty part. About how he has a court of
elvish folk and never grows old. His court is passing fair by all I've ever
heard, but I can't believe he isn't a creaking wreck. Ill wager he dyes his
hair and keeps the oglers at a distance."
Alf smiled faintly. "I hope you aren't betting too high." He yawned and
stretched. "I'll spend the night here. You, my lad, had better get back to
your own bed before Brother Owein misses you."
14
Judith Tarr
"Brother Owein sleeps like the dead. If the dead could snore." "We know
they'll rise again. Quick, before Owein proves it."
Jehan had kindled a fire in the room's hearth; Alf lay in front of it, wrapped
in his habit. Even yet the stranger had not moved, but he was alive, his pain
gnawing at the edge of Alf's shield. But worse still was the knowledge that
Alf could have healed what the other suffered, but for his own, inner
confusion. How could he master another's bodily pain, if he could not master
that of his own mind?
If I must be what I am, he cried into the darkness, then let me be so. Don't
weigh me down with human weakness!
The walls remained, stronger than ever.
As Alf slept, he dreamed. He was no longer in St. Ruan's, no longer a
cloistered monk, but a young knight with an eagle's face, riding through hills
that rose black under the low sky. His gray mare ran lightly, with sure feet,
along a steep stony track. Before them, tall on a crag, loomed a castle. After
the long wild journey, broken by nights in hillmen's huts or under the open
sky, it should have been a welcome sight. It was ominous.
But he had a man to meet there. He drew himself up and shortened the reins;
the mare lifted her head and quickened her step.
The walls took them and wrapped them in darkness.
Within, torchlight was dim. Men met them, men-at-arms, seven of them. As the
rider dismounted, they closed around him. The mare's ears flattened; she