"Nancy Varian - Berberick - Dalamar the Dark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varian Nancy)

all, he tasted it. Rain. Lightning flickered fitfully, illuminating the
garden. Leida's eyes widened. She lifted her head in the way she had of
showing off her charming ears. Sweetly canted, they were like the petals of
some lovely flower, white and elegant. Her lips moved in a sudden smile. She
glanced over her shoulder to the silent, cavernous kitchen. Potboys had
finished their work of scrubbing the pans and plates from breakfast. The cook
had gone into the storeroom beyond to take the count of what would be needed
to prepare the evening meal. The bakers, who labored in the night, were long
asleep in their quarters.
Leida looked into the eyes of the mage. Perilous eyes sometimes, strange eyes
at best, she'd never looked there without feeling a quickening of her breath
and the excited leap of her heart. Dangerous, warned the little chill running
down her spine.
"Dalamar, there is a quiet place I know ..."
A quiet place in the attic, in the little room where the linen was kept. In
her own small chamber, perhaps. Or his. Dalamar leaned close to taste the rain
on her neck. Eflid forbade any union between the servants in Lord Ralan's
hall. He would have no alliances forged, no distractions created. He would
lift the minds and hearts from us all if he could, Dalamar thought, and have a
small army of automatons.
His lips still on the soft flesh of Leida's neck, Dalamar smiled. She felt it
and came into his arms, lifting her face for his kiss.
His kiss was not like fire, as she had often imagined. It was like sudden
lightning. The blood in her leaped, and her pulse drummed. "Come to my room,"
she said, her words felt against his lips rather than heard. She took his
hands and stepped away, holding them, pulling him, laughing. "Come with
me...."
Outside, the morning's rain still dripped from the eaves, gurgling in gutters
and along the channels it cut for itself beside stone paths. Leida laughed
again, bright against the gray day.
The shadow fell upon her like a thin grim cloak. Eflid's hand closed hard on
her shoulder, and his voice hissed like a snake's in her ear. "Go where, eh?
Slut-"
Leida cried out in fear, perhaps in pain. Swift, Dalamar grabbed the steward's
wrist. Before he could think yea or nay, he broke Eflid's grip with one sharp
twist. Loathing like poison flared in the steward's eyes. He pulled back,
trying to free himself. He failed. Color drained from his cheeks. Rage and
fear warred in him.
"Let go," he snarled. Dalamar did not. "Boy, I mean it." His voice shook, but
only a little, and only he and Dalamar knew it. "You'd better let go-"
Outside, lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled then suddenly roared. In the
garden something white moved through the mist, like a ghost on the
rain-running paths. Leida gasped, slipping behind Dalamar into the dark safety
of the kitchen. Her footfalls sounded in the darkness, swift as she ran past
the deep hearth, the long tables, and the shelves of pots and pans. Gone, she
did not look back, and no one looked after her.
On a second flash of lightning the ghostly figure in the garden became a man,
a cleric running ahead of the storm, the hem of his white robe hitched high
out of the mud. Splashing and slipping, he dashed for the kitchen.
Dalamar loosed his grip on Eflid's wrist. "Your master has a guest, Lord