"West,.Michelle.-.Memory.of.Stone.(txt)" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

Master Gilafas understood her. He came to her with bits of wood, smooth stone, raw gems; he gave her room in his workshop, and brought to her the glass that he loved. She did not love it, but she listened to its voice as it spoke to him, and sometimes, when the world was quiet and her hands could be still, she would sing a harmony to its quiet voice.
But at other times, the stones would lead her to rooms that Master Gilafas could not find on his own. She was afraid of the stone, then; afraid of being alone. She hated the darkness that lingered at its edges; it hurt her, and it promised to hurt her more.
She knew it. Because she heard what the stones said to him when he walked by her side. She would glance anxiously at his face when the stones spoke in their sharp, cold voices.
Sometimes she would ask him about the voices.
And he would take her hands in his and smile gently. "Yes," he would say, "I hear them. But they are only words, Cessaly. Pay them no heed."
And she would see her death in these stones, but his words and his voice were stronger.

He was reduced, he thought, to being a baby-sitter.
He had, in that first month, attempted to foist that duty upon
Sanfred's broad shoulders, and Sanfred was more than willing to accept it.
But the greatness of the talent that all but consumed Cessaly was denied in its entirety to Sanfred. He could not hear what she heard. He could not see what she saw. Instead, he heard madness, and only madness.
The stories were there, of course. Every apprentice, every young journeyman, every man who desired to be called MasterЧ and there were not a few of those in the guildЧknew the stories.
The Artisans were mad. Gloriously, dangerously, mad.
Only madness could conceive of a small jeweled box in which the whole of a room might be contained. Only madness could create Fabril's reach, bending the fabric of the real and the solid to the vision of its maker. Only madness, yes.
But madness had created more, much more.
And Gilafas was doomed to understand it. To see what he could not be; to almost touch what he could not acheive. His curse.
Sanfred lost Cessaly for two days. He came to Gilafas, ashen and terrified, and all but fell in a groveling heap at the Guild-master's feet, weeping. Two days, Gilafas searched; two days, he listened.
He found her at last in a room he had visited once in nightmare, standing before the effigy of altar upon which her naked body lay, cradling rod and sword. What he found in search of Cessaly, he was never allowed to lose again. It waited, that room.
He had carried her from it with care and difficulty; she had in her hands the softest of stones, and powder flew from it as she carved and polished its face, her eyes unseeing, her ears bleeding.
Two days later, she had begged him for gold. He had brought that, and more besides: gemstones, large as eyes. She was thin as a bird; lifting her, he could believe that her bones were hollow. She said, "I'm flying, Master Gilafas. You've made me fly!" And laughed, delirious. Insane.
He loved the sound of that laugh, and he understood, when he called Sanfred again, that Sanfred not only did not love it, but in fact, was terrified by it.
The fear galled Gilafas; the pity and horror that Sanfred could not hide when he next saw Cessaly enraged him. He had not expected that. Had he, he might have been more temperate.
More cautious.
"Do you not understand what you have witnessed?"
Sanfred was mute in the face of his words.
"The guild has not been graced by a talent as pure as hers since its founding. Do you not understand the significance of her presence?"
An ill display indeed, for he knew the answer. No. How could he?
"You . . . are not ... as she is."
"No, Sanfred, I am not. To my profound sorrow, I am not. Get out. Get out; I will tend her myself."

He was her captive. He came to understand that. The whole of his life, his authority, his stature meant nothing to her. And where was the justice in that? For his life revolved around her. The hours of his rising, the hours in which he might sleep, were dictated by hers, and she slept the way a newborn does: unaware of the strictures of day and night, light and darkness.
She took food at her whim, and when that whim was weak, at his; she drank because he demanded it. Sometimes, when he was exhausted beyond all measure, he went to the apothecary and fed her bitter brew; it dulled her for some hours while he slept.
Sanfred, unable to champion Cessaly, became in all things Gilafas' ears and eyes; only upon royal command did Gilafas choose to leave Fabril's reach. He had lost Cessaly for two days; he did not intend to do so again.
Captivity breeds either hostility or resignation, and in Gilafas it bred both.
He was surprised, then, to find that in the stretch of the days from summer to Henden, he had learned to love the cage.

He discovered it thus: Duvari came to visit.
It had been months since their first meeting in the heights of
Fabril's reach; the Astari had sent no word, and by its lack, Gilafas understood that the Sword at least was whole.
But when Duvari appeared in the doorway of his workroom, he knew that the lull had ended. Cessaly was in the corner, by the cooling glass. She had, in her fashion, been singing, and together they had blown a bubble in which one of her butterflies was encased, its lines brought out by light. They had learned to work together in this fashion, Gilafas the hands behind their mutual will.
"Remember, Cessaly, not to touch it yet. It will burn your hands, and you will not be able to make until they are healed."
She nodded, too absorbed to look up.
Trusting her, then, he stepped away.
He was not dressed for an audience; indeed, he wore the oldest of aprons, the most worn of gloves. The glass that protected his eyes sat upon his head like a wayward helm; he almost lowered it when he saw Duvari. The threat in his presence was palpable.
But he did not do it. Cessaly was sensitive to gesture this close to making's end, and she was always sensitive to the tone, the texture, of his voice.
"I would speak a moment in private," Duvari said quietly.
In that, they were of a mind. Gilafas nodded politely. "I ... would prefer ... to remain in sight of her."
"It was not a request. The matter is of a sensitive nature."
"As is she," Gilafas replied evenly.
Duvari frowned. The frown was unlike the one that normally adorned his features, and Gilafas instantly regretted his words.