"Sorcerer's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Phyllis Eisenstein)

“Not to my knowledge, my lord.”

He spoke very quickly. “I know that a few of my people have been hunting in the forest that separates her land from mine. They have not trespassed, have they? I will punish any that do, I swear it. Or she may punish them herself, as she wishes, I will not say her nay.”

“I know of no trespassers, my lord.”

The man in blue relaxed visibly. “I wish to stay on good terms with her. You can understand that, I’m sure.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Now… arms.” He frowned. “Why would the child of a sorceress desire such things?”

“I intend to be a knight, as my father was.”

“Your father was not a sorcerer?”

“No, my lord.”

“Who was he, then?”

“His name was Mellor, and his device was three red lances interlocked on a white field.”

The man in blue shook his head. “I do not recognize either.”

“I would not expect it, my lord. My mother told me he was sworn to the Lord of the East March, and that is very far away for any of its knights to be known in these lands.”

“Far indeed.” His hands left the arms of his chair and came together, the palm of one slowly stroking the knuckles of the other. “Arms,” he murmured.

“I can pay for them, my lord.”

“Oh, I would sell them to the son of the Weaver for a fair price. But not to just anyone who came asking for them. Not, I think, to a boy who offered payment with stolen silver, for example.” He leaned forward. “After all, how can I be sure you are who you say you are?”

Cray smiled. “I can prove it, my lord, if I must.”

The man straightened, his shoulders striking the back of his chair with an audible thump.

“How would you prove it, if I asked for proof?”

“You wear long sleeves, my lord. I could roll them to your elbows.”

“Well, and so could I.”

“But I would not touch them while doing so.”

The lord set his palms flat on his thighs. “You may do so,” he said.

Cray gestured with one outstretched hand, and the lord’s left sleeve began to roll itself up his arm. All around him, people ceased their conversations and turned to look, and many of them stepped back, clutching their own sleeves, as if afraid they, too, might begin to move of their own volition.

“Enough!” shouted the lord of the fortress, and he stood up suddenly, brushing his sleeve down with the opposite hand as he might brush at an insect crawling on his skin.