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

“I must be judge of that.”

Gildrum looked down at the floor. “You fashioned the rings. You may dispose of me as you will.”

“Perhaps I have heaped too much upon you these last years,” he said. “Perhaps you feel you have no time to yourself.” He took her shoulders in his hands. “Perhaps you need a holiday—a return to your own world for a little time. You’d see, then, that there is nothing for you there. Would that please you—a holiday?”

She lifted her eyes to his. “How long a holiday?”

“I don’t know. A few days? A little longer, maybe.”

“When? Now?”

He frowned. “No, not now, that’s not possible. I have the ring to finish, and you must fetch me the proper gem for it from one of the deposits in the south. And then there are those books buried in the ruins of ancient Ushar—I know they must be there, even though you haven’t found them yet—”

“You have other demons that could look for them as well as I.”

“They haven’t your fine touch, my Gildrum. I couldn’t trust any of them to bring the books undamaged. And you know so well precisely, what to look for. How long would it take me to teach that ignorant rabble to tell one volume of ancient lore from another?

They would have me knee deep in genealogies and herbals, wasting my time with

nonsense.”

Gildrum let her shoulders slump. “I see I have served you too long. I have become…

indispensable.”

He shook her gently. “You shall have your holiday, my Gildrum. You shall. But not now.

Later, when I have not so many projects in need of completion.”

“That will be never,” said Gildrum.

“Don’t say that.”

She bowed her head. “Yes, my lord.”

“Come, I want you to find that gem now, that I may begin the polishing. A fine, pale yellow topaz it must be, the color of that wine we had with dinner a few nights since—

you recall I remarked on the color.”

“I recall, my lord. I recall.”



Gallant trotted easily in the morning light, its hooves making a fine rhythm on the hard-packed earth, its trappings jingling as if taking joy from the sunshine. The forest lay behind, with its leaf-shaded daylight, and now horse and rider moved beneath the open sky, between fields of nodding, golden grain. The road had forked once, and they had borne left, according to the innkeeper’s directions. Ahead lay a village, a cluster of huts on the north side of the path; Cray could just make them out in the distance.

He sat straight in the saddle, even after so many days of unremitting travel, even with the weight of chain mail pulling continually at his shoulders. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat, plaited this very morning of coarse grasses that grew by the side of the road—plaited to shield his eyes from the glare of full sunlight. He thought he must look an odd sight in surcoat and mail and straw hat. Thus far, though, he had not encountered anyone on the road to tell him so.

Suddenly, not half a dozen paces ahead, a figure emerged from the grain, a small, hunched figure that stepped into the center of the road and halted there, lifting an arm toward Cray. The boy had to jerk Gallant’s reins sharply to keep from running the person down. The horse took a few uneven strides beyond the figure before turning back in response to its master’s touch.