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

“Not now, my lord. Not now that I owe you my life.”

“You owe me nothing,” said Cray, “except the proper form of address.”

“As you wish, Master Cray,” said Sepwin. “I have never met a wizard before.”

“I am not a wizard.”

“Those spiders tell me you are. I see one on your hand right now.”

Cray glanced down and saw a black mite gingerly investigating the pheasant feathers that brushed his right wrist. He blew on the creature gently, and it retreated up his sleeve. “I shall have to hide them better,” Cray said, “if I want to move freely among ordinary mortals.” He laid his hand on a branch of the tree where Gallant was tied, gave his elbow a sharp jerk, and a line of spiders trooped from his body to the wood; they began to spin immediately, anchoring lines to various twigs for a rough, radial pattern.

“My mother is a sorceress,” said Cray, “so don’t be surprised by what you see next.

She’ll be interested to know that I’ve found a traveling companion.” He gazed sidelong at Sepwin. “I have, haven’t I?”

“You have,” said Sepwin, and he bent to gather tinder for the fire. But his eyes never left the spiders and the web that they fashioned together in the trees.



The tapestry had woven the semblance of a sword upon the road that Cray traveled, and when Delivev laid her fingers upon it, she felt the heart thunder in her breast. Her son had drawn his sword, she knew, and used it for the first time against human beings. Yet there was no blood upon the cloth, and his path continued past the symbol; he had fought and run, unharmed, slaying no one. Delivev relaxed as she comprehended that, and then she smiled as she touched the sword again and found no fear there, only excitement. If he had to be a knight—and she still felt pain at that thought—he would at least be a properly brave one.

She turned away from the tapestry. Down the corridor, up the stairs, Lorien was waiting for his evening meal to arrive, expecting her to join him for it, but she felt no hunger now. Instead, she went to the web chamber and sought her son. The webs hung dark around her as she reached for the spiders that rode with him, willed them to find a place for spinning, even if it were the pommel of his saddle. They were not her spiders but his, raised in the influence of his aura, obedient to his will; yet they were spiders still, and her power over their kind was great. At last a small, bright spot appeared in the center of a web: Cray’s chin and mouth, seen from below, swaying in and out of view with the rhythm of his steed’s gait. Then the image crumpled, swept away by wind or a sleeve or a flick of the reins.

Delivev rose from the velvet-covered bed with a sigh. The moving horse was too chancy a support for spiderwebs; she would have to wait until Cray stopped for the night. Yet, having seen him with her own eyes, even the fraction of his face shown in the tiny web, she felt easier somehow; he was all right, the tapestry did not lie. Abruptly, she realized she was hungry.

In the kitchen, a bundle of cloth in the shape of a human being bent close to the hearth, turning the spit that bore a roasting joint of venison. At Delivev’s signal, the cloth-servant removed the meat from the fire and set it on a platter; its glove-hands picked up an obsidian knife and began to carve the roast, heaping two trenchers with the steaming, fragrant slices. Delivev took one of the trenchers and ate, sitting on a stool by the table while the cloth-servant set the other on a tray with saltcellar and wine cup—that was Lorien’s meal. Delivev hoped he did not mind eating alone. The only person she wished to see right now was Cray.

She had scarcely finished her meal when a spider descended from the ceiling on a long strand of silk, landing on her shoulder, scurrying to her neck to tickle her with tiny mandibles. She threw the trencher down and fairly ran to the web room. The largest web showed Cray against a vista of grain fields golden brown in low sunlight. He raised his arm in greeting when he saw her enter the room.

“I had an adventure today, Mother,” he said, “at long last.”

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“Oh, no, not a scratch. And I want you to meet my new friend, Feldar Sepwin.” He gestured to someone out of sight, once, and then more vehemently. “Come on, Master Feldar, let my mother take a look at you.”

A thin lad of about Cray’s age edged into view of the web, his eyes downcast. Slowly, he sank to his knees, his hands clasped at the level of his waist. “Good… good health to you, my lady,” he said.

Delivev eyed his ragged, filthy clothing and said, “Good health to you, Feldar Sepwin.

And good fortune to you—you seem to need some.”

“Master Feldar has had considerable trouble in his life, Mother,” said Cray, “because his eyes are two different colors. Show her your eyes, that’s a good fellow.”

Sepwin glanced up furtively. “I mean your son no harm, my lady.”

She leaned close to the web. “Two different colors indeed. How unusual. What sort of trouble does Cray speak of?”

“Folk say I have the evil eye, my lady,” Sepwin replied. “But it isn’t true.”