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

“That is a private room. I do not wish you to enter it.”

“Whatever you say, my lady.” He pulled the lute to his lap. “Shall I play for you?”

“No.” She looked down at the thick rug upon the stone floor, at its bold pattern of green and gold. She had knotted it with her own hands, and a little magic, after weaving the open canvas backing on her largest loom. She had crafted many such beautiful things in her long lifetime; Spinweb was full of them. Yet in her heart she felt no beauty now, only emptiness.

“Sing,” she said at last. “Sing to me of love.”

He sang a plaintive melody, his voice deep and mellow, his eyes never leaving her face.

He sang, and after some verses he rose from the bed and moved closer to her, still singing, till he stood above her, and his music fell upon her hair like a coronet. He sang, and his fingers left the strings of the lute and reached out for her, gently, as for a wild bird. Almost, he touched her cheek. And then his sleeve tightened about his wrist and held it back.

She looked up at him. “No,” she said, and she rushed from the room.

When he was able to move once more, he went to the door and found strands of

spidersilk hung across it, strong and immovable as bars of steel. He could not leave his room. He could not follow her to another tower, to the chamber overlooking the forest track, to the tapestry that showed the face of a man he did not know.

She wept there, alone, as on many another night.





CHAPTER SIX


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After breakfast, she bade the troubadour leave.

He fell on his knees before her. “My lady, if my behavior last night offended you, believe me, I am most heartily sorry. When you asked to hear of love, in such a melancholy voice, I allowed myself to think… perhaps…” He smiled up at her, a sunny smile that transformed his rugged features almost to youth, and Delivev thought that many women must have been won with it. “You are so beautiful,” he said. “Can you blame any man for wanting to cherish you?”

“Rise, Master Lorien. I am not offended. But I did call you most unexpectedly from a king’s home, and I know the king was loath to let you go. He will be cheered to have you back.”

“I have been here so brief a time,” he said, standing straight once more, a head taller than she. “Do you really wish me to go?”

She turned away from him, toward the window of his room, and she looked out over the forest canopy as she fancied Cray must have done many times. This was his room, and she felt now that she had made a mistake in giving it over to a stranger. “You’ve changed your feelings in these few days, Master Lorien. You’re no longer afraid of me.”

“You are a kind and generous lady,” he said, “You would grace any castle, magical or otherwise. And I was never afraid, only uncertain.”

“You were afraid. I could see it in your eyes. You only came to Spinweb because you feared the consequences of disobedience to my command.”

“I came out of curiosity, my lady.”

She glanced back at him. “I think neither of us will convince the other. Fear or uncertainty—call it what you will; you’ll have no more of it now. A steed will be waiting for you outside the gate.” She gestured toward the door, and the cloth-servant entered, bearing a large, wool-wrapped bundle in its outstretched arms. “Here is some payment for your services.”

The servant laid the package on the table and opened it. The wool wrapping was a mantle, its lining brown plush, and folded neatly inside were a fine brocade shirt, velvet trews, and knitted gloves.