"Eisenstein,.Phyllis.-.Elementals.2.-.1988.-.Crystal.Palace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eisenstein Phyllis)

give her payments back. It seems you’ve made her rich; since last year, her
two-room hut has become a mere annex to a much grander house, and she has
acquired two servants as well. She doesn’t even shear her own sheep any more.”
Delivev stood up slowly. “All that from a few em­broidered hangings? I’m
flattered that my work should be worth so much at market!”
Gildrum laughed. “The hangings decorate her new home. It’s the wool that brings
her wealth—her won­derful wool that’s fine enough for sorcerers. It’s in demand
and therefore carries a high price even for ordinary mortals. And plenty of
herdsmen have paid even better for the use of her rams as breeding stock.” He
circled her waist with one arm. “She made a good bargain with you.”
She leaned against him, her head tilted to his shoul­der. “Let her be rich. As
long as she sells me wool.”
He kissed her forehead. “My dearest Delivev, how many other sorcerers would say
something like that? Most of them would just take all her wool and leave her
poverty.” He kissed her nose. “But then, you are a most unusual sorcerer, in
every way.”
Cray picked up the load of wool, slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll put this away
for you, Mother.”
“If you like,” she replied, but her eyes were all for Gildrum.
Her workroom was a tower chamber. There, her spinning wheel and looms stood, and
a multitude of half-completed projects awaited her pleasure—tapes­tries,
fabrics, hoop after hoop of embroidery, crewel, needlepoint. And everywhere were
skeins and spools of every sort of fiber, coarse and fine, dull and shiny, and
every color of the rainbow. Cray dropped his bundle beside the loom that held a
silk brocade, a rich maroon and black fabric worked with golden threads. It was
for a dressing gown, he knew, a gift for Gildrum. The demon needed no clothing,
of course; it could manufacture garments from its own substance. But Delivev
took pleasure in creating such things, and in seeing them used. She had already
made Cray a sim­ilar gown, and he wore it sometimes to please her, though it was
really too magnificent for his own taste. She had made him many gifts over the
years. And though he had given in return gold and wood given form by his own
hands, still he felt it had never been enough.
He had meant the tree as another gift. From a window of the tower chamber, he
could see it, candlelight glimmering faintly on its gold-flecked trunk. He
leaned in the window for a time, looking down, frown­ing. At last, the candles
guttered.
Patience, he told himself. Patience.
When he returned to the garden, it was empty and silent; Delivev and Gildrum had
retired for the night. By starlight alone, Cray made his way to the tree. He
could barely see it, but that did not matter. He knew every twig, every leaf; he
had touched it a thousand times, guiding its growth with the warmth of his flesh
and the words of his spells. He reached out for the branch he had chosen, the
flower he had caressed. The blossom was gone; he knew it must lie shriveled
somewhere near his feet. In its place was a new bud, as small and hard as a
pearl. He whispered to it. “My beauty,” he called it, and it warmed beneath his
touch. He could feel the force of life within it, stronger than in any other
flower of the garden. He smiled in the darkness.
Patience, he thought.
* * *
Some days later, he was in his workshop weighing odds and ends of gold when a