"Stephen Goldin - Storyteller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

the direct employ of Princess Oma. As soon as he was dismissed from his duties he reported directly to
her all that had occured and the decisions that had been made. The princess thanked him, paid him a
generous bonus, and sent him off to find what else he could learn about the plans for her future. Then she
sat down to ponder what she herself must do about the situation.
 Princess Oma was one of those unfortunate women cursed with an abundance of blessings, and
therefore never realized she was cursed. Though not quite seventeen her beauty was already fabled
throughout the land—and in truth her long, silken black hair, her large, clear eyes, her smooth white skin
and her supple figure fully justified any praise she could receive. She was smarter than anyone in the
palace except a few of her teachers, and the training she'd received from them only sharpened her mental
skills. She had a melodious voice coupled with grace and a smile that could have charmed Rimahn
himself, so it was said. She was possessed of a driving energy and a passion for living that burned deep
within her soul.

Few indeed were the people who could say no to her. This was the single great tragedy of Princess
Oma.

She sat alone in her private bedroom, thinking what to do. The room was not large, but well appointed.
Richly woven peacock green and white tapestries hung upon the walls, and the floor was heaped with
sheepskin rugs. The large, carved oak bed was overhung by a canopy, from which draped a pale silver
gauze that floated sensuously to the floor or wafted in the occasional breeze. From the garden below,
hidden by an extra screen, women musicians played Oma's favorite music so that her days were filled
with songs. An ebony closet with ivory inlay stood in one corner, and a full-length mirror, framed with
electrum and set with diamonds, stood in another. Huge bowls of flowers, cut each morning in her own
garden, filled the air with the sweet scent of jasmine.

Princess Oma watched her reflection carefully in the glass as she practiced her pout. She wondered
whether it would be worth starting a tantrum to make her father cancel his plans to send her to Ravan,
but realized that move would fail now as it had before, because her father was more desperate now than
ever. She would only end up looking silly, and she hated looking silly.

She walked to the door and told her slave, “Find Rabah and tell her I want to see her immediately.”
Rabah was her friend; Rabah always knew what to do. Rabah would give her the advice she needed.

When Rabah arrived a short time later, she found Princess Oma lying prone and naked on her bed. The
slave was dismissed, leaving the two women alone, and Princess Oma said, “Oh Rabah, my angel, could
you rub my back for me? The skin feels so dry and coarse."

“As you wish, O my princess,” Rabah said with a slight smile. Rabah was a tall, willowy woman in her
early thirties, with short brown hair and strangely intense eyes, one blue and one green. Her facial
expressions were always controlled so it was impossible to tell her thoughts, and she moved with the
springy gracefulness of a tigress on a casual prowl. Now she lightly crossed the room to the closet, where
a vial of massage oil was kept in a bottom drawer. She warmed the oil on her own palms and then began
rubbing it into the princess's back. Rabah's touch was gentle, but there was a reserved strength in her
hands that could have made her dangerous had she chosen to be. This gave a touch of spice to the
experience that the princess savored.

As Rabah's fingers sensuously explored the silken skin of Oma's back, the princess confided to her all
that had transpired in her father's council chamber. “I will not be passed from hand to hand, a jewel going
to the highest bidder,” she said stubbornly.