"Mercedes Lackey and Roberta Gellis - Ill Met by Moonlight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

Prologue
The great gold and black banners of King Oberon and Queen Titania flew over the Palace of Avalon
proclaiming to those of the elfhame that the King and Queen were in residence. And none too soon;
never mind that the elves and their Underhill kin lived long and slow lives, those lives still intersected with
the mortals in the World Above, and in that world things were moving, and in directions that were—less
than auspicious. Once again, there were choices to be made, and those choices would resonate Underhill
for centuries to come.

Still, for this moment, Aleneil could only watch and wait, as her elders and superiors set the wheels of
politics and progress in ponderously slow motion. Eirianell, who had been FarSeer in Avalon since
Atlantis disappeared beneath the sea, summoned to her a young mortal servant and bid her go to the
palace and ask Lord Ffrancon if an audience for the FarSeers could be arranged with the King and
Queen. Then, once more, the four FarSeers raised the great lens and looked within.

They looked upon a mortal future far removed from the England of Great Harry's prime. The land of
England in the World Above was dark, not black with horror, but gray with dullness and misery. No
singing and dancing accompanied by hearty cheers bespoke the merriment of a masque. In ale-houses
there was only silence or sullen exchanges where once raucous laughter greeted bright-eyed poets with
overlong hair who stood on tables declaiming verses of varying quality to the left eyebrow or shell-pink
ear of their latest mistress. In a royal court that had once been almost blindingly brilliant with sparkling
gems and garments of rich hues and cloth of silver and gold, there was only drabness. Suits of black, of
gray, of flat, ugly brown bedecked the courtiers, and gowns of the same hues made plain the most lovely
of women, who wore no adornment and kept their eyes always lowered. A young king ruled, fair enough
of face but dour of expression—and of a mind and heart so closed that it permitted no new thoughts
within.

What happened in the World Above was reflected Underhill; it might be slow in coming, but as life and
liveliness drained from the World Above, it would drain from Underhill. Still, the reign of a single king, the
lifetime of a mere mortal, was insignificant—so long as the damage to the World Above was limited to
what was displayed here.

But the trouble was—it would not be limited to the vagaries of a humorless king in love with austerity.

The next vision was worse, but the FarSeers did not flinch, for they had seen this one over and over, ever
since Great Harry had sired his first living daughter. Now black horror ruled the land except for the
terrible red of fires which ate screaming victims—men and woman and occasionally (the FarSeers
moaned in pain as the images crossed the lens, for they never grew accustomed to this) children. Books
burned, too: English Bibles and any other text that raised any question about strict Catholic doctrine and
abject obedience to the pope, no matter how corrupt and venal that leader might be. A dull-haired
woman sat on the throne, her belly bloated, her once-sweet face twisted with misery and determination.

And then the prize—at the end of the storm and the tempest, came the rainbow. Color and life so vibrant
it nearly burst out of the lens into reality. Theaters rose on the banks of the Thames with bright flapping
banners to advise that a play was being given. Music and dancing gladdened the hearts of all. The
presses clanged and rumbled as volumes of poetry and plays and books of theology and wondrous tales
were imprinted for all to read. In the vision were some dark blots—poverty, cruelty, ignorance—but the