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

He had been inexcusably careless, assuming as the years passed that Vidal would die or remain a
near-inanimate hulk.

Pasgen himself had recovered in two years from the wound he had received in the battle waged against
his half-brother and half-sister and their Seleighe allies. But he had only been scraped by a passing
elf-shot; not exactly harmless, but nowhere near as deadly as Cold Iron to one of the Sidhe. Vidal had
been shot with a bullet from FitzRoy's mysterious gun.

Well, FitzRoy was dead. He would shoot no one again. Pasgen's lips twisted. And if someone had to be
shot by a mortal, Vidal surely deserved it more than anyone else. Unfortunately it seemed that Vidal had
survived with enough mind and will to demand his presence . . .

Or was it unfortunate?

The idea that had come to Pasgen seemed to lift an enormous weight from his heart, and it removed his
indecision. He would go to Rhoslyn, warn her about the token, and leave his with her—obviously he
could not carry it with him to Caer Mordwyn. It would be safe with Rhoslyn; more to the point, it would
be safe being guarded by the creatures his sister had set about her to ensure her own safety. Pasgen
shuddered gently as he thought of the big-eyed, childlike girl constructs with their wire-thin fingers that
could be gentle as a butterfly or cut right through flesh and bone. They guarded Rhoslyn's domain every
bit as efficiently as his own burly male guardians—better, perhaps, because invaders were prone to
underestimate them.

He looked down at the scrap of skin and flesh in his hand and went to the black lacquer desk under the
window. The top was glass-smooth, the surface clear except for the low gold-wire stand holding three
thin gold pens. No design marred the perfect surface of the drawers on each side of the kneehole. Only
absolutely plain pulls—octagonal bars of pure shining gold—were fastened to the face of each drawer.

Pasgen opened the middle drawer on the left-hand side of the desk with his free hand. It held a variety of
boxes of different sizes and materials. He removed a small tortoise-shell square from the front of the
drawer, struggled for a while to open it single-handed, and then, grimacing—because he was reluctant to
have even his near-mindless and totally enslaved servants in the vicinity of that token—moved away and
summoned an invisible servant to separate top and bottom.

He bade the servant clean the box and then dismissed it. After a moment, he drew a deep breath,
deposited the token inside the box, and closed it. For a while he stood with his eyes closed, just
breathing deeply and evenly. Finally he opened his eyes and looked around at the white leather chairs
and settles, the black-framed chairs for visitors (not that he ever had any), the black lacquer side tables
and low, central table, the black and white tiled floor.

All were clear and bright. No fog or dullness, as if he were peering out through some obstruction,
obscured his view. It had been his too-active imagination, after all. He uttered a deep sigh, tucked the
box into the bosom of his doublet, and left the house.

Usually Pasgen took his time when he crossed the garden and park in his domain. The beautiful,
symmetrical order of the flower beds, the hedges, the trees with their ordered branches and precisely
placed leaves always soothed him. There was so much disorder in his life, in his mind, in his heart, that
the rigid and mathematical precision of the place was a balm to his spirit.

Today Pasgen merely hurried down the lavender graveled path that branched off the main way, which led