"The Summoning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morgen Shelby)

This man—this Elf—had certainly never been part of her dreams before. It was to the Elf-Man that Marylin turned for answers, hissing her questions out with as much righteous anger and injured dignity as her pounding head would allow. “Who and what are you and where the hell am I and how did I get here?”

One eyebrow raised in a delicate point. “I am Shammall, M’Lady, your most humble and obedient servant.”

Marylin suppressed a most unladylike snort, thinking she’d never met anyone less humble or obedient.

“As for what, I am a Mage, and it was I who summoned you.”

Summoned she understood, but Mage? As in—as in what? Magician? Maybe he could make things appear, sleight of hand, like the cloth?

“We are in the Northlands, camped just below thePassofSt. Gregory , which separates the Northlands from the ancient cities of Talandar and Йlahandara, and you are here because I summoned you.”

All right. She wasn’t going to panic. No. Not now. Maybe later. Some of this at least made sense. Northlands. It was cold.Canada , maybe. But… “I thought I knew most of the Saints. I don’t remember Saint Gregory.”

The Mage raised an eyebrow. “His story is well known, M’Lady. Saint Gregory slew a Dragon, thus separating the races of Man from the elders.”

Dragon? Slew a… “George. Saint George slew the Dragon.”

The Mage exchanged a worried glance with the one who knelt beside her. “She speaks strangely, M’Lord. Perhaps the Summoning has affected her in some way we did not foresee.”

“I do not speak strangely! I know my history! It’s an ancient legend. SaintGeorge and the Dragon. George. Not Gregory. George!”

Her knight kissed her palm again. “As ye wish, my love. We shall correct the name of the pass if it please ye.”

Was he laughing at her? Marylin turned her gaze back to the Warrior. For he was a Warrior, of that there was no doubt. Even without the huge axe strapped across his back, and the dense layer of heavy black chain maille that covered his tunic, she’d have recognized him for what he was.

He looked so much like the man from her dreams. Something in her wanted to reach out to him, touch him, draw him into her arms and comfort him.

Right. As if he needed comforting. He was the one who’d kidnapped her, after all. Or ordered the other one, the Elf, to fetch her here.

A hint of a smile touched his lips as their gazes locked again. “I am Roanen, M’Lady, of House Lindall, and I am thy Lord and thy husband.”

Lord? As in Lord and Master? She’d have laughed at the audacity of it, especially since she sensed that one harsh word from her at just that moment would shatter the man, but the other word distracted her.

Husband?

Marylin looked around the pavilion again, taking in as much as she could, before she let her head fall back to the pillows in utter exhaustion. Weren’t dreams supposed to come with sleep? How could she possibly feel this tired? Or hungry? “I suppose a cheeseburger’s out of the question…and a milkshake?”

The two men exchanged glances, and a worried frown creased Roanen’s handsome face. At this distance she could see the lines of strain around his eyes, and the set of his shoulders looked less regal and more just plain tired. “Cheese burger?”

You didn’t eat in dreams. Not real food. You weren’t ever hungry in dreams. At least she never had been before. “Beef?”

The men looked even more worried.

“Meat. From a cow. Cooked. Made into a sandwich, with cheese, between two pieces of bread?”

“Cow?” Both men looked perplexed.

“Cow.” Crap. What other names for cows were there? “Cattle? Bull? Steer?Holstein ?”