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

She hadn’t really looked at the Mage before. Not up close. Now that she was over the initial shock of—of whatever had happened to her—she wasn’t quite ready to believe in Mages and summoning yet—she realized he looked tired. His mask of indifference hid more than just his emotions from those around him. She had to look hard to see the fine lines of strain around his eyes, the stoic set of his shoulders that kept them from bowing with exhaustion.

Well, perhaps there was more than one reason whatever the Mage had done was forbidden.

Marylin sat up, bracing herself against the headboard, tugging at the edges of the hide. They could have at least fetched her a robe, or a nightgown, or something. At the thought, a long silken robe of deep burgundy enveloped her. All right. Marylin took a deep breath. It wasn’t the Mage. Somehow she had done that herself, with just her thoughts. Whatever dream this was, she was going to have to be careful what she wished for. Some thoughts could be downright dangerous if allowed to become reality.

Marylin glanced at the tray the Mage carried and had to suppress her laughter. Two pieces of bread, looking like a small loaf carved in half, with a slab ofsome sort of meat between them, and a mug of milk with a froth to it, as if its original container had been shaken hard before its contents had been poured into the mug. One taste had her setting the mug aside. It was white. But there the similarity to milk ended. Goats’ milk maybe? She would also have to be careful what she asked of the Mage.

She shook her head. She was falling into the habit of thinking of this world as reality all too easily. No. She could not allow that. Had to maintain some hold on her sanity. She leaned forward to place a light, affectionate kiss on Roanen’s cheek. “Would you give me a few minutes alone with the Mage, please, Roanen?”

Roanen glanced at the Mage, whose already fair face paled at the suggestion. Did Roanen look just a little guilty, like one brother running away while the other faced punishment? “Aye, M’Lady. As ye wish.”

Seated, she could almost forget how huge Roanen was, but as he moved to stand over her, bending down for a moment to press his lips to her cheek, she was once again amazed by the sheer massiveness of him. And yet one word from her, she was certain, would bring him to his knees.

She would not say the word. Not in front of him. Would not destroy the hope he clung to. To have loved as he had, and to have lost the woman he loved, only to see her brought back…she could not destroy that. Not with one killing blow.

For the Mage, however, she felt no such protective instinct. Marylin turned to glare at Shammall as the curtain fell shut. She gestured to the spot beside her which Roanen had just vacated. “Come here.”

In one stride, the Mage was beside her, kneeling as if in supplication, his hands extended, palms up, his hair a shield around his face as he bowed low enough to let its ends brush the dirt floor. “I live but to serve you, M’Lady.”

Holy fucking Christ. What was she? Some sort of a goddess? “Stop that, damn it!” she hissed. “Get up from there!”

Oh, good grief! Evidentlythat was the wrong thing to say. The Mage rocked back on his heels, tossing his hair over his shoulders as he raised his eyes to meet hers. Had she thought his face impassive? Nothing could be further from the truth. He couldn’t have looked more remorseful. The strain of whatever he had done was catching up to him. Another moment and he, too, would be sobbing in her arms. “Forgive me, M’Lady. I have failed you twice over this day. Whatever your judgment, I shall accept your punishment.”

Punishment? What sort of punishment might he be expecting to look so mortified? Would Ayailla have had him flogged? Marylin did her best to suppress the images that flew to her mind, remembering the robe and the washcloth. If what she thought became real, anger could be very, very dangerous in this reality. “I’m not angry with you, Shammall.” She said it out loud, in case the supplier of clothes was handy and listening. “I’m—do you know what you have done? Do you understand at all what’s happened?”

“I have failed you, M’Lady.”

He repeated it like a litany. Marylin sighed. “Fine. You have failed me. Only you haven’t. You have failed someone called Ayailla. I’m not Ayailla. I’m Marylin. I’m from the planet Earth in the twenty-first century. Wherever, whenever, this is, I don’t belong here. And that man out there thinks you’ve given him his wife back. But I’m not his wife, and when he figures that out it’s going to destroy him. He’s already lost his wife and his unborn child. You cannot allow him to face her loss twice. You have to fix this! Whatever you’ve done, you have to fix it now!”

The Mage raised his head, his eyes growing wider as he absorbed her meaning. “I—M’Lady, I—if what you say is true, I know not—I cannot—by the gods! What have I done?”

Humor pulled at her lips at the Mage’s obvious consternation. “You, Shammall, have fucked up big time.”

“Fucked up big time?” the Mage repeated incredulously. “Mother Earth forgive me. I know not what these words mean, but I can clearly understand the sentiment. What would you have me do, M’Lady?”

“Christ! Do? How should I know? I don’t know how you got me here, so how can I tell you how to put me back?”

“Put you back?” He blinked, slowly, staring at her as if she’d gone daft. “You wish to return to the realm of the dead, then, M’Lady?”

“Dead?”

“Aye.”

“I wasn’t dead, you idiot! I was a little tipsy, perhaps, but not dead! I was—”

“Dead.”

“No! I remember…” What did she remember? She’d been talking to Gray. He’d gone off. Left her there on the settee in front of the fire. Warm. Too warm. She’d downed the last of the Amaretto, looking for courage at the bottom of the bottle. Gone to find Gray, to tell him what she’d wanted to all those years ago. She remembered the ocean, the waves. Could she have—No. She’d been drunk, but not drunk enough to have accidentally killed herself. No. She’d gone back to her room. She’d dreamed of her lover. The one who looked suspiciously like Roanen.