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

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Roanen stared at the smoldering ruins of his tent and the woman kneeling in its midst, rain running in rivulets down her face, her beautiful burgundy gown singed and smudged with mud and ashes. “That went well.”

Shammall merely nodded, passing a hand over the burns in his smoldering robe to repair the damage. “About as well as could be expected. It may take her some time to adjust, M’Lord.”

“Aye. Speaking of time, I’m thinking this might be a good time for ye to do that reconnaissance, Mage. The farther ye are away for now, the better.”

“As you wish, M’Lord. But have a care for yourself, as well. M’Lady is not happy with either of us at the moment.”

The Mage took up his new form as if to do so were an everyday occurrence. Roanen cringed slightly at the sound of popping flesh and grinding bones, gritting his teeth as Shammall shifted. The Mage grew shorter, more slender, almost effeminate, his skin so black it appeared as if he had been heavily singed in Ayailla’s fire, his hair the color of freshly mined coal. The Dark Elf male who stood in Shammall’s place waved his hands once, surrounding himself with an aura of sweet perfume. His robes turned to sheerest gauze, floating lightly around his body, so thin that the hair on his chest would have been visible through the filmy silk, had there been any. Roanen sniffed in distaste. “Ye go as a courtesan?”

“There is no better way to gain information, M’Lord, than in a Lady’s bed. Women love to talk, and few men know enough to listen.”

Roanen looked across the camp to the muddied ashes of his tent. “I shall keep that advice in mind, Mage. Though at the moment I have no’ a bed. But if I mean to win my wife back, I shall have to start someplace. What did ye tell her?”

“The truth, M’Lord. Or as close as I might care to come. That Ayailla was killed in battle. That I journeyed to the Plane of Souls, seeking the return of her spirit. That she followed me willingly.”

“Will she stay?”

“I did not give her a choice, M’Lord. I told her Marylin was dead.”

“Ye lied to her? Ye just said ye told her the truth!”

“I told her as much as I could, M’Lord. And that is not so far from the truth. She cannot live in two times at once. She must choose. ‘Tis better she chooses our time. If prophecy is to be believed, the future of our world hangs on her choice.”

Roanen paced beside the fire, a heavy scowl creasing his forehead. “I do not like this. I do not like deceiving her.”

“Then do not, M’Lord. There is but one spirit. One spirit, two bodies. She must choose. One must die. Help her make the right choice.”

“I can no’ ask this of her!”

“You have already asked more! And what of you? What of your choices? If we live by the prophecy, you will die! What choice is that?”

“I made my choice, long ago. An hour, a day, a year, it will be enough. She is my breath. My life. Without her I have no reason to live.”

Shammall snorted softly. “Love. I thank the gods I am spared such Human emotions. May the gods be with you, M’Lord.”

“And with ye, Shammall.”

The Mage laughed as he faded into the growing dusk. “Йlandine. Shammall is no more. Tonight I am Йlandine, The Beautiful One. Courtesan to the Queens.”

“Йlandine,” Roanen whispered to the night. But there was none there to hear his voice.

Forgive me, Mother, for I have violated thy code. I have taken what was no’ mine to take. Help me, Mother. Help me to heal her heart. Grant me thy endurance and faithfulness, Brother Wolf. I shall have need of ye most this night.

Gathering his wits, and his courage, he crossed the small camp to his wife’s bedside.