"Jo Walton - The Rebirth of Pan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Walton Jo)

pouring the wine, and walk over to stand beside him at the shrine. He has finished his bread, but not
moved. He must have been hungry, I'll have to make him a proper meal.

Most people would only see a pile of rocks a voice reminds me. I look at the rocks, the patterns
laid out in them calm and strengthen me.

I clear my throat, feeling awkward, hoping some competent voice will speak for me. They laugh
together behind my eyes, and hold their peace, leaving it all to me. "My altar is to the High Gods." I say.
That would be enough, but I feel compelled to add, "I worship them all there, though chiefly the Lord of
Light, the Lord of the Vine, the Lady of Love and the Lady of Silences. I praise also the Maker, the Sky
Father, the Lord of the Waves, the Lord Messenger and the Lady of Wisdom. I do not forget the Lord
of the Dead and his Bride. I honour the Mother as Life Bringer, and Giver of Plenty, in the proper
season. It would not be right to neglect her. But she is not the owner of my heart, nor has she particular
cause to love me."

He relaxes suddenly, I can sense it as a tension goes out of him. He bows his head to the shrine then
turns, sets the candle down beside the one I brought on the tray and sits full on the chair whose arm he
perched on before.

I touch a smooth rounded stone, the sea's gift, nod to it, then sit on the sofa. I take a glass and hand
it to him, take the other. When I would sip the indwellers restrain me Wait for his toast. In seven years,
so much I still have to learn.

"A safe house!" he toasts, and raises the tumbler. We both drink. Then the Knowledge comes to
me, a bright flash, like lightning, as if I were at the loom and looking down on the shape of his life. As
swiftly as lightning it is over, and exactly the same it has its illuminating effect. I know who he is and what
he has done, and what his purpose is. No wonder it is the Mother he fears. I have no more fear of him,
and while the indwellers are all awed by what has come to us I am made fierce by knowledge. I speak
calmly, looking him in the eyes.

"A safe house, maybe, for a while." I say. "I've granted you sanctuary, Colin O'Niall, but I'll not let
you endanger me, or my son."

"I wasn't thinking you were old enough for children," he says, raising his eyebrows. I smile to myself,
and look down, turning my cheek to the light so the god's touch shows clear. I know he knows, or can
guess from that. He should learn that flattery won't get him anywhere with me.

"I hear your sister is called Night?" I say, carefully. He freezes, tense again, the glass half way to his
lips. Then he relaxes, deliberately, then raises the glass again, and looks at me considering. That is
enough.

"It is true, so," he says, not asking how I know. "And your son? What is he called? If I might be
asking?" There, the pretences are down He deserves the truth, girl, in pity's name.

"I have given him his father's name, I call him Emrys Louis, which is a good name for a boy in these
times."

"It is indeed," he says. "A Welsh name, and a French. Unusual." The candles flicker, as a gust of
wind creeps in through a crack in the window, casting his face into shadows for a moment, but I think he
smiles. "I know his father."