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Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
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“He was taken by his sphere of influence,” Mistral said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Air, earth.”
I shook my hands at him, as if waving away smoke between us. “I don’t understand.”
“Hawthorne was engulfed by the trunk of that tree over there,” Rhys said. He pointed to a large greyish-barked tree. “He didn’t fight it. He went smiling. I’d bet almost anything that if we could identity it, it would be a hawthorn tree.”
“Galen and Nicca did not go smiling,” Frost said.
“They have never been worshipped as deities,” Doyle said, “so they do not know to relax into the power. If you fight it, it will fight back. If you let it take you, then it is more gentle.”
“I know that once upon a time, some of the sidhe could travel through ground, trees, the air. But forgive me, guys, that was a thousand years before I was born. A thousand years before Galen was born. Nicca is older, but he was always too weak to be a god.”
“That may have changed,” Abe said.
“Just as Abe’s power returned,” Doyle said.
Abe nodded. “Once, so long ago that I don’t want to remember, I didn’t just make queens. I made goddesses.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
He brought the horn cup in front of him. “The Greeks believed in it, too, Princess. That the drink of the gods could make you immortal; could make you a god.”
“But they didn’t drink from it.”
“The drinking is — ” He seemed to search for a word. “ — more metaphorical, at times. It was my power, and Medb’s, that gave the gods and goddesses of our pantheon their marks of power. The colored lines, Princess, they paint the skin.”
Rhys looked down at his arm, where there had been that one faint fish. Now there were two, one swimming down, another swimming upward. It formed a circle, like a fish version of yin and yang. The blue lines weren’t faint now — they were bright, clear blue, deeper than a summer sky. Rhys’s curls had been plastered flat by the rain, so the face he turned to us seemed startled and unfinished.
“You bear both marks now,” Doyle said. With his hair in a tight braid, he looked as he always looked. He stood in the middle of all the disarray like some dark rock I might cling to.
Rhys looked up at him. “It can’t be that easy.”
“Try,” he said.
“Try what?” I asked.
The men were all exchanging some knowledge from look to look. I didn’t understand.
“He was taken by his sphere of influence,” Mistral said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Air, earth.”
I shook my hands at him, as if waving away smoke between us. “I don’t understand.”
“Hawthorne was engulfed by the trunk of that tree over there,” Rhys said. He pointed to a large greyish-barked tree. “He didn’t fight it. He went smiling. I’d bet almost anything that if we could identity it, it would be a hawthorn tree.”
“Galen and Nicca did not go smiling,” Frost said.
“They have never been worshipped as deities,” Doyle said, “so they do not know to relax into the power. If you fight it, it will fight back. If you let it take you, then it is more gentle.”
“I know that once upon a time, some of the sidhe could travel through ground, trees, the air. But forgive me, guys, that was a thousand years before I was born. A thousand years before Galen was born. Nicca is older, but he was always too weak to be a god.”
“That may have changed,” Abe said.
“Just as Abe’s power returned,” Doyle said.
Abe nodded. “Once, so long ago that I don’t want to remember, I didn’t just make queens. I made goddesses.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
He brought the horn cup in front of him. “The Greeks believed in it, too, Princess. That the drink of the gods could make you immortal; could make you a god.”
“But they didn’t drink from it.”
“The drinking is — ” He seemed to search for a word. “ — more metaphorical, at times. It was my power, and Medb’s, that gave the gods and goddesses of our pantheon their marks of power. The colored lines, Princess, they paint the skin.”
Rhys looked down at his arm, where there had been that one faint fish. Now there were two, one swimming down, another swimming upward. It formed a circle, like a fish version of yin and yang. The blue lines weren’t faint now — they were bright, clear blue, deeper than a summer sky. Rhys’s curls had been plastered flat by the rain, so the face he turned to us seemed startled and unfinished.
“You bear both marks now,” Doyle said. With his hair in a tight braid, he looked as he always looked. He stood in the middle of all the disarray like some dark rock I might cling to.
Rhys looked up at him. “It can’t be that easy.”
“Try,” he said.
“Try what?” I asked.
The men were all exchanging some knowledge from look to look. I didn’t understand.