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A Stroke Of Midnight :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 124 из 293”
It took me a second to realize she was referring to Rhys, his original name.
“Not his real name,” she said with my mouth, “but the last true name he owned.”
“Rhys had a name older even than Cromm Cruach?”
“Once, though few remember.”
I started to ask the name, but I could feel her smile, and she said, “You are distracted by trivialities, Meredith.”
“Forgive me,” I said.
“I do not mean Cromm Cruach’s true name, I mean these deaths. They will be reborn, Child. Why do you mourn them so? Even true death is not an ending. Others can find your murderers and clues, but there are duties that only you can perform, Meredith, only you..”
“And what exactly would those duties be?”
She motioned at Amatheon. “Make my land live.”
Amatheon offered his sword up to me again, and closed his eyes. He put his neck back at an angle where I could have a clean strike.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
He opened his eyes just enough to look at me. “In vision, and for truth.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yes.” Then he closed his eyes, and lifted the sword up higher, as if that would make me take it sooner.
“He is a willing sacrifice, Meredith. There is no evil here.”
I shook my head. “How is that you, who have all eternity, are so impatient, and I, who have only a few decades, want to take the longer road?”
In that moment I felt her sigh, and her happiness at the same time. It had been a test of sorts, not of good versus evil, but of the direction this revival of power would take. She had offered me a quicker, more violent way to bring faerie back to its power. I knew with a knowledge as solid as the foundations of the world that Amatheon would die. It would be true death. The fact that he would rise from that grave, and be reborn to his “life,” did not change the fact that it would be my hand that slit his throat. My hand that spilled his blood hot across the earth, across my skin. I gazed down at him as he knelt, eyes closed, face peaceful.
I took the sword by the hilt, and lifted it from his hands. Those hands went to his sides, limp, only a slight tension in the fingers letting me know that he was fighting the impulse to guard himself from the blow.
He had gone from hating me for my mongrel blood to offering me up his pure sidhe flesh, and letting me spill that same pure blood in a hot wash across the ground.
I leaned over him and pressed my mouth to his. His eyes opened, wide and startled.
It took me a second to realize she was referring to Rhys, his original name.
“Not his real name,” she said with my mouth, “but the last true name he owned.”
“Rhys had a name older even than Cromm Cruach?”
“Once, though few remember.”
I started to ask the name, but I could feel her smile, and she said, “You are distracted by trivialities, Meredith.”
“Forgive me,” I said.
“I do not mean Cromm Cruach’s true name, I mean these deaths. They will be reborn, Child. Why do you mourn them so? Even true death is not an ending. Others can find your murderers and clues, but there are duties that only you can perform, Meredith, only you..”
“And what exactly would those duties be?”
She motioned at Amatheon. “Make my land live.”
Amatheon offered his sword up to me again, and closed his eyes. He put his neck back at an angle where I could have a clean strike.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
He opened his eyes just enough to look at me. “In vision, and for truth.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yes.” Then he closed his eyes, and lifted the sword up higher, as if that would make me take it sooner.
“He is a willing sacrifice, Meredith. There is no evil here.”
I shook my head. “How is that you, who have all eternity, are so impatient, and I, who have only a few decades, want to take the longer road?”
In that moment I felt her sigh, and her happiness at the same time. It had been a test of sorts, not of good versus evil, but of the direction this revival of power would take. She had offered me a quicker, more violent way to bring faerie back to its power. I knew with a knowledge as solid as the foundations of the world that Amatheon would die. It would be true death. The fact that he would rise from that grave, and be reborn to his “life,” did not change the fact that it would be my hand that slit his throat. My hand that spilled his blood hot across the earth, across my skin. I gazed down at him as he knelt, eyes closed, face peaceful.
I took the sword by the hilt, and lifted it from his hands. Those hands went to his sides, limp, only a slight tension in the fingers letting me know that he was fighting the impulse to guard himself from the blow.
He had gone from hating me for my mongrel blood to offering me up his pure sidhe flesh, and letting me spill that same pure blood in a hot wash across the ground.
I leaned over him and pressed my mouth to his. His eyes opened, wide and startled.