JК
A Stroke Of Midnight :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 59 из 293His lips parted as if he meant to speak, but the metal touched his skin, and there was no time for words.
I knew that our bodies still stood and knelt in the hallway inside the Unseelie Court. I knew it, because I’d had this happen before when the magic of the chalice and the ring combined. But to Mistral and me, we were on the top of a hill that was crowned by a large dead tree. I had seen this hill, this tree in one form or another in dreams and visions. Mistral knelt before me with my hand cupping his cheek. He put his hand over mine, holding my touch against his face, as he gazed around at the plain that spread out as far as the eye could see. It was green and lovely, but strangely empty.
“What have you done, Princess?”
“Not me,” I said.
He gazed up at me, and there was puzzlement in his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“Look at the tree.”
He turned, with his hand holding mine now, rather than pressing it to his face. The tree was a huge, blackened thing, its bark crumbling in the growing wind. The first time I’d seen the tree so dead it had had a large cleft in the center. This tree did not. It had taken me a while to understand that the tree wasn’t real, or the hill. Neither were any place a map could get you. The tree represented the Goddess, and the power of faerie; the hill was The Hill. We stood at the center of the world, but the center of the world changed at the thought of the gods. In this moment, this was the center, and Mistral and I stood at that center. We stood hand in hand, while the wind blew across the sky.
The wind smelled of apple blossoms and roses—sweet and clean and good. I heard a voice on the flower-scented wind. Or perhaps it was merely a thought. Mistral did not seem to hear it, so perhaps the voice was only for me.
“Kiss him,” the wind said, “kiss him. Let him taste the chalice.” But the chalice is not here, I thought. The wind said, “You are the chalice.” Oh, of course. It made perfect sense in that moment, though I knew that later it might not make any sense at all.
“Mistral,” I said, and the wind grew stronger, sweeter, at the sound of his name.
He looked at me, and there was a hint of fear in his eyes. Had it really been that long since he was touched by the Goddess? Yes, the voice in my head said, it had.
“Kiss me, Mistral,” I said.
His gaze searched my face. “Who are you?”
“I am Merry.”
He shook his head, even as he let me draw him in against my body. I realized that my arm was not injured in this place of dream and vision.
I knew that our bodies still stood and knelt in the hallway inside the Unseelie Court. I knew it, because I’d had this happen before when the magic of the chalice and the ring combined. But to Mistral and me, we were on the top of a hill that was crowned by a large dead tree. I had seen this hill, this tree in one form or another in dreams and visions. Mistral knelt before me with my hand cupping his cheek. He put his hand over mine, holding my touch against his face, as he gazed around at the plain that spread out as far as the eye could see. It was green and lovely, but strangely empty.
“What have you done, Princess?”
“Not me,” I said.
He gazed up at me, and there was puzzlement in his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“Look at the tree.”
He turned, with his hand holding mine now, rather than pressing it to his face. The tree was a huge, blackened thing, its bark crumbling in the growing wind. The first time I’d seen the tree so dead it had had a large cleft in the center. This tree did not. It had taken me a while to understand that the tree wasn’t real, or the hill. Neither were any place a map could get you. The tree represented the Goddess, and the power of faerie; the hill was The Hill. We stood at the center of the world, but the center of the world changed at the thought of the gods. In this moment, this was the center, and Mistral and I stood at that center. We stood hand in hand, while the wind blew across the sky.
The wind smelled of apple blossoms and roses—sweet and clean and good. I heard a voice on the flower-scented wind. Or perhaps it was merely a thought. Mistral did not seem to hear it, so perhaps the voice was only for me.
“Kiss him,” the wind said, “kiss him. Let him taste the chalice.” But the chalice is not here, I thought. The wind said, “You are the chalice.” Oh, of course. It made perfect sense in that moment, though I knew that later it might not make any sense at all.
“Mistral,” I said, and the wind grew stronger, sweeter, at the sound of his name.
He looked at me, and there was a hint of fear in his eyes. Had it really been that long since he was touched by the Goddess? Yes, the voice in my head said, it had.
“Kiss me, Mistral,” I said.
His gaze searched my face. “Who are you?”
“I am Merry.”
He shook his head, even as he let me draw him in against my body. I realized that my arm was not injured in this place of dream and vision.