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Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 146 из 148Deathseemed to be reversed. His eyes fluttered open, and he tried to reach for me, but his hand fell back into the snow, too weak. I lifted his hand to my face and held it there. I held his hand there while it grew warm against my skin.
I cried, and he found his voice, hoarse. He whispered, “The cold cannot kill me.”
“Oh, Frost.”
He raised his other hand and touched the tears on my face. “Do not weep for me, Merry. You love me, I heard it. I was leaving, but I heard your voice, and I couldn’t leave, not if you loved me.”
I cradled his head in my lap and wept. His other hand, the one that I wasn’t clutching, brushed the fur of one of the huge black dogs. The dog stretched and grew tall and white. A shining white stag stood over us. It had a collar of holly, and looked like some Yule card brought to life. It pranced in the snow, then ran in a white blur across the snow until it was lost to sight.
“What magic is abroad this night?” Frost whispered.
“The magic that will take you home.” Doyle spoke from behind us. He fell to his knees in the snow beside Frost, and took his hand. “The next time I send you to a hospital, you are to go.”
Frost managed a wan smile. “I could not leave her.”
Doyle nodded as if that made perfect sense.
“I don’t think the magic will last until morning,” Rhys said. They were all there, trailing behind, except Mistral. He was with the queen, I supposed. I hadn’t even gotten to say good-bye.
“But for tonight,” Rhys said, “I am Cromm Cruach, and I can help.” He knelt on the other side of Frost and laid hands on him, above where his clothing was black with blood.
Rhys was suddenly formed of white light, not just his hands, but all of him glowing. His hair moved in the wind of his own magic. Frost’s body jerked upward, leaving my lap and our hands. He fell back against Doyle and me, and said in a voice that was almost his own, “That hurt.”
“Sorry about that,” said Rhys, “but I’m not a healer, not really. There is too much of death in my power to make it painless.”
Frost touched his own shoulder and chest, taking his hands from out of Doyle’s and mine. “If you are not a healer, then why do I feel healed?”
“Old magic,” Rhys said. “The morning light will find this magic gone.”
“How can you be certain?” Doyle asked.
“The voice of the God in my head tells me so.”
No one questioned after that. We just accepted it as true.
I cried, and he found his voice, hoarse. He whispered, “The cold cannot kill me.”
“Oh, Frost.”
He raised his other hand and touched the tears on my face. “Do not weep for me, Merry. You love me, I heard it. I was leaving, but I heard your voice, and I couldn’t leave, not if you loved me.”
I cradled his head in my lap and wept. His other hand, the one that I wasn’t clutching, brushed the fur of one of the huge black dogs. The dog stretched and grew tall and white. A shining white stag stood over us. It had a collar of holly, and looked like some Yule card brought to life. It pranced in the snow, then ran in a white blur across the snow until it was lost to sight.
“What magic is abroad this night?” Frost whispered.
“The magic that will take you home.” Doyle spoke from behind us. He fell to his knees in the snow beside Frost, and took his hand. “The next time I send you to a hospital, you are to go.”
Frost managed a wan smile. “I could not leave her.”
Doyle nodded as if that made perfect sense.
“I don’t think the magic will last until morning,” Rhys said. They were all there, trailing behind, except Mistral. He was with the queen, I supposed. I hadn’t even gotten to say good-bye.
“But for tonight,” Rhys said, “I am Cromm Cruach, and I can help.” He knelt on the other side of Frost and laid hands on him, above where his clothing was black with blood.
Rhys was suddenly formed of white light, not just his hands, but all of him glowing. His hair moved in the wind of his own magic. Frost’s body jerked upward, leaving my lap and our hands. He fell back against Doyle and me, and said in a voice that was almost his own, “That hurt.”
“Sorry about that,” said Rhys, “but I’m not a healer, not really. There is too much of death in my power to make it painless.”
Frost touched his own shoulder and chest, taking his hands from out of Doyle’s and mine. “If you are not a healer, then why do I feel healed?”
“Old magic,” Rhys said. “The morning light will find this magic gone.”
“How can you be certain?” Doyle asked.
“The voice of the God in my head tells me so.”
No one questioned after that. We just accepted it as true.