JК
Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 7 из 148The horn was no longer white, buta rich amber color that spoke of age. Just before I touched his hands, I realized the horn was set in gold, formed into a cup.
I laid my hands on either side of his and found that his hands were as dark as his cloak, but I knew this was not my Doyle, my Darkness. This was the God. I looked up into his hood and saw for an instant the boar’s head; then I saw a human mouth that smiled at me. His face, like the face of the Goddess, was covered in shadow — for the face of deity was ever a mystery.
He wrapped my hands around the smooth horn of the cup, the carved gold almost soft under my fingers. He pressed my hands to the cup. I wondered, where had the white knife gone?
A deep voice that was no man’s voice and every man’s voice said, “Where it belongs.” The knife appeared in the cup, blade-down, and it was shining again, as if a star had fallen into that cup of horn and gold. “Drink and be merry.” He laughed then at his own pun. He raised the shining cup to my lips and vanished to the warm sound of his own laughter.
I drank from the horn and found it full of the sweetest mead I had ever drunk, thick with honey, and warm as if the heat of the summer itself slipped across my tongue, caressed my throat. I swallowed and it was more intoxicating than any mere drink.
Power is the most intoxicating drink of all.
CHAPTER 2
I WOKE SURROUNDED BY A CIRCLE OF FACES, IN A BED THAT WAS not mine. Faces the color of darkest night, whitest snow, the pale green of new leaves, the gold of summer sunshine, the brown of leaves trodden underfoot destined to be rich earth. But there was no pale skin that held all the colors of a brilliant crystal, like a diamond carved into flesh. I blinked up at all of them, and wondered — remembering my dream — where were the cookies?
Doyle’s voice, deep and thick, as if it came from a great distance, said, “Princess Meredith, are you well?”
I sat up, nude in the bed with black silk sheets, cold against my skin. The queen had loaned us her room for the night. Real fur, soft and nearly alive, pressed against my hip. The fur covering moved, and Kitto’s face blinked up at me. His huge blue eyes dominated his pale face and held no white in all that color. The color was Seelie sidhe, but the eyes themselves were goblin. He had been a child of the last great goblin — sidhe war. His pale perfect body was barely four feet tall, a delicate man, the only one of my men who was shorter than I was. He looked child-like cuddled down in the fur, his face framed like some cherub for a Valentine’s Day card.
I laid my hands on either side of his and found that his hands were as dark as his cloak, but I knew this was not my Doyle, my Darkness. This was the God. I looked up into his hood and saw for an instant the boar’s head; then I saw a human mouth that smiled at me. His face, like the face of the Goddess, was covered in shadow — for the face of deity was ever a mystery.
He wrapped my hands around the smooth horn of the cup, the carved gold almost soft under my fingers. He pressed my hands to the cup. I wondered, where had the white knife gone?
A deep voice that was no man’s voice and every man’s voice said, “Where it belongs.” The knife appeared in the cup, blade-down, and it was shining again, as if a star had fallen into that cup of horn and gold. “Drink and be merry.” He laughed then at his own pun. He raised the shining cup to my lips and vanished to the warm sound of his own laughter.
I drank from the horn and found it full of the sweetest mead I had ever drunk, thick with honey, and warm as if the heat of the summer itself slipped across my tongue, caressed my throat. I swallowed and it was more intoxicating than any mere drink.
Power is the most intoxicating drink of all.
CHAPTER 2
I WOKE SURROUNDED BY A CIRCLE OF FACES, IN A BED THAT WAS not mine. Faces the color of darkest night, whitest snow, the pale green of new leaves, the gold of summer sunshine, the brown of leaves trodden underfoot destined to be rich earth. But there was no pale skin that held all the colors of a brilliant crystal, like a diamond carved into flesh. I blinked up at all of them, and wondered — remembering my dream — where were the cookies?
Doyle’s voice, deep and thick, as if it came from a great distance, said, “Princess Meredith, are you well?”
I sat up, nude in the bed with black silk sheets, cold against my skin. The queen had loaned us her room for the night. Real fur, soft and nearly alive, pressed against my hip. The fur covering moved, and Kitto’s face blinked up at me. His huge blue eyes dominated his pale face and held no white in all that color. The color was Seelie sidhe, but the eyes themselves were goblin. He had been a child of the last great goblin — sidhe war. His pale perfect body was barely four feet tall, a delicate man, the only one of my men who was shorter than I was. He looked child-like cuddled down in the fur, his face framed like some cherub for a Valentine’s Day card.