The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection
- Автор: Датлоу Эллен, Виндлинг Терри
- Год: 1992
- Язык: английский
- Год: St.Martin’s Press
- Жанр: Ужасы
Электронная книга - «The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection». Краткое содержание книги:
“Truly, do you imagine the dragon will give you anything if the claim’s not legitimate? I think not. I do think not. It must be Gwydion’s child—and that, by nature, by Gwydion’s own will. That is the difficulty, isn’t it?”
“You vaunt your sorcery. Use it!”
Glasog said, coldly, “When needs be. If needs be. But it’s myself he’ll have, not Eri, and for myself, not Eri. That’s my demand in this.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
Glasog smiled with equal coldness. “This man has magical protections. His luck is no illusion and it’s not to cross. I don’t forget that. Don’t you. Trust me, Father.”
“I wonder how I got you.”
Glasog still smiled. “Luck,” she said. “You want to be rid of the dragon, don’t you? Has my advice ever failed you? And isn’t it the old god’s bond that he’ll barter for questions?”
Her father scowled. “It’s my life you’re bartering for, curse your cold heart. It’s my life you’re risking with your schemes—a life from each kingdom of Dyfed, that’s the barter we’ve made. We’ve caught Gwydion. We can’t stave the dragon off forever for your whims and your vapors, Daughter. Get me a grandson—by whatever sorcery—and forget this foolishness. Kill the dragon ... do you think I’ve not tried that? All the princes in Dyfed have tried that.”
Glasog said, with her grimmest look: “We’ve also Gwydion’s friend, don’t we? And isn’t he of Ogan’s kingdom?”
Gwydion endured the hours until sunset, hungry and thirsty and having nothing whatever to do but to stare out the slit of a window, over a black and desolate land.
He wondered if Owain was even alive, or what had become of Mili.
Once he saw a raven in flight, toward the south; and once, late, the sky growing dimly copper, he saw it return, it seemed more slowly, circling always to the right.
Glasog? he wondered—or merely a raven looking for its supper?
The sky went from copper to dusk. He felt the air grow chill. He thought of closing the shutters, but that was Glasog’s access. So he paced the floor, or looked out the window or simply listened to the distant comings and goings below which alone told him that there was life in the place.
Perhaps, he thought, they only meant him to die of thirst and hunger, and perhaps he would never see or speak to a living soul again. He hoped Glasog would come by sunset, but she failed that; and by moonrise, but she did not come.
At last, when he had fallen asleep in his waiting, a shadow swept in the window with a snap and flutter of dark wings, and Glasog stood wrapped only in dark hair and limned in starlight.
He gathered himself up quickly, feeling still that he might be dreaming. “I expected you earlier,” he said.
“I had inquiries to make,” she said, and walked to the table where—he did not know how, a cup and a silver pitcher gleamed in reflected starlight. She lifted the pitcher and poured, and oh, he was thirsty. She offered it, and it might be poisoned for all he knew. At the very least it was enchanted, and perhaps only moondust and dreams. But she stood offering it; he drank, and it took both thirst and hunger away.
She said, “You may have one wish of me, Gwydion. One wish. And then I may have two from you. Do you agree?”
He wondered what to say. He put down the cup and walked away to the window, looking out on the night sky. There were a hundred things to ask: his parents’ lives; Owain’s; the safety of his land—and in each one there seemed some flaw.
Finally he chose the simplest. “Love me,” he said.
For a long time Glasog said nothing. Then he heard her cross the room.
He turned. Her eyes flashed at him, sudden as a serpent’s. She said, “Dare you? First drink from my cup. ”
“Is this your first wish?”
“It is.”
He hesitated, looking at her, then walked away to the table and reached for the shadowy cup, but another appeared beside it, gleaming, crusted with jewels.
“Which will you have?” she asked.
He hoped then that he understood her question. And he picked up the cup of plain pewter and drank it all.
She said, from behind him, “You have your wish, Gwydion.”
And wings brushed his face, the wind stirred his hair, the raven shape swooped out the window.
“Owain,” a voice said—the raven’s voice, and Owain leaped up from his prison bed, such as he could, though his head was spinning and he had to brace himself against the wall. It was not the raven’s first visit. He asked it, “Where’s my master? What’s happened to him?”
And the raven, suddenly no raven, but a dark-haired woman: “Wedlock,” she said. “Death, if the dragon gets his due—as soon it may.”
“Glasog,” Owain said, chilled to the marrow. Since Madog’s men had hauled him away from Gwydion’s door he had had this dizziness, and it came on him now. He felt his knees going and he caught himself.
“You might save him,” Glasog said.
“And should I trust you?” he asked.
The chains fell away from him with a ringing of iron, and the bolts fell from the door.
“Because I’m his wife,” she said. Eri stood there. He rubbed his eyes and it was Glasog again. “And you’re his friend. Isn’t that what it means, friendship? Or marriage?”
A second time he rubbed his eyes. The door swung open.
“My father says,” Glasog said, “the dragon’s death will free Prince Gwydion. You may have your horse, your dog, your armor and your weapons—or whatever you will, Owain ap Llodri. But for that gift—you must give me one wish when I claim it.”
In time—Gwydion was gazing out the window, he had no idea why, he heard the slow echo of hoofbeats off the wall.
He saw Owain ride out the gate; he saw the raven flying over him.
“Owain,” he cried. “Owain!”
But Owain paid no heed. Only Mili stopped, and looked up at the tower where he stood.
He thought—Go with him, Mili, if it’s home he’s bound for. Warn my father. There’s no hope here.
Owain never looked back. Gwydion saw him turn south at the gate, entirely away from home, and guessed where Owain was going.
“Come back,” he cried. “Owain! No!”
It was the dragon they were going to. It was surely the dragon Owain was going to, and if Gwydion had despaired in his life, it was seeing Owain and Mili go off in company with his wife.
He tried again to force himself through the window slit. He tried the door, working with his sword to lift the bar he was sure was in place outside.
He found it and lifted it. But it stopped with the rattle of chain.
They found the brook again, beyond the hill, and the raven fluttered down clumsily to drink, spreading a wing to steady herself.
Owain reined Swallow in. He had no reason to trust the raven in any shape, less reason to believe it than anything else that he had seen in this place. But Mili came cautiously up to it, and suddenly it was Glasog kneeling there, wrapped only in her hair, with her back to him, and Mili whining at her in some distress.
Owain got down. He saw two fingers missing from Glasog’s right hand, the wounds scarcely healed. She drank from her other hand, and bathed the wounded one in water. She looked at Owain and said, “You wished to save Gwydion. You said nothing of yourself. ”
Owain shrugged and settled with his arm around Mili’s neck.
“Now you owe me my wish,” Glasog said.
“That I do,” he said, and feared what it might be.
She said, “There’s a god near this place. The dragon overcame him. But he will still answer the right question. Most gods will, with proper sacrifice.”