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.I liked it very much.""Then I would play again tonight," the prince said, blessedly deaf.Ayden stopped and turned to view the fire ring they'd left behind.'Twasalmost empty now, only a few stray men minding chores or keeping latecompany."But your audience has retired."He found himself gripped by the shoulders and spun round to meet theprince's eyes."You misunderstand me," Freyrík said, and 'twas a strange thing, Ayden thought, how indecipherable the man's gaze and song had suddenly become."I would play for you.""Oh." Ayden wondered what to make of the prince's offer, wondered if he even wanted to know.Yet his lips did not wait on his thoughts, sayingfor him, "I would like that."He followed the prince to the tent, to their shared bedroom, where theman sat him on the bed and pulled up a stool for himself.Then he laid hisviolin case next to Ayden, retrieved his instrument, cradled it to his chinand shut his eyes.He lifted his bow and arced it gently across the strings.Ayden's world fractured into a million points of color and light.Behind closed eyes he saw a long-ago vista, a memory faded by thepassage of centuries.There in the long slow caress of bowstrings againstthe fretted D lay the Meiri Sea, slate blue beneath the high sun.Thevibrato—a perfect semitone—rolled like wave upon wave in endless turnsupon the rocky shore; restless, dissonant, mournful: awaiting resolutionthat would never come.The tempo slowed, warm sweeping notes like sand beneath his barefeet.The music ached, fragile and yearning.Gulls circled on a soaring crescendo, a moist breeze blowing from waters whose salt he could tasteupon his tongue.He opened his eyes with a gasp, fingers skimming lips damp withtears.Freyrík played on, his body swaying to some internal beat, heldenrapt by a melody that dipped and curved, soared and sank and roseagain in tones as pure and perfect as a cloudless summer sky.Ayden stared at Freyrík's fingers: so capable of ending a creature'ssong forever, now coaxing a thousand new ones into being.He knew not how long he sat there, how long the prince wove wholenew worlds into existence note by note, as if a god himself, granted thepower to create.He knew only how bereft he felt when it ended.Freyrík lowered his instrument, the dreamy smile on his face nowjoined with a hint of bashfulness.He placed the violin back in its case with all the care and fondness of a parent laying a baby in its crib, then turned to Ayden.Slowly, so slowly, one of Freyrík's hands reached out toward him andthen stopped, hovering between them.Ayden could not help himself; heclasped it in both his own, pulled it close, turned it palm-up and stared at the gentle curve of the fingers, the band of the signet ring, the calluses on the palm and fingertips and joint of the thumb.He smoothed his ownweapons-rough fingers across the prince's, cool and strong and dottedwith little nicks and scars.How was it that these hands, these humanhands, had sung of a place he'd not seen since the birth of the Ferals?How was it that these hands—hands that had struck him, bound him,brought him grievous harm — now moved him to tears with their beauty, their hunger and their pain?He seized the other hand, reading it as he'd read the first, but nowherein its countless lines or whorls or creases lay any hinting of its power.He wondered what else these hands might show him.How else they mightsurprise him.Gifted fingers closed gently round his own, and Freyrík lifted Ayden'shand to his lips and brushed a chaste kiss across it.His breath puffed hotand fast on Ayden's knuckles.Ayden's own breath, he realized, was coming just as hard.Freyrík's free hand reached once more into the space between them—and when had that space grown so very small? There it stayed, fingersoutstretched, a question mark hanging in the silence.He swallowed,licked his lips, inhaled as if to speak.Ayden could see his fingers shaking.They were still holding hands.Ayden met the man's eyes, now but a thin rim of blue round big blackcenters, and silently urged him to ask what he would."May I—?" Freyrík said, his hovering hand inching closer.Ayden wasn't certain what permission the prince was seeking, but itmattered not."Yes," he whispered, and when that caught in his throat, he swallowed and said it again: "Yes."Freyrík's fingers—those magical, world-weaving fingers—brushedacross the exposed skin of Ayden's chest, as feather-light as the kissupon his hand.Ayden felt his eyes close, his head tilt back, his chestmoving like a bellows beneath the prince's hand.The prince's fingersskimmed up to the hollow of his throat, moving with it as he swallowed,then slid inside the neck of his shirt.There they settled, pressing flat atop his heart.Ayden heard the ocean.He felt the sea breeze ( Freyrík's breath) on his face, the sun ( Freyrík's rising heat) shining warm on his skin.Heard a song not his own but so very much like it, and opened his eyes to see.The prince, his face mere inches from Ayden's and moving closer.Just the prince: hungry, hopeful, flush with desire.There was no oceanhere, no breeze, no sun, and just what in the name of the fallen gods didAyden think he was doing?He jerked back, pulled his feet up on the bed and fumbled away.The prince opened his eyes."I." Ayden found the room very dry all of a sudden; he swallowed, cleared his throat."I am."The prince looked on, expectant, disappointed.Perhaps even angry,though Ayden did not sense that in his song; he only knew how he mightfeel if their roles were reversed."Apologies, Prince.I am very tired.I.I should like to sleep now.""Yes [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]