The Cursed Blood, стр. 43
The Elf King laughed at this but then went absolutely silent and serious as he gazed down at me with the wonder of a child. Which to say the least was a bit uncomfortable.
“So, this is the boy,” he said to no one in particular as he circled me like a shark. “Interesting.” He nodded and smiled as he continued circling us. He finally stopped and crouched down before me, looking me full in the eye. I remember that I could see myself reflected in those strange, shining silver eyes. They looked like mirrors polished to such a sheen that each bit of light refracted from it. I had the uncomfortable feeling he was assessing me like a prize cow for the market fair, or worse, a pig for the slaughter.
“Well, aren’t you the special one.” He smiled. I remember that he smelled strongly of sandalwood, leather, and something else I couldn’t identify. It was almost like the air about an evergreen forested seashore just after a hard rain had fallen.
His vast power was almost palpable, a hypnotic presence that radiated off him in waves of cold that drew the eyes enviably into his strange gaze and pinned it there, leaving you helpless and vulnerable, with a crushing weight of a great futility bearing down like boulders of heavy judgement and despair. All that was in stark contrast to his almost kindly disposition. All at once I knew this Elf wasn’t one to trifle with, and if angered, would be a terrible foe.
“My youngest daughter Summer would love you; you have such an aura of sadness, but it’s balanced by a firm sense of right and wrong. The morose, murderous stick in the mud you have the dubious luck to call Grandfather would do well to learn from you, I think… As could many.” He stood and straightened his robe, head cocked to the side.
“When you approached this,” he peered about with obvious distaste, “well…house, this afternoon, tell me, what did you feel?” He asked in a voice as soft as the landing of a drifting rose petal as he walked to the mantle and studied the painting hung over it with arms folded and a long finger with a huge gold ring tapping thoughtfully on his lips.
“Cold?” I answered confusedly, although at this even Gramps brow arched and he glanced down at me uneasily.
“I see.” King Efferieal Rain nodded, noting my warm flannels with an appraising look. “And when you approached Room 33, did you feel cold then, too?” Gramps glanced sharply at the Elf but stayed silent. A shrewd, brooding, suspicious gleam alit in his black narrowed eyes.
“Yes,” I answered. “But less so.”
“Now, this is vitally important, Ben.” The King turned, hand on the hearth as he studied me, a troubled but curious lining to his perfect face. “Tell me honestly. What precisely did you feel when you faced the spider demons and that ugly old thing parading about as a spirit in the Reunion Inn?” Gramps flashed up at the Wizard at the mention of the incident at the Reunion, but again he bit his tongue. At this point I, too, was wondering just how much the Elf knew.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I answered honestly after a moment to which the King smiled understandingly.
“Take your time and try, little Bright,” he encouraged with a friendly smile. “Close your eyes and go back, see what you saw and feel again what you felt…I can help you with this, if you like?”
I nodded.
“You are very brave; I know you have felt this before, so I needn’t explain it to you. I must warn you, however. As a Wizard, when I read you, it will be much more vivid and real. It will be as though you are again there, reliving it in the flesh.” He smiled again as he placed his finger on my forehead. “Relax, do not resist. It will be unpleasant should you try.”
“I’m not so sure that’s-” Gramps was cut off by a patient but curt look from the Elf High King, grumbled unhappily and turned his obviously worried attentions back to me.
I squeezed my eyes shut and thought for a moment, then struggled. Frustrating myself trying to remember more than the little flashes and such, pushing and pushing until again I felt myself spinning in a sanity jarring warp.
All at once I remembered the things scuttling and swarming White Owl. I again witnessed Happy Jack laughing and pummeling Gramps with the empty liquor bottle, his face grotesque in his feral joy.
And just like that something inside me broke, and a deep suffocating cold took hold. My eyes, though I didn’t know it at the time, snapped open as I stared back at the wide-eyed Elvish Wizard King with orbs I’m told, that had gone as dark as the oblivion of the void in a slow seep of inky blackness, like glossy pits of oil leading to an endless void.
I, however, saw nothing as I began to levitate off the floor, my arms spread wide, fingers splayed, and blood thundering in my ears. I could hear muffled shouting over the thundering in my ears, a rushing of air, then nothing.
I had a strange dream as a part of me floated, drifting in a chilled, empty darkness. I remember a girl’s voice in my mind; it was sweet and kind and full of sadness, but I couldn’t see her.
I knew the voice but couldn’t place it and when I woke, I didn’t remember much, and honestly wouldn’t have remembered it at all had I not done something very stupid a few weeks later, and as consequence had such a long time to think about it, between moments of utter terror and violence, of course.
I’m told it was Gramps that shook me out of it, and I’m still not sure