"Berg,.Carol.-.Song.Of.The.Beast" - читать интересную книгу автора (Berg Carol)

Song of the Beast.htmSONG OF THE BEAST
CAROL BERG



ISBN 0-451-45923-7
Copyright © Carol Berg, 2003 All rights reserved
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of Fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.



This one is, as always, for the Word Weavers past and present and all they bring
to their reading. And it’s well past time to raise a glass to my editor, Laura
Anne Gilman, and her nose for nuance—no spackle!—and my agent, Lucienne Diver,
for her encouragement, enthusiasm, and expertise. But mostly and entirely for
the one who completes my being.



Chapter 1
The light had almost undone me. I had not been prepared for any of it, dead man
that I was, but never could I have been ready for the shattering explosion of
sunlight after so many years in the dark. They had threatened so often to burn
out my eyes, the thought crossed my mind that it had finally come to pass.
Perhaps my memory of being dragged from my cell through the bowels of Mazadine
and kicked through the iron door that would take me back to the world was only
another cruel nightmare.
Wrapping my arms about my head, I sank to the ground, huddling to the faceless
prison wall like a pup to its dam, and there I remained until the sun slipped
below the rim of the world. Only when blessed darkness eased the agony—never had
I thought to bless the dark again— could I consider other pressing matters, such
as getting as far away as possible before someone decided to put me back behind
that wall.
Rocks and gravel cut into my bare feet as I stumbled down the rutted road and
found a crossroads shrine, a mossy spring dedicated to Keldar. Just off the road
sat a well-stuffed wool cart, while from the nearby shrubbery came the
unmistakable sounds of a drover who had drunk too many tankards of ale at
supper. I fell to my knees beside the spring, but no sooner had I taken a first
desperate sip than five Royal Horse Guards, torches blazing in the night, raced
past at full gallop, turning up the road to Mazadine as if the cruelest of the
world’s monsters were at their backs. Breathing a prayer of heartfelt
thanksgiving, I scrambled into the wagon and buried myself in the wool.
Eyeless Keldar had never been my god. The cold lord of wisdom had never appealed
to one born into the service of his brother Roelan, the joyous, hunchbacked god
of music. But Roelan had abandoned me in the darkness. The loving voice that had
guided me through my growing had fallen silent. The hand that embraced me at my