"John Dalmas - Yngling 3 - The Circle of Power" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dalmas John)

Remotely he heard a small gong -- heard and registered, and ignored. A minute
later there was stirring at his corridor door, and an exchange of muted words.
Then his doorguard entered, a giant humanoid with short, rich-brown fur. It
cleared its throat softly.
“Your Magnificence,” it murmured.
Songtsan Gampo lowered the manuscript and
turned without speaking.
“His Reverence, Tenzin Geshe, wishes to speak
with Your Magnificence.”
Dark eyes regarded the doorman. “Send him in.”
The geshe could have communicated with him
telepathically; given the Circle of Power, the distance from the gomba, the
monastery, was no problem. But the emperor didn’t allow mental intrusions
except when he’d ordered them, or in true emergencies. One sent or carried
messages, on paper or orally. Tenzin Geshe entered the room and bowed low. He
would not speak until invited to.
“Yes?” the emperor asked.
“Your Magnificence,” said the geshe, “your
Circle of Power has been questing. And we have seen a man . . . ”
He opened his mind to his emperor then,
rerunning the experience.
When the geshe had completed his brief report,
he was dismissed. The emperor sat with the manuscript ignored on his lap. The
Circle had learned nothing explicit, except that the man existed and what he
looked like. And that he’d been aware of them observing him, and had broken
the connection. A man of unusual power then, obviously, but where he was, and
of what people, there’d been no clue.
There had been a limited knowingness with the
vision, however: the man was far away, and was important to him. There’d been
no sign of what the importance might be. Logic suggested that the man would
lead an army against his, when the time of conquest came, but that was only
logic, not knowledge.
Songtsan Gampo sat with his mind clear of
thoughts, waiting quietly for more, but no more came.


PART ONE
DEPARTURE
ONE
The council fire flickered ruddy-yellow,
lighting the Neoviking chiefs who sat around it. It was a very large fire, by
the standards of a people whose summer fires normally were small: fires for
cooking, and smoke fires to drive the mosquitoes from their log houses.
Ted Baver squatted unobtrusively as part of
the ring of chiefs, an honor granted him as a representative of the star folk.
He had no role in their council, of course. He was there to watch, listen,
record, and in the process learn. He held a small audio-video recorder before
his face, as if aiming a pistol, and through and around its simple, fold-out
viewing frame he watched the proceedings.
He’d grown used to squatting, this past year.