"Elrod, P N - I, Strahd 1 - Memoirs of a Vampire e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

Van Richten, who knew as much about the undead as any living man, was reasonably
certain that for a few more years the master of the castle would be unable to
stir from the sleep that was not sleep. The odd fact that he stood where he
stood—that he hadn't encountered Strahd's undead minions and necromantic
guardians—seemed confirmation enough. Perhaps Strahd's dark magics could not
last through his years of quiescence.
But Van Richten was only reasonably certain, which was why he'd allowed himself
only one day to investigate. Though he could have spent months poring through
the rare books in this room alone, he did not believe in taking unnecessary
risks. A single, isolated intrusion that would brush against the dimmed
consciousness of the monster was as far as he planned to take it for now.
Perhaps later—a year, maybe two, as the vampire settled back into his sluggish
dreams—he would return… and then he would not be alone.
But for that future expedition Van Richten needed more knowledge. He needed
facts, not rumors or folklore or tall tales.
Candles lighted, he looked around the room for a hint on where to start. Even
without the implied wealth of the books, the place was a study in opulence. The
richly stained wood trims, grass-thick carpet, and inviting couches and chairs
all indicated that though Strahd was a monster, he valued his comfort.
Van Richten's brows lifted as he noticed one objet d'art in particular. Well.
Von Zarovich certainly had excellent taste. Over the exquisitely carved
mantelpiece hung an enormous portrait of a young woman. She was breathtakingly
lovely, painted by an artist with the skill to capture not only her outer
beauty, but the lively purity of her inner soul. There was no date on it, no
signature to be seen, but the antique costume the woman wore indicated several
centuries had passed since the paint had been wet.
She was mesmerizing, bewitching… and long dead. Possibly even one of the Count's
early victims. If so, her fate had been a grim one, and Van Richten had no wish
or time to speculate on it. His purpose now was to see that other young girls
were spared from such horrors.
In the center of the room was a low and massive table, so highly polished that
the multiple flames of the candles reflected from its surface as if it were a
mirror. Smooth and bright, no speck of dust anywhere…
Van Richten went very still as he regarded the implications of the missing dust.
After a moment's thought, he swallowed and hoped his heart would return to its
proper place in his chest. Though impossible to detect, it was logical to assume
Strahd had placed some sort of magical spell on the room to preserve its
contents while he slept. Who knows what damage could be done to the fragile
volumes by the gentle onslaught of dust, worms, and nibbling rats? Strand
obviously did—and had allowed for it.
A great book and some sheaves of paper covered with writing lay on the table.
Within easy reach was a pot of ink and some quill pens, all expertly cut to a
proper point and ready for use. A chair was pulled away from this spot, as
though the last occupant had only just walked out and not bothered to push it
back into place.
As though at any moment he might return.
Van Richten firmly shrugged off that idea. If Strahd had been active, he would
have done something by now. The master was asleep, and his castle, like one in
some half-remembered child's tale, was in much the same condition. That was how
the little herbalist from Mordentshire had been able to pass through the great