"P. N. Elrod & Nigel Bennett - His Father's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)was such that this darkness was very much like day. Turning back to the candle, its small light seemed
almost as bright as a bonfire. The moon had risen, the silver-blue glow pouring through the high windows, creeping its way down the wall opposite to make the tapestries and banners there shimmer. It was so beautiful. Everything was heightened since his transformation. He could see more, smell more, feel more. The sounds of the night from both within and without the castle came to him very clearly when he paid mind to them. He cocked his head toward the entry but could pick up nothing to indicate his wait was ending. True, he could cut this nonsense short by bulling into the duke’s sanctum, but past experience made him reluctant to try. The old man was king in everything but name here, with the power of life and death over all. To incur his wrath was to risk dire punishment. Richard had dared to cross him on this very point, once. The beating he’d gotten some dozen years past had left an indelible impression on his spirit long after the bruises healed. The lesson stuck. He could beat me now—could try—for all the good it would do him. The power of his dark rebirth surged through Richard once more, warming him. The past should be—was—less than nothing to him. Perhaps that was what Sabra wanted him to learn from this. If so, then he could do as he pleased with no fear of reprisal. But if not, and he made the wrong choice, whatever that might be . . . He decided he could wait a little longer. He righted one of the long benches and sat at the table, idly toying with an abandoned trencher. There was a time that he would have gladly picked at the remaining food, indeed, eaten his fill from the leavings here, but not now, and never again. Free. I am free of this. A sudden noise from the doorway to his father’s inner chamber along the hall jolted Richard from his musings, and he stood to meet his sire. The door down there opened sure enough, but all that came out was a string of curses and the unmistakable scrabblings of the two terrified hounds. The dogs pelted into the beneath one of the far tables, whimpering. More cursing from the entry. A familiar voice, but not one belonging to a friend. Richard had no friends here. First the dogs, then another kind of cur arrived, as Dear Brother lurched into the vast room. Richard braced inwardly, his face settling into the usual blank mask he tried to maintain when forced to deal with his abrasive oldest sibling. Ambert d’Orleans was the proud firstborn of the great lord, and had never let Richard forget it. At first glance, he and Richard could have almost been twins, so similar were they. In their youth many had mistaken them as such. Both over six feet in height, fair-haired, with icy blue eyes, and both strong and valiant on the field—but that was in their youth. Their differences had grown with the passing years and were not just those of physical change. Richard could look at himself and without blush know he was principled and intelligent with a strong sense of honor; Ambert, on the other hand, was ever a bully and a braggart and, worst of all, a cunning backstabber. Richard had learned the best way to deal with him was simple avoidance whenever possible. Excess in all things was beginning to take its toll on Ambert, for his belly now far exceeded his chest in girth. He had to balance carefully as he made his way into the dim hall, pausing at the head of the table. His once handsome face was bloated and red from too much wine and fits of temper, and his fine blue eyes were rheumy and bloodshot. His bleared gaze quickly fastened on Richard, regarding him with the usual measure of contempt, Ambert’s idea of a superior look. He bore a goblet in hand, and swaying a little, extended it imperiously in Richard’s direction. “Wine, brother,” he said, as though addressing a servant. There was an open cask on the table before him, but he made no move toward it. Knowing the uselessness of argument, Richard crossed to him and took the goblet away. There being no ladle, he tipped the cask with care. It was nearly empty and the wine threatened to spill as it slopped about. |
|
|