"P. N. Elrod & Nigel Bennett - His Father's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

how he’d snapped a curt dismissal to the duke’s command in Sabra’s pavilion earlier that day.
“You must go,” she told him.
“I think not.” Richard had no desire to forsake her safe, dark sanctuary for a walk in the burning sun
only to face his father’s own searing wrath at the end of it.
“You must. It is necessary.”
“Is it not enough that I’ve endured a lifetime of abuse and humiliation from him? Can we not simply
leave for Britain?”
“For one, you must obtain his release from your oath of service to him. Without it he has the right to hunt
you down like an escaped serf.”
He ground his teeth, for she was perfectly correct. “And for another?”
“We few of us know how to properly say farewell.” Sabra held his hand in hers as she spoke. “It is a
necessary and important thing. It is the finishing of the round. Without it, whatever we do from then on can
be flawed. Like it or no, he is your father; he is in you always. You owe yourself that acknowledgment and
the closing of the circle.”
Richard started to protest that he could not remember a single occasion upon which Montague d’Orleans
had behaved in any way like a father, but stopped, realizing the humble truth of her words. “He will belittle
me.”
“That he will.”
“And he will shame me and say that I am no son of his. I know it.”
“And you are right.”
Richard thought for a moment and turned her hand over in his, finally kissing her palm. “Does your Sight
tell you what will happen, what will come of this?”
Sabra did not answer.
“Does it?”
The look in her brown eyes as she regarded him could melt the hardest stone. “Dear Richard, what is to
be will be. What will happen is within you. You’ll find it in your heart. You must be your own guide in this,
make your own path for right or wrong.”
“What is it you tell me? That I’ve a choice to make? What sort of choice?”
“I’ll say only that we often have to reach through the thorns to pluck the rose. There is always pain if we
choose to seize it. Just remem-ber that I am with you through all.” She loosed his hand and stepped back
from him. “Now go to your father. He has summoned you, and you must give him that one last obedience.”
He wanted to ask more, but knew she would not—or could not—answer. Her Sight was clear and
truthful, but sometimes it revealed too much, showing her more than one future, each depen-dent upon
actions made in the present.
Perhaps that was what awaited him. If so, then might he not make a mistake, choose the wrong path?
The wrong future?
She’d raised herself on her toes to kiss him lightly on the mouth, and he returned it, pressing his lips to
her brow. He wrapped his heavy cloak close to shield his vulnerable skin from the sun and left.
And now here in the darkness, lit by a single sputtering candle he sat, waiting to discover the meaning of
her words. Out of love for her and trust in her wisdom and judgment he could put himself through one more
hour of his father’s malice, though not much more than that. Richard had his limits.
Most of that hour had passed already, according to the tolling of the church bell. It was full night and
vespers had come and gone by now, though it was doubtful that the chapel had been very full. Perhaps a
few had attended to pray for recovery from their revels.
How like his father to keep him waiting thus. It was a very old game he played, and he never tired of it:
Summon the despised son, then keep him without. It was an obvious insult, one he’d seen his father use
often and to great effect. Richard might be here for hours, even all night if it pleased the duke.
This is the last time for me. It must be the last time.
Finally giving in to a portion of impatience, Richard stood and stretched and paced once around the great
room. He realized that he did not need the candle. He could see quite well, indeed. The change in his vision