"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 1 - Black Sun Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

he thought he felt the fae grow warm about him, and realized that she was
Knowing him as well.
“Isn’t there someplace you’re supposed to be?” she asked, amused.
He shrugged. “In a week. They don’t know I’m here early - and won’t unless
I tell them. No one’s waiting up for me,” he assured her.
She nodded slightly as she considered it. Then turned to the man beside her
- who was already waiting with an answer.
“Go on, Cee.” He, too, was smiling. “I can hold the shop till midnight. Just
get back before the-” He stopped in mid-sentence, looked uncomfortably at
Damien. “Before they come, all right?”
She nodded. “Of course.” From under a pile of papers she drew out two
objects, a ward on a ribbon and a small, clothbound notebook. These she gave
to the man, explaining, “When Dez comes in, give him these charts. He wanted
more . . . but I can do only so much, working with the Core stars. If he wants
anything more, try to convince him to trust the earth-fae. I can do a more
detailed Divining with that.”
“I will.”
“And Chelli keeps asking for a charm for her son, to ward against the perils
of the true night. I’ve told her I can’t do that. No one can. She’s best off just
keeping him inside . . . she might come in again to ask.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“That’s it, I think.” She lifted a jacket from the coatstand near the door, and
smiled at Damien as she donned it. “Your treat?”
“My honor,” he responded.
“The New Sun, then. You’ll like it.” She glanced back, toward her assistant.
“I’ll be there if you need me, Zen; just Send.”
He nodded.
Damien offered her his arm. She stared at it for a moment, clearly amused
by the custom, then twined her own smaller limb about it. “You can stable your
horse there,” she informed him. “And I think you’ll find the neighborhood . . .
interesting.”
Interesting was an understatement.
The Inn of the New Sun was one of several buildings that bordered
Jaggonath’s central plaza, as prime a piece of real estate as one could ask for.
The restaurant’s front room looked out upon several neat acres of grass and
trees, divided up into geometrical segments by well-maintained walkways. By its
numerous pagodas and performance stands, Damien judged that the plaza
hosted a score of diverse activities, probably lasting through all the warm-
weather months. It was truly the center of the city, in more than just geography.
And at the far side, gleaming silver in the moonlight . . .
A cathedral. The cathedral. Not surrounded by satellite buildings of its faith,
as was the Great Cathedral in Ganji, but part and parcel of the bustling city life.
He moved to where he could get a view clear of the trees, and exhaled noisily in
admiration. If rumor was truth, it was the oldest extant church on the eastern
continent. Built at the height of the Revival, it was a monument to the
tremendous dramatic potential of the Neo-Gothic style. Archways and buttresses
soared toward the heavens, creamy white numarble reflecting moonlight and
lamplight both with pristine perfection. Set against the dark evening sky, the
building glowed as though fae-lit, and drew worshipers to it like moths to a
flame. On its broad steps milled dozens - no, hundreds of worshipers, and their