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

 “Whom the Forest dominated.”
She studied him, as if choosing her words with care. “Maybe,” she said at
last. Watching him. “I think not.”
Or he dominated the Forest. The thought was staggering. All the might of
the Church had been pitted against the measureless evil in a war to end all wars
. . . to no avail. Was it possible that one single man might dominate such a
place, when thousands had given up their lives failing to do so?
With a start he realized that she had signaled for the bill, and was gathering
her jacket about her shoulders. Had they been here that long?
“It’s getting late,” she said, apologetically. “I do have to get back.”
“To meet with them?” He tried to keep his tone light but there was an edge
to it that he failed to disguise.
The bill was placed between them. He looked at it.
“There are ninety-six pagan churches in this city,” she warned him.
“Nineteen adepts, and nearly a thousand more that style themselves sorcerers,
or its equivalent. You won’t like any of them, or approve of what they do. So
don’t ask.”
“I don’t know about that. I rather like this one.”
She looked at him, clearly bemused, and at last shoot her head. “You’re not
half bad company, considering your livelihood. Far better than I expected.”
He grinned. “I try.”
“You’ll be in town for a while?”
“If they can tolerate me.”
She didn’t ask who he was referring to, which confirmed the fact that she
already knew. Her Knowing had been thorough indeed - and little surprise, in
such a place as this.
He looked out into the night-bound plaza, and thought of the things that
such darkness might hide.
“Come on,” he told her, and he scattered eastern coins on the table. “I’ll
walk you back.”
If the cathedral had seemed magnificent from a distance, it was even more
impressive from up close. Greater archways soared above lesser ones, the space
between them filled with a rich assortment of stylized carvings. Layer upon layer
of ornamentation covered the vast edifice, as if its designer had suffered from a
phobia of unadorned space; but if the whole of it was overworked, by modem
standards, that too was part of its style. The strength of Revivalist architecture
lay in its capacity to overwhelm the viewer.
Damien stood at the base of the massive front staircase and let himself open
up to all that its presence implied: the faith of thousands bound together, serving
one Law; the remnants of a great dream that had been damaged but not
destroyed in one terrible war, that had fragmented man’s Church and left him at
the mercy of what this strange planet called Nature; the hope that someday faith
would conquer fae, and the whole of Erna could be colonized - safely - at last.
All those impressions filled him, joining with the warmth of his body: the
coursing heat of rich ale in his veins, the triumph of his arrival, and the
exhilaration of sexual diplomacy.
If I were not so dusty, he had said to her, when at last they returned to her
shop, I might attempt to seduce you.
If you were not so dusty, she had answered with a smile, you might stand a
chance of success.