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

An excellent omen for the future, he thought.
The last congregants of the night were descending on both sides of him,
parting like a wave as they poured down the ivory steps. No women walked
alone, he noted, but they stayed together in small groups, or were guarded by
men; even here, on God’s own front steps, the shadow of the Hunter was felt.
Then the last well-wishers shook hands with their priest and made their
descent, and the great ornate doors were swung slowly shut, closing out the
night.
He looked at them for a while, admiring their intricate carvings, and then
climbed the steps himself and knocked.
A sub-door opened and a robed man with a small lamp peeked out. Against
the background of the gleaming white steps, in the wake of so many well-
dressed attendants, Damien knew that he looked his grubbiest.
“Well?” the man asked, in a tone of voice that clearly stated: We are closed
for the night. He shot a suspicious glance toward Damien’s sword.
“The building is open?”
With a sigh of exasperation the man stepped aside, allowing Damien to
enter. Yes, technically the building was unlocked, and anyone could enter it to
pray - that was Church custom, in east and west alike - and if some rough
warrior wanted to do so at this time, the man had no right to turn him away.
Damien had known that when he asked. But as he ducked beneath the lintel of
the low, narrow sub-door, and entered the foyer of the cathedral itself, the
man’s hand fell like a warning on his shoulder.
 Two

Image of a Patriarch: stark white hair above aquiline features, eyes a
cold, piercing blue. Thin lips drawn back in a hard line, a fleeting glimpse of
flawless teeth within. Pale brown skin dried and thickened by age. Lines of
character deeply incised: tense, severe, disapproving. The body, like the face,
toughened rather than weakened by seventy winters of life. Broad, strong shoul-
ders, from which cascaded a waterfall of ivory silk, voluminous enough to
obscure the body’s outline. Power - in every feature, even in his stance.
Authority.
And something else, to be read in his face, his eyes, his very posture - and
his voice, a rich baritone that any chorister would pray to possess. Anger.
Resentment. Distaste.
Exactly what Damien had expected.
“You have a commission?” the Patriarch asked coldly.
Books lined every wall, punctuated by small, pierced-glass windows that
broke up the city’s lights into a thousand jeweled sparks. What furniture there
was, was rich: a heavy mahogova desk, crimson velvet cushions on the single
matching chair, antique drapes and patterned carpets that spoke of wealth in
careful, tasteful investment. Damien looked around for some convenient resting
spot, at last chose a shelf edge to support his bag while he rummaged inside it
for the Matriarch’s letter. Dust rose up from the travel-stained pack and settled
on several of the nearer shelves; he could feel the Patriarch’s eyes on him,
disapproving, even before he faced him.
“Her Holiness sends her best,” he announced, and he handed over the
vellum envelope. The Patriarch regarded it for a moment, noting that the seal of
the Church which granted it official status had been set to one side, so that the