"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 1 - Black Sun Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)envelope remained open. He glanced up at Damien, briefly, cold blue eyes
acknowledging the message: She trusts you. And adding his own: I don’t. Then he removed the commission itself and read. Power, Damien thought. He radiates power. When he was certain that the Patriarch’s attention was firmly fixed on the document, he whispered the key to a Knowing. Softly - very softly - knowing that if he were caught Working the fae at this time and place, he might well be throwing away everything he’d hoped to accomplish. But the words, barely spoken, went unheard. The fae gathered around him, softly, and wove a picture that his mind could interpret. And yes . . . it was as he had suspected. He wondered if the Patriarch even knew, or if the man attributed the force of his own presence to mere human concepts, like charisma. Bearing. Instead of recognizing the truth - which was that his every thought sent tiny ripples coursing through the fae, altering his environment to suit his will. A natural, in the vernacular. A born sorcerer, whose chosen profession forbade him from acknowledging the very source of his authority. At last the Patriarch nodded, and with carefully manicured hands he folded the commission again, sliding it back into its vellum container. “She thinks highly of you,” he said, placing it on the desk beside him: statement of fact, with neither approval nor disapproval implied. “He is loyal, she writes, and wholly dedicated to our mission. You may depend upon his honor, his vigilance, and his discretion.” He glared, and the thin mouth tightened. “Very well. I won’t do you the dishonor of dissembling, Damien Kilcannon Vryce. Let me tell you just how welcome you are here - you and your sorcery.” Four long steps took him to the nearest window; Damien caught the flash of jeweled rings as he swung it open, revealing the lights of the city. For a moment choose his words. “Since my earliest years,” he said at last, “I’ve served this region. Since that day when I was first old enough to understand just what this planet was, and what it had done to mankind, I’ve devoted myself body and soul to our salvation. It meant adhering to one god, in a world where hundreds of would-be deities clamored for worship, promising cheap and easy miracles in return for minimal offerings. It meant clinging to a Church that still bled from the memory of its greatest defeat, in an age when triumphant temples rose up like wheat in springtime. I chose what was clearly the harder path because I believed in it - believe in it, Reverend Vryce! - and I have never once faltered in that faith. Or in my belief that such faith is necessary, in order to restore man to his Earth- born destiny.” A cold evening breeze gusted in through the window; the Patriarch turned his face into it, let the chill wind brush back his hair. “Most difficult of all was Church custom regarding the fae. Especially in this city, where sorcery is so cheap that the poor can buy visions of plentiful food more easily than the real thing . . . and then they die of hunger, Reverend Vryce. Their bodies gutted by starvation, but a ghastly smile on their faces. Which is why I believe as I do - as my Church has believed, for nearly a thousand years. We won’t tame this tyrannical force by parceling it out to sorcerers, for their paltry spells and their squalid conjurations. The more we expose it to humankind’s greed, the more it stinks of our excesses. Gannon saw that very clearly, back in the Revival. He outlawed private sorcery for that very reason - and I agree with him, heart and soul. If you need an example of what the fae can do to a man, once it has hold of him . . . consider the Prophet’s Fall. Or the First Sacrifice. Witness all the |
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