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

Then there would be justice, he mused. And I would be free of this burden.
But for how long? They would just send someone else. And I would have to start
all over again.
He put his cup down carefully, watched for a moment to see that it didn’t
slide, and then walked to the window. The floor trembled beneath his feet, and a
low rumbling sound filled the air, but except for that there was little evidence of
any disturbance. There never was, in Jaggonath’s great cathedral. The faith of
thousands, year after year, had reinforced the ancient stonework with more
power than any sorcerer could have harnessed. No wards guarded its doorways,
no demonic fire would flash from its pinnacles and spires at the peak of seismic
activity - but the building would stand, nonetheless. And those thousands of
people who had gathered in Jaggonath’s central plaza would see it stand, an
island of calm in a city gone mad. And a precious few would wander through the
cathedral’s doors, and devote their lives to the faith that had made it possible.
The whole planet could be like this, he thought. Will be like this, one day.
He had to believe that. Had to maintain that belief, though sometimes his
ministry seemed about to be swallowed up by the great maw of Erna’s cynicism.
Had to remember, always, that the dream which he served would not be fulfilled
in one lifetime, or five, or even a dozen. The damage which man had done here
was too great to be corrected in a single generation . . . and it was still going on.
Even now the wild fae, loosed in hideous quantity by the earthquake, would be
gravitating toward the minds that could manifest it. A child’s brain, dreaming of
monsters. A malicious adult, envisioning vengeance. A thousand and one hates
and fears and paranoid visualizations, plucked from the human mind, that would
all be given flesh before morning. His stomach turned at the thought. What could
he say that would make them understand, that every day the odds against man’s
survival increased geometrically? A single man could dream into being a
thousand such monsters in a lifetime - and all those things would feed on man,
because he was their source. Could any one sorcerer’s service, no matter how
well-intended, compensate for such numbers?
He felt tired. He felt old. He was becoming aware, for the first time in his life,
of a hope that had lived in him since his first moments in the Church: a
desperate hope that the change would come now, in his lifetime. Not all of it -
that was too much to ask for - but enough that he could see it started. Enough
that he could know he had made a difference. To live as he had, to serve
without question, then to die without knowing if there was a point to any of it . .
. his hands clenched at his sides as he looked out over the blazing city. He
wished there were truly no other choice. He wished the fae could not be used to
maintain youth, and thus to prolong life. He wished he didn’t have to face that
terrible decision every minute of his life: commitment to his faith versus the
chance to court the fae, extend his life, and see what effect that faith would
have upon future generations. Death itself was not nearly so daunting as the
prospect of dying in ignorance.
Thus the Prophet was tempted, he thought darkly.
As for that blustering fool of a priest . . . his stomach tightened in anger at
the thought of him. How easy it was, for him and his kind! How seemingly
effortless, to take a piece of sharpened steel from the armory and simply go
hack up the product of man’s indulgence. This is my faith, such a man could say,
pointing to a heap of dismembered vampire-kin. Here is my service to God. An
easier faith than the one the Patriarch had embraced, for sure. A faith that was