"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 2 - When True Night Falls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

The blue eyes were fixed on him, their depths
unforgiving. "That's not the issue and you know it. The
issue is your failure to return here. The issue is your
summary dismissal of my authority. The issue is not
whether you sent me a report, but the fact that you sent it in
lieu of a personal audience. And I think we both know why
you did that."

Accusation, plain and simple. Damien's hands clenched
at his sides; his heart began to pound, so loud it was hard to
concentrate. He could lose it all here. Everything. All he
had to do was say the wrong word, lie the wrong lie, and
his whole life might come crashing down around him. The
Patriarch had that kind of power.

"Time was of the essence," he said at last. Choosing his
words with care. "I tried to explain that in my letter. What I
intended-"

The Patriarch cut him off with a sharp gesture. "What
you intended, Reverend Vryce, was to avoid any personal
contact with me. Do you think I don't know why? You
were afraid that if you petitioned for leave to pursue this
matter - as you should have done, as the hierarchy of our
Church demands that you do - that I would have denied it.
And rightfully so." His gaze was fixed on the priest, as chill
and as piercing as coldfire. "Or perhaps you were afraid
that I would permit you to go . . . but demand that you
choose more suitable allies."

Damien drew in a deep breath slowly, and thought:
There it is. That's what this is all about. Not that Damien
had failed to return to Jaggonath, not that his report was
insufficient, not even that he had acted without sanction
from his superior . . . but that he had chosen to travel with
one of the greatest evils his world had ever produced. An
evil so subtle and so sophisticated that it might corrupt even
a priest's soul, a priest's dreams. And through that priest -
just perhaps - the Church.

Was that possible? Had it begun already, deep inside
him, where he refused to look? In his mind's eye he could
see the Hunter grinning, a drop of fresh blood gleaming at
the corner of his mouth. And he recoiled inwardly at the
memory of that polluted soul, the touch of its malignancy
against his own being. But Gerald Tarrant represented
power, plain and simple, and they needed that kind o force.
It was worth any price, he told himself, to have it. Even the
risk of corruption.