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

tapestry that was frayed at the edges. Then more rapidly.
The collar shimmered where it lay, then vanished. The
Patriarch's ivory silk became a curtain of light, then
nothing. The chamber . . .
 . . . became a room on a ship. His ship. The Golden
Glory.

"Oh, my God," he whispered. His heart was pounding
with the force of a timpani; his throat still tight with fear.
He lay there for a moment in utter silence, shaking, letting
the real world seep in, waiting for it to banish the terror.
Listening for sounds that would link him to the present: the
creak of tarred timbers, the soft splash of ocean waves
against the prow, the snap of sails in the wind. Comforting,
familiar sounds. They had roused him from similar
nightmares before, on similar nights. But this time it didn't
seem to help. This time the fear that had hold of him
wouldn't go away. The trembling wouldn't stop.

Because it hit too close to home, he thought. Because
this nightmare might yet come true. What did the Patriarch
really think when he read Damien's report? Did he take it at
face value, or did he discern the subtle subterfuge with
which it had been crafted? What kind of welcome would
await Damien when at last he returned to Jaggonath?

I shouldn't have risked it. Shouldn't have dissembled. If
he ever finds out . . .

Fear lay heavy on his chest, a thick, suffocating
darkness. He tried to reason it away - as he had done so
many times before, night after night on this endless journey
- but reason alone wasn't enough this time. Because this
fear had real substance. This nightmare might yet come to
pass.

After a while he gave up, exhausted. And sank back into
his fear, letting it possess him utterly. It was a gift to the
one who traveled with him, whose hunger licked at the
borders of his soul even now. The one who had inspired his
dream, and therefore deserved to benefit from it.

Damn you, Tarrant.

Quiet night. Domina bright overhead, waves washing
softly against the alteroak hull. Peace - outside, if not
within him. He went to where the washbucket lay and
splashed his face with the cool desalinized water, washing
the sweat of his fear from his skin. His shirt was damp
against his body and the night wind quickly chilled him; he