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

Fell as the cloudcover overhead gave way at last, seared
by a sudden shaft of sunlight. Damien struggled to his side,
half-running, half-sliding on the treacherous ice. He used
his body to shield Tarrant from the sunlight while he fought
to disentangle his hand from the rigging. But the man's grip
was like steel, and in the end Damien had to draw out his
knife and slice through the precious ropes to free him. He
dragged the adept belowdecks as quickly as he could, while
overhead the sky slowly brightened with killing light . . .
 He remembered that day now as he looked at Tarrant,
and he thought, But for you we would all be dead. Four
dozen bodies rotting at the bottom of the sea, our mission in
ruins. And our enemy would be unopposed, free to work his
will upon the world. Isn't that worth the sacrifice of a life
or two? And he despaired, Where is the balance in it? How
do you judge such a thing?

The pale eyes were fixed on him. Cold, so cold. Testing
his limits. Weighing his soul.

"I knew what the price was when I brought you here,"
he said at last. As the waves lapped softly at the hull
beneath them.

God willing, I can come to terms with it.

Two

Land. It rose from the sea with volcanic splendor, sharp
peaks crowned in bald granite, tangles of vegetation
cascading down the lower slopes like a verdant waterfall.
There was no beach, nor any other gentle margin that the
travelers might discern: sheer cliffs met the ocean in a
sharp, jagged line, softened only by the spray of foam as
waves dashed themselves against the rocks. Inhospitable to
say the least . . . but that was hardly a surprise. Erna was
not known for gentle beaches.
 Land. Even at this distance it filled the air with scent,
with sound: evergreens preparing their seeds, spring's first
flowers budding, the cries of seabirds as they circled
overhead, seeking a moment of liquid respite in which to
dive for food. The passengers of the Golden Glory were
gathered at the bow, some forty or more of them, and they
squinted eagerly into the morning glare as they studied the
features of the promised land. A few of them cradled the
slender telescopes which Tarrant had supplied for the
journey - and they handled them like priceless relics, if not
out of reverence for the Old Science which created them,
then out of fear of Tarrant. Their farseers had failed them
months ago, along with many other ship's instruments; the