"David Gemmell - Morningstar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

'Shame,' he said. 'Perhaps you would consider the shell game? A magicker ought to
be magnificent at it. You could make the pea appear wherever the least money was
bet.’Cheat, you mean?’Yes, cheat,' he answered.

'I … I … that would be reprehensible. And anyway the magick would soon fade if I
put it to such use. Have you no understanding of the art? Years of study and self-denial
are needed before the first spark of magick can be found in a soul. Years! It cannot be
summoned for personal gain.’Forgive me, bard, but when you perform in taverns is that not
for personal gain?’Yes, of course. But that is honest work. To cheat a man requires . . .
deceit. Magick cannot exist in such circumstances.'He looked thoughtful for a moment,
then added several small sticks to the fire. 'What of the Dark Magickers?' he asked.
'They summon demons and kill by witchery. Why does their magick not leave them?’Shh,' I
said, alarmed. 'It is not wise to speak of such as they.' Hastily I made the sign of the
Protective Horn and whispered a spell of Undoing. 'They make pacts with . . . unclean
powers. They sell their souls, and their power comes from the blood of innocents. It is
not magick, but sorcery.’What is the difference?’I could not possibly explain it to you.
My talents are from within and will harm no one. Indeed they could not cause pain. They
are illusions. I could make a knife and thrust it into your heart. You would feel
nothing, and no harm would come to you. But if … one of them were to do the same, your
heart would be filled with worms and you would die horribly.’So,' he said, 'you will not
play the shell game? Well, what else can you do?’I play the harp.’Yes, I heard that.
Very. . . soulful. Sadly, bard, I think you are going to starve to death. Gods, it is
cold!' Adding more fuel to the fire, he once more held out his hands to the flames.

'I am sorry,' I said, 'I have forgotten my manners.' Lifting my right hand I
pointed at him and spoke the words of minor enchantment that warmed the air within his
clothes.

'Now that is a talent!' he exclaimed. 'I hate the cold. How long will the spell
last?’Until I fall asleep.’Then stay awake for a few hours,' he ordered me. 'If I wake up
cold I'll cut your throat. And I mean that! But if I sleep warm I'll treat you to a fine
breakfast. Is it a bargain?’A fine bargain,' I told him, but he was immune to sarcasm.

'Good,' he said, and without another word stretched himself out on the ground
beside the fire and closed his eyes.

I leaned back against the broad trunk of an oak tree and watched the sleeping man,
my thoughts varied but all centred on Jarek Mace. My life as a bard and a storyteller had
been filled with tales of men who looked like Jarek, tall and spectacularly handsome,
confident and deadly in battle. It had almost become second nature in me to believe that
a man who looked like him must be a hero. Part of me still wanted . . . needed … to
believe it. Yet he had spoken with such lack of care about the poor dead woman back in
Ziraccu. I did not know her, yet I could feel her grief as she tied the noose around her
neck. I tried to tell myself that he did care, that he felt some sense of shame but was
hiding it from me. But I did not believe it then, and I do not believe it now.

He had been drawn to my fire by the sound of the harp, but he had come to rob a
lone traveller. And had I been carrying a coin I don't doubt he would have taken it and
left me, throat slit, on the snow of the forest floor.