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

Now he lay still, his sleep dreamless, and I, frightened of his threat, remained
awake, my spell keeping him warm.

I thought back to our conversation, and realized that I had seen yet another Jarek
Mace. His speech patterns were subtly altered. In Ziraccu he had sounded - for the most
part - like an Angostin, except in those moments when anger flared and his voice had lost
its cultured edge. Now, in these woods his speech carried the slight burr of the
Highlander. I wondered if he even realized it. Or did he, like the chameleon, merely
adjust his persona to suit his surroundings?
 A badger moved warily across the hollow, snuffling at the snow. She was followed by
three cubs, the last of whom approached the sleeping man. I created a small globe of
white light that danced before the cub's eyes, then popped! The cubs scampered away and

the mother cast me a look that I took to be admonishment. Then she too disappeared
into the bleak undergrowth.

I was hungry again - and growing cold. Two spells of Warming were hard to maintain.
Banking up the fire, I moved closer to the flames.

My father's castle on the south coast would be warm, with heavy velvet curtains
against the narrow windows, huge log-fires burning in the many hearths. There would be
wine and spirits, hot meats and pastries.

Ah, but I forget, ghost! You do not yet know me, save as the threadbare bard. I was
the youngest of three sons born to the second wife of the Angostin count, Aubertain of
WestLea. Yes, an Angostin. Neither proud nor ashamed of it, to be sure. My eldest
brother, Ranuld, went to live across the sea, to fight in foreign wars. The second,
Braife, stayed at home to manage the estates, while I was to have entered the church. But
I was not ready to wear the monk's habit, to spend my life on my knees worshipping a God
whose existence I doubted. I ran away from the monastery and apprenticed myself to a
magicker named Cataplas. He had a twisted back that gave him constant pain, but he
performed the Dragon's Egg like no one before or since.

That then was me, Owen Odell, an Angostin bard who in that dread winter was unable
to make a living and who was sitting against a tree, growing colder by the moment, while
his powers were being expended on a heartless killer who slept by his fire.

I was not a happy man as I sat there, hugging my knees, my thin, stolen blanket
wrapped tight around my bony frame.

An owl hooted in the branches above me and Jarek stirred but did not wake. It was
very peaceful there, I recall, beneath the bright stars.

Towards dawn Jarek awoke, yawned and stretched. 'Best sleep I've had in weeks,' he
announced. Rolling to his feet, he gathered his bow and quiver and set off without a word
of thanks for my efforts. My power had faded several hours before and I had barely
managed to keep Mace warm, while I was almost blue with cold. With shivering hands I
threw the last small sticks on the fire and held my numbed fingers above the tiny flames.

The morning sky was dark with snow-clouds, but the temperature was rising.