"Hawke, Simon - The Wizard of Camelot 2 - The Wizard of Whitechapel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

He traveled the world and watched it change throughout the centuries. He became
the consummate master of invisibility, living many different lives under
countless aliases, hiding his vast wealth and his true identity in an
impenetrable cloak of secrecy. He made his way by means of his physical and
intellectual powers rather than thaumaturgic skill. His mother's training and
the natural gifts he had inherited from her had made him an adept, but magic was
Morgana's way, and Merlin's. Modred wanted no part of it.

Yet the choice was never really his to make. He had learned that he could not
escape his destiny. He rubbed his chest and felt the hardness of the small ruby
embedded in the skin over his heart. He unbuttoned his lace-trimmed shirt and
glanced down at the enchanted runestone set into his chest. It was glowing
softly.

He did not know why it had started glowing, or why it throbbed the way it did.
It seemed to pulse like a small heart.

He emptied the bottle of Scotch, picked up the phone, and ordered another sent
up from room service. He rubbed his chest once more. It felt sore from the
strangely throbbing runestone. He felt an intense anxiety that he could not
define. He did not understand what was happening, and it worried him. He lit
another cigarette. Smoking and drinking were destructive human vices, yet they
had no visible effect upon him. At one point or another he had done just about
every self-destructive thing a man could do. It was as if he had been playing a
game with Death for all those years, daring the Grim Reaper to come and try to
claim him. Many times the Reaper had almost done just that, but Modred had
always managed to elude him. He had started to believe that he was
indestructible, but Merlin's death at the hands of the Dark Ones had firmly
convinced him otherwise. If Merlin could be killed, then he could die as well.
That knowledge had given life a sharper edge. That, and the knowledge that he
now had a purpose that was greater than his own survival. A quest, of sorts, not
unlike Galahad's relentless search for the Holy Grail.

Modred smiled as he thought of his old tutor. He finally understood him how,
after all these centuries had passed. Galahad had known that a man could not
define himself through his relationships with others. He had understood that his
identity was not bound up with his father or his mother, nor with his fellow
knights, nor with his king. It was to be found somewhere within himself, and it
was there that Galahad had searched with an anguished desperation, looking for
that essence of himself, seeking to define his soul. In the end he found his
Holy Grail, but the quest had killed him. Now Modred wondered if he was the
darker side of Galahad, and if his own unholy quest would lead to the same end.

As he stared out at the sun setting over the city, he drew deeply on his
cigarette and wondered how a cat burglar, a bumbling warlock, and a professional
assassin could possibly hope to succeed where Merlin himself had failed. As if
in response, the runestone embedded in his chest flashed and sent a searing
pulse of energy flowing through him like an electric current.