"Stephen Lawhead - Dragon King 02 - The Warlords of Nin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

unhindered view of the spangled heavens. The stars never change, he
observed. And then, even as he framed the thought, he remembered the
conversation he had earlier with Toli. He turned his head toward the east
and saw the strangely glittering star Toli had pointed out to him several
nights before.
“The Wolf Star seems to grow brighter,” observed Quentin. “I have been
thinking the same thing, Kenta.”
“I wonder what High Priest Biorkis would say to an omen such as this.
The priests surely have their explanations.”
“Go and ask him.”
“What! Do you think I dare?”
“Why not? There is no harm.”
“I do not believe my ears! My servant tells me to seek an omen from an
unholy source! You, Toli, of all people, know I have turned away from
tokens and omens. I follow a different god—we both do.”
“I do not suggest you ask an omen of Ariel, or discard truths you have
learned. Only that you go to your one time friend and ask his opinion of a
strange event. There is no harm in that. Besides, Whist Orren, who holds
the stars in their courses, sometimes declares his will through such
portents. Any who will look may see what is written there.”
“You are right, Toli. Biorkis is still my friend. Besides, I would like to
take a walk. Come along.” Quentin was on his feet and striding off across
the meadow toward the temple trail, which showed in the bright moonlight
as a silver thread winding its way up the side of the steep hill.
They reached the trail and began the circuitous ascent to the top. As they
climbed higher, Quentin looked out into the moon-bright night. The valley
glimmered darkly; every leaf of tree and blade of grass was traced in spun
silver. Away in the distant hills shepherds’ fires winked like stars fallen
upon the land.
They gained the top at last and entered the expansive courtyard. In the
center of the white, stone-paved yard stood a torch on a carven stone
stanchion. Its fluttering flame cast a wide circle of light around its base
and reflected on the closed doors of the temple.
“We will see if pilgrims such as we are made welcome by night,”
whispered Quentin.
They crossed the courtyard and climbed the many steps to the main
entrance. Upon reaching the huge doors, Quentin lifted his poniard from
its sheath at his belt and rapped upon the solid beams with its handle.
He waited, knowing at this late hour he must rouse some nearby priest
from his sleep. As he waited, an uncanny sensation came over Quentin—a
feeling that he was once more the skinny temple acolyte of so many years
ago. For a moment he looked at the dark stone of the temple and the
moonlight-filled courtyard through the eyes of his youth.
He knocked again and immediately heard the shuffle of someone on the
other side.
“Be on your way, pilgrim. Come back tomorrow. The priests are
asleep,” came the muffled voice from the other side.
“There is one who will admit us if you but tell him who it is who desires
entry.”
 “There is none who would admit you but the High Priest himself.”