"Tim Lebbon - Dusk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lebbon Tim)

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in the world that demanded people’s time more than books—failing crops, fading health, a reversion to
harsher times—and the people of Noreela City would often forgo the luxury of leisure time to cater to
the expanding flaws in their own lives. Many of these problems were self-inflicted, but there was also
the seed of regression that had been planted in the land after the Cataclysmic War. As time went on,
Noreela City and all its satellite communities were being drawn back from the level of civilization they
had reached almost three centuries before to an older, more savage time. People viewed rapes and
murders in the street in broad daylight, and swords remained sheathed, as did the pangs of guilt. In many
ways time had started again after the Mages, and instead of recognizing this year as Year of the Black
2208, people regarded the War as the beginning of the current age instead. Even Alishia was not certain
of the exact year; she had read books, used charts, referred to ancient texts, but somehow the Year of the
Black had found itself overshadowed by the Cataclysmic War.

As far as Alishia was concerned, the old magic could stay dead and buried, whatever effect its absence
was having on the land. Her own small, unimportant opinion was that civilization advanced in waves
and cycles, and they were on something of a downward path right now. Soon there would be a discovery
that would draw enthusiasm and goodwill back into the people, infuse them with a new zest for life, and
therefore more respect for it. Besides, Alishia saw magic every day. Her imagination was fed and
nurtured every time she read a word, or a paragraph, reminding her of some years-old dream. The
beautiful poems of Ro Sargossa brought to mind the dream of making love with two of the Duke’s
champions; a treasury of foodstuffs made her think of the differing meals she had considered, their
separate tastes, their curious blends of exotic spices and juices and herbs from faraway lands. Everything
she read invoked a rush of dream memories, so an afternoon on her own in the library was like living
parts of her life again, however unreal that life may seem. Sometimes she was made hungry by the
scents of old, untested foods. Occasionally she was stirred by the recalled cradling of well-muscled
arms, though in reality she had yet to be cradled. But every time, every day, she was glad to be alive.

Let them talk about ruin and degradation and death. She would not let it happen to her.

He was still singing. The old man had been here for several hours now, hidden away behind those
ancient shelves, humming words that Alishia could not quite grasp from the cool air. She tried, leaning
forward on her chair with her head to one side, but her heartbeat smothered the echoes. It was as if being
alive prevented her true understanding of the old man’s song.

So she tidied, cataloged, skimmed a few pages from a map book charting the progress of Noreela City’s
ever-shifting river over the centuries, read a love poem by Ro Sargossa. But she could not ignore the
singing, however hard she tried. Sometimes it felt as though it was inside her head; she could not hear it,
but still it was there. Other times it came strong and loud, filling the library and sending many-legged
things scuttling into the dark spaces beneath book towers.

At last, she decided that she had to find him.

Alishia rarely left her desk when there was no one to watch over it, but today was quieter than most—


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