"Patricia A. McKillip - The Throme of the Erril of Sherill" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

stones, to weep and sew beside your hearth.”
“But I love her,” Caerles protested. Magnus Thrall folded his arms and
looked into the fire. Tears of pity welled in Damsen’s eyes.
“You know nothing of wanting,” said the King. “You know nothing of the
gnawing beast of wanting, the ceaseless whine of wanting. You want Damsen.
My wanting is greater than yours. My wanting can make a great house empty,
can make a silly world empty. I want the Throme of Sherill. Find it for me, and
I will give you anything you want.”
Caerles’ mouth opened. It closed again, and then the words in his eyes came
to it. “There is no such thing as the Throme of Sherill,” he whispered. “Magnus
Thrall, that is unfair. The Throme is a lie left from another king, another year.
There never was a Throme. There was a never a land called Sherill. There is
nothing but the earth and the sky.”
 Magnus Thrall whirled away from the fire. “Unfair? What is unfair about
wanting? Somewhere, somewhere, Caerles, you will find the Throme. Until
then, I will grow my flower in the dark.”
“You are cruel and loveless, you and your wanting.”
“I know,” Magnus Thrall whispered. “I know. The Throme is my hope. Find
it for me, Caerles.”
“But it does not exist.”
“Find it for me.”
“Find it, Caerles,” said Damsen. He turned, his hands outstretched.
“But it does not exist!”
“I know. But find it, please, Caerles.”
“Is there no reason in this dark, empty house? Magnus Thrall, you are King of
Everywhere. You should open your doors, open your gates, open your hands
and heart to me, to Damsen, to all your Cnites, to your vessels and churttels. Put
tapestries on your bare walls, flame on your cold torches. Go into the green
world and be content with what beauty is Everywhere, that you cannot see when
your eyes are blind with wanting. Give me Damsen. I love her.”
The dark King stood unflickering by the fire. “There is a price,” he said, “on
your loving. There is a price for the taking of Damsen from my hearth to yours.”
“There should be no price!”
“Give me the Throme. Then you may have my Damsen.”
The Cnite Caerles closed his eyes and sighed. Then he went to the window
where Damsen sat, the stars clustering about her hair. He took her hands and
said sadly, “Will you wait for me?”
“I will,” said Damsen, and a star fell down her cheek. “But oh please,
hurry.”
“I will. Though I do not know what use it is to hurry when I do not know
where I am going, and when there will be nothing to find when I get there.”
“I know,” Damsen said sorrowfully. “My Caerles, you will be searching
forever and I will grow old and ugly, and when you find it, you will not want
me anymore.”
“Yes, I will. I will be old and ugly too, then.” He kissed her sadly, gently
farewell. Then he said to Magnus Thrall, “I will find your Throme whether it
exists or not. I will return with the price for her.”
“I know you will,” said Magnus Thrall. “That is why I set that price.”
And so the Cnite Caerles came to leave the King’s house by starlight, looking
for the Throme of the Erril of Sherill. He stared up at the quiet stars as he