"Michelle West - Echoes" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

Kallandras took his hand.

"What is your name, boy?"

"It's—if's Kallatin." The first lie.

The man smiled as he heard it. "You will learn, in time, to be a much more accomplished liar; your life will
depend on it. But you will also learn that there is no need to lie to a brother. Come. You are hungry, and
I will have wasted much time if I allow you to perish in the street."
Kallatin. Kallandras. Two names, neither of them names he was born to; neither of them large enough
to contain all parts of his life. He heard, at a distance, the song his fingers absently forced from the lute,
and he grimaced. No small wonder the Serra Teresa had chosen to join him; he played the melody and
harmony of a cradle song.

The old man led him to a small house. It was nestled between buildings that were larger, but although of
modest size, it was clearly well defended, well appointed. There was a small gate around the house, and
a door; beyond the door was a hanging in black, red, and white. The old man said, "We are a
brotherhood that serves the Lady in Shadow; there is little sun in our world, and we have little use for the
Lord's ways. If you are afraid of this, leave now, and no more will be said."

"I am not afraid of shadow," he replied. Firmly. Foolishly.

"We have many dwellings, but no home. Come." He did not say, do not speak of what you see. The
boy passed between the doors as if the doors were sentient and paused in front of the hanging. It was of
a flower at night; dark sky, white stars, red blossom. He lifted a hand to touch it; was surprised when his
fingers felt linen, cotton, nubbled cloth.

"You are sensitive, Kallatin," the old man said quietly.

"If you know that's not my name, why do you use it?"

"None of us own our names," the man replied. "Kallatin is as useful a name as any." He pushed aside the
hanging only when Kallandras' hand had fallen, and he led the way into the dwelling. The house itself was
entirely ordinary; there were two serafs who tended rooms in which a man might sleep or eat or watch
sunrise or moonrise. They bowed when they saw him, but they did not speak. The old man politely
requested food for his visitor, and they disappeared, emerging only a few minutes later with fruit, rice,
sweet water, all perfectly arranged.

He knew that there was no possible way they could have prepared such a meal in so short a time, but he
was beyond caring. If the food were poisoned somehow, if he were to die here, or lose what freedom he
had claim to, it was the Lady's will, the Lord's— hunger drove him. He ate beneath the watchful eyes of
the old man.

Afterward, he slept.

And when he woke, he woke to a darkness that smelled of people, in a room that he was almost certain
he had never seen before. The old man was standing in the doorway, as if he knew to a second when the
newcomers would wake.