"Dragonlance - Deathgate 3 - Fire Sea - uc" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragonlance)

WEIS AND HICKMAN

Sea

*7*

"They're not coming, are they, Son?" the old king asks.

"No, Father," his son tells him. Edmund's hand, strong and warm, closes over the old man's gnarled, shivering fingers. "I think, if they were going to come, they would have come by now."

"I want to go outside," the old king says suddenly.

'Are you sure, Father?" Edmund looks at him, concerned.

"Yes, I'm sure!" The old king returns testily. Another luxury of old ageЧindulging in whims.

Wrapping himself tighter in the fur robes, he rises from the throne, descends the dais. His son stands by to aid his steps, if necessary, but it isn't. The king is old, even by the standards of our race, who are long-lived. But he is in good physical condition, his magic is strong and supports him better than most. He has grown stoop-shouldered, but that is from the weight of the many burdens he's been forced to bear during his long life. His hair is pure white, it whitened when he was in his middle years, whitened during the time of his wife's brief illness that took her from him.

Edmund lifts the gas lamp, carries it with them to light the way. The gas is precious, now; more precious than gold. The king looks at the gas lamps hanging from the ceiling, lamps that are dark and cold. Watching him, I can guess his thoughts. He knows he shouldn't be wasting the gas like this. But it isn't wasting, not really. He is king and someday, someday soon perhaps, his son will be king. He must show him, must tell him, must make him see what it was like before. Because, who knows? The chance might come when his son will return and make it what it once had been.

They leave the throne room, walk out into the dark and drafty corridor. I stand where they may be certain to see me. The light of the gas lamp illuminates me. I see myself reflected in a mirror hanging on a wall across from them. A pale and eager face, emerging from the darkness, its white skin and glittering eyes catching the light, looming suddenly out of the shadows. My body, dad in black robes, is one with the eternal sleep that has settled on this realm. My head appears to be disembodied, hanging suspended in the darkness. The sight is frightening. I startle myself.

The old king sees me, pretends not to. Edmund makes a swift, negating gesture, shakes his own head ever so slightly. I bow and withdraw, returning to the shadows.

"Let Baltazar wait/' I hear the old king mutter to himself. "He'll

get what he wants eventually. Let him wait now. The necromancer has time. I do not."

They walk the halls of the palace, two sets of footfalls echoing loudly through the empty corridors. But the old man is lost in the past, listening to the sounds of gaiety and music, recalling the shrill giggle of a child playing tag with his father and mother through the halls of the palace.

I, too, remember that time. I was twenty when Prince Edmund was born. The palace teemed with life: aunts and uncles, cousins by birth and by marriage, courtiers Ч always agreeable and smiling and ready to laugh Ч council members bustling in and out with business, citizens presenting petitions or requesting judgments. I lived in the palace, serving my apprenticeship to the king's necromancer, A studious youth, I spent far more time in the library than I did on the dance floor. But I must have absorbed more than 1 thought. Sometimes, in the sleep-half, I imagine I can still hear the music.

"Order," the old king was saying. "It was all orderly, back then. Order was our heritage, order and peace. I don't understand what happened. Why did it change? What brought the chaos, what brought the darkness?"

"We did, Father," replies Edmund steadily. "We must have."

He knows differently, of course. I've taught him better than that. But he will always go out of his way to avoid an argument with his father. Still, after all these years, striving desperately for love.

I follow them, my black slippers make no noise on the cold stone floors. Edmund knows I am with them. He glances back occasionally, as if relying on my strength. I gaze at him with fond pride, the pride I might have felt for my own son. Edmund and I are dose, closer than many fathers and sons, closer than he is to his own father, although he won't admit it. His parents were so deeply involved with each other, they had little time for the child their love created. I was the boy's tutor and, over time, became the lonely youth's friend, companion, adviser.

Now he is in his twenties, strong and handsome and virile. He will make a good king, I tell myself, and I repeat the words several times over, as if they were a talisman and would banish the shadow that lies over my heart.

At the end of the hallway stand giant, double doors, marked With symbols whose meanings have been forgotten, symbols that

*8*

WEIS AND HICKMAN

have, with time and progress, been partially obliterated. The old man waits, holding the lamp while his son, muscular shoulders straining, shoves aside the heavy metal bar that keeps the palace doors shut and locked.