"David Drake - The General 7 - The Reformer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

Hot charcoal fires burned in a pair of tall tripods of fretted bronze. Gravely,
Esmond and Adrian strode up the steps. Each took a silver bowl from the
acolytes, pouring a stream of translucent grains into the white-glowing bed.
Fragrant smoke rose, bitter and spicy.
The others drew up a fold of their mantles to cover their heads as the priest
raised his hands; the Goddess' moon was visible over the horns of the roof, the
other two moons being below the horizon at this hour. Adrian's uncle led the
sacrifice forward, a white-feathered greatbeast with four gilded horns and a
myrtle wreath around each. It came to the altar willingly enoughЧdrugged, he
thought: no sense in courting a bad omenЧand collapsed almost soundlessly as the
broadaxe flashed home with a wet, heavy thud on its neck.
Slowly, the tall ebony and silver doors of the temple slid open, rolling
soundlessly on bronze bearings. Adrian's mind reflexively murmured three
citations and an epic poem on the building of the Maiden's Temple; all of them
described the effect, and all of them inaccurately as far as he knew. The cult
image came forth on brass rails set into the marble of the pronacs floor,
gliding with oil-bath smoothness. It was hidden in a tall cedarwood and silver
shrine, emblazoned with the full moon on all sides. At a touch the sides sank
down to reveal a rock. Black, slagged and metallic-looking in spots with a trace
of rust, a metorite and very ancient.
Adrian Gellert had long since been trained in the precepts of the Grove; that
God was Number and Form, and all the lesser images merely avatars or imaginings
of men unable to conceive of the One. God did not need to Do, only to BeЧbut he
still felt a trace of numinous awe as he extended his hand. And of course a
gentleman showed respect for the ancient cults.
"Scholar of the GroveЧ"
Adrian held up the scroll in his left hand.
"Scholar of the BladeЧ"
His brother Esmond raised his sheathed sword.
"Receive the blessing of the Goddess, your patron."
Adrian closed his eyes and let the hand rest on the sacred rock. It was cool,
cooler than it should have been, andЧ
* * *
Where am I? Where am I?
He thought he screamed the words, but he had no lungs. No eyes, for surely even
the darkest night at the bottom of the silver mines of Flowerhill was brighter
than this. He was nothing but Fear, adrift in a world of midnight. Stroke. Heart
attack.
Compose yourself, he thought sharply. Remember that anything that can happen,
can happen to you. All men are initiates of the mysteries of death.
That was the comfort of philosophy, but a little hard to remember when one was
only twenty-one.
Light. He blinked . . . and saw a room around him. Furnished in an alien style,
strange padded furniture, a fire burning in an enclosed brick space in one wall,
tables and chairs of subtly foreign make. And a man standing there, a dark man
with bowl-cut black hair. Odd clothes, something like those worn in the Western
Isles, or even among the Southron barbarians; trousers, those marks of the
savage, a curious tailored coat of blue with tails dangling behind. A curved
sword and a holster with something rather like a carpenter's tool were lying on
one table.