"Books - David Eddings - Belgarath the Sorcerer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

deal of mischief would come about as a result of it.

"This particular jewel hath a great purpose, Belgarath, for through it
the world and all who dwell herein shall be changed. If I can but
perceive that purpose, I might make some preparations. That necessity
lie th heavily upon my spirit." And then he lapsed once more into
silence, idly turning the stone over and over in his hand as he gazed
deep into its polished surface with troubled eyes.

I certainly wasn't going to intrude upon his contemplation of the
thing, so I turned back to my study of the inconstant stars.

CHAPTER

THREE

In time, others came to us, some accident, as I had come, and some by
intent, seeking out my Master that they might learn from him. Such a
one was Zedar.

I came upon him near our tower one golden day in autumn after I'd
served my Master for five hundred years or so. This stranger had built
a rude altar and was burning the carcass of a goat on it. That got us
off on the wrong foot right at the outset. Even the wolves knew enough
not to kill things in the Vale. The greasy smoke from his offering was
fouling the air, and he was prostrated before his altar, chanting some
outlandish prayer.

"What are you doing?" I demanded--quite abruptly, I'll admit, since
his noise and the stink of his sacrifice distracted my mind from a
problem I'd been considering for the past half century.

"Oh, puissant and all-knowing God," he said, groveling in the dirt, "I
have come a thousand leagues to behold thy glory and to worship
thee."

"Puissant? Quit trying to show off your education, man. Now get up
and stop this caterwauling. I'm no more a God than you are."

"Art thou not the great God Aldur?"

"I'm his disciple, Belgarath. What is all this nonsense?" I pointed
at his altar and his smoking goat.

"It is to please the God," he replied, rising and dusting off his
clothes. I couldn't be sure, but he looked rather like a Tolnedran--or
possibly an Arend. In either case, his babble about a thousand leagues
was clearly a self-serving exaggeration. He gave me a servile, fawning
sort of look.