"05 - Crucible- The Trial of Cyric the Mad - Troy Denning 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Avatar Trilogy)

Two thumps sounded on the other side of the gate. When the wicket door swung open, I was set upon at once by an unpleasant odor. It was faint, yet it was also so foul and corrupt that it could have been the fetor of death pushing up through a grave. I was much amazed at this, for the monks were very clean and wholesome in their habits.
Pelias switched his grasp on the litter and passed through the wicket door backward. He had to stoop low to avoid hitting his head, for the portal was constructed to allow a man passage only if he crawled or crouched upon his haunches. As soon as I was through, a veritable throng descended on us, trapping Pelias's helper against the gate. The crowd included not only monks, but warriors of the many companies that had come to aid Candlekeep. I recognized only a few of their insignias: among these were the Flaming Fists, the Hellriders of Elturel, the Silent Rain, and some others of lesser consequence.
I also recognized the black-veiled woman I had glimpsed that very morning, riding on a hippogriff and scanning the plain with her kohl-rimmed eyes. She made me most anxious, as she never looked away from my face, and I thought she might be a True Believer sent to watch over me. Then I glimpsed a pin she wore, a silver harp inside a crescent moon, and I knew her to be one of the Harpers, a band of meddling fools who send their agents far and wide to interfere in other people's business.
There was also the guardian of the Cyrinishad, the warrior who had almost killed me the night of the book's arrival. Of all the soldiers gathered there, only he was dressed in full armor, down to his gauntlets and greaves. I could tell that he recognized me, for his visor was up and he was scowling fiercely.
A bearded monk in a brown robe emerged from the throng. He pointed a gleaming black rod at my head. I averted my eyes, for the man was known to me as Risto, Keeper of the Portal, and I had learned to keep my distance when he came to inspect the Low Gate.
"Pelias!" said Risto. "What is the meaning of this?"
"I think we can see what the meaning is," said another man, who was dressed in a robe of palest blue. He stepped to Risto's side and stooped over me, taking in my many wounds. "This man came to the Low Gate seeking help, and Pelias ignored orders and let him in."
Although I had never laid eyes on the Keeper of the Tomes before in my life, I could tell by his cunning gaze and regal manner, and also by the diffidence with which the crowd parted to let him pass, that this was Ulraunt.
"Most Merciful Geyser of Knowledge, pray forgive my intrusion, for it was not my own doing," said I. "I did not come to the Low Gate seeking help, but to give it. I begged Pelias most sincerely not to take me in, but only to let me speak, that I might warn him not to raise the portcullis or to open the gate, for Cyric himself is lurking out upon the plain!"
Many in the throng gasped and inched back, but the Harper woman and the Cyrinishad's bearer pushed closer and glared at me more intently.
Ulraunt laid a gentle hand upon my arm. "Don't worry, Mukhtar. We're not going to whip you for needing help."
This relieved me greatly, for I knew by his kind words that he would not lock me in a dungeon or tower, or some other place from which it would prove impossible to escape and go looking for the Cyrinishad.
Ulraunt glanced at Pelias, then also at Risto and said, "Nor will we punish Pelias for offering it."
"A blessing on your name!" I took care not to speak too powerfully, lest my host grow suspicious of my strength. Truly, you are as full of wisdom and compassion as your many servants claim. When I pass into the next world, know that I will speak well of Ulraunt." "As you should."
The man chuckled, but Risto sneered and the throng gasped. I sensed I had made a great blunder.
"But I'm not Ulraunt," said the man. "I am the First Reader, Tethtoril."
"I am Ulraunt." The voice, keen with resentment, came from someplace behind Tethtoril and Risto.
The crowd parted and expelled a short man with a bitter countenance, the sleep still in his eyes. He shouldered Tethtoril aside and glared at me, and I saw by the anger in his gaze he would hold my mistake against me. I had visions of being hurled from the eyrie outside High Gate or locked away to rot in some hole until I died and went to stand before Kelemvor. "Now, what's this about Cyric?"
"He is out upon the plain," I answered. "I know this, because he is the one who did all this to me, save for the goring, which was done by a fleeing war bull."
As I said this, another man came to the other side of my litter. He wore the white shirt of Oghma's Chosen, and I saw by the many glyphs brocaded in his vest that he was a priest of no little power. His assistant came with a lamp, and I averted my eyes, lest the healer see the hatred I bore his thieving god.
As the priest prodded and poked my wounds, Ulraunt said, "I find it hard to believe someone such as you-" truly, he sniffed as he said this last word-"survived an attack by Cyric."
"Then it is good you were not there, for you would doubt your own eyes." This drew a snicker from Tethtoril and several others, which caused me no small concern, as I had no wish to anger Ulraunt more than I had. "I scarcely believe it myself."
The priest pushed a finger into my stomach wound and rudely stirred it around, doubtless to win favor with Ulraunt. I was seized by burning cramps and would have fallen off the litter, had Tethtoril and Risto not pinned me down. The priest spoke a word, then something he had placed in my belly burst open. It coursed through my body like a flaming demon, seeking out every injury wrought by Cyric and setting it afire. The world turned red and silent, and I felt myself falling.
When the fall ended, I cannot say. I opened my left eye to find the priest slapping my face and shouting in my good ear, and I saw that I still lay on the litter. The same throng pressed all around. My head still throbbed, my face still ached, and my neck and shoulders still burned with the same cold fever-but the pain in my belly was gone. The hole itself felt numb and full, as though the priest had filled it with a cork. The surrounding flesh was tender and hot; otherwise, my stomach hurt no more than being kicked by an irate camel.
"He's back." The priest sounded more relieved than I.
I noticed that the subtle stench I had smelled outside the gate had become stronger, though its source was not in this ward.
Ulraunt's face appeared above mine. "Don't do that again." I could not tell whether the Keeper was speaking to me or the priest. "I need to hear more about this meeting with Cyric."
"As you wish, Learned One," said the priest.
"How is it that you survived?" Ulraunt demanded.
"Not by my own doing, I assure you." As at the Low Gate, I was entirely truthful in this matter. "When Cyric could not find what he sought, he grew tired of his game and left me to suffer."
Ulraunt's eyes grew narrow. "And what he was seeking?"
I glanced at Pelias. Being much practiced in the appearance of madness, I knew it would be better to seem reluctant.
"Go ahead," Pelias urged. "Ulraunt can be trusted."
Though I already knew better than this, I nodded. I glanced around the throng and frowned, as though reluctant to talk before so many ears, then motioned for the Keeper to lower his ear to my lips. He did so, and I spoke thus: "He desires my dagger."
"Your dagger?" Ulraunt backed away from my litter.
"There's nothing to fear, Keeper," said Pelias. "He's given the knife to me for safekeeping."
Ulraunt scowled, and I saw that Pelias had made a foolish error in pointing out his superior's fear. From this time forward, my friend's life at Candlekeep would be difficult indeed.
The Keeper stepped back to my side, and when he spoke, his tone made it apparent that he had lost all interest in my story. "Now, why would a god want a beggar's dagger?"
I knew then I would be allowed to stay the night, as Ulraunt considered me a worthless beggar and would not trouble his men to open the gates and throw me out. Eager to reinforce this impression, I glanced at all the people around the litter, then motioned again for the Keeper to bring his ear near.
He was done with bowing and would not bend down. "You can speak freely. We're among friends."
I scowled once more, but Pelias nodded. So I said softly, "The dagger is magical. When you hold it, the gods speak to you."
The throng chuckled at this, but nervously. They knew the eyes of the gods were upon this place and that gods worked in strange ways. It was not beyond question that a deity would speak through a mad beggar's dagger. Ulraunt cast an eye upon Pelias and raised a brow.
"It-uh-hasn't worked for me, Keeper."
"Well, then." Ulraunt turned back to me. "If Cyric wanted the dagger, how did a simple beggar keep him from taking it?"
"I hid it." Truly, things were going as well as I could hope. "In my robe."
"And that fooled Cyric?"
"It did," I replied. "That was when he left me alone."
"I see." Ulraunt rolled his eyes, then scowled at Pelias. "Next time, Brother, do not be so naive."
"He isn't, Keeper," said the priest. "Being naive, I mean. Whatever happened to this beggar, he is telling the truth about his injuries."
"What?" It was the guardian of the Cyrinishad who asked this, and with remarkable swiftness he stood across the litter from the priest. "What do you mean?"