"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 1 - Black Sun Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

these years. The force that cost us our heritage, that slaughtered our colonial
ancestors . . . is that a sin, you self-righteous bastards? Enough of a sin that itтАЩs
worth alienating one of your own prophets for it?
She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. She had to be strong
enough for both of them now. Strong enough to lead him back from his fears of
hell and worse, if they had overwhelmed him. He might have gone on for years,
bitterly cursing the new Church doctrine but otherwise unconcerned with it, had
his body not failed him one late spring night and left him lying helpless on the
ground, bands of invisible steel squeezing the breath from his flesh as his
damaged heart labored to save itself. Later he could say, with false calm, this
was the reason. Here was the cause of damage, which I inherited. Not yet
repairable, by my skills, but I will find a way. But she knew that the damage had
been done. At twenty-nine he had seen the face of Death, and been changed
forever. So much promise in a single man, now so darkened by the shadow of
mortality . . .
The door opened before she could touch it. Backlit by lamplight, her husband
stood before her. He was wearing a long gown of midnight blue silk, slit up the
sides to reveal gray leggings and soft leather boots. His face was, as always,
serene and beautiful. His features were elegant, delicately crafted, and in
another man might have seemed unduly effeminate; that was his motherтАЩs
beauty, she knew, and in its male manifestation it gave him an almost surreal
beauty, a quality of angelic calm that belied any storm his soul might harbor. He
kissed her gently, ever the devoted husband, but she sensed a sudden distance
between them; as he stepped aside to allow her to enter she looked deep into
his eyes, and saw with sudden clarity what she had feared the most. There was
something in him beyond all saving, now. Something even she could not touch,
walled away behind fear-born defenses that no mere woman could breach.
тАЬThe children,тАЭ she whispered. The chamber was dark, and seemed to
demand whispering. тАЬWhere are the children?тАЭ
тАЬIтАЩll take you there,тАЭ he promised her. Something flickered in his eyes that
might have been pain, or love - but then it was gone, and only a distant cold
remained. He picked up a lamp from the corner of a desk and bid her, тАЬCome.тАЭ
She came. Through the door which he opened at the rear of the chamber,
leading into an inner workroom. Artifacts from the Landing caught his lamplight
as they passed by, twinkling like captive stars in their leaded glass enclosures.
Fragments of unknown substances which once had served some unknown
purpose . . . there was the soft silver disk that tradition said was a book,
although how it could be such - and how it might be read - was a mystery her
husband had not yet solved. Fragments of encasements, the largest barely as
broad as her palm, that were said to have contained an entire library. A small
metal webwork, the size of her thumbnail, that had once served as a substitute
for human reasoning.
Then he opened a door in the workroomтАЩs far wall, and she felt a chill breeze
blow over her. Her eyes met his and found only cold there, lightless unwarmth
that was frightening, sterile. And she knew with dread certainty that some
nameless, intangible line had finally been crossed; that he was gazing at her
from across an abyss so dark and so desolate that the bulk of his humanity was
lost in its depths.
тАЬCome,тАЭ he whispered. She could feel the force of the fae about her, bound
by his need, urging her forward. She followed him. Through a door that must