"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 3 - Crown of Shadows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

He forced his mind away from that question as he fumbled with the latch. Too painful. The only way he
could get through the empty days was to try to forget, to fight the memories back in whatever way he
could. Even if that meant alcohol. Even if that meant blackout. Even if that meant other drugs, illegal
drugs, that

might calm the terror in his soul for a moment and grant him a simulacrum of peace. Anything that
worked.

He was dying.

He considered that thought as he walked through the great hall of the castle, staring up at the portraits
that flanked him on both sides. A man could die slowly, if conditions were right. The life could seep out
of him gradually, a little bit each day, until at last there was nothing left of him but a shell of flesh, cold and
colorless as a corpse. He looked up at the portraits of the other Survivors-seven of them, whose names
and dates he had learned like a catechism in his youth- and shivered. Seven men who had survived the
death of their families, and lived to renew the family line. How had they done it? Why had they done it?
How could a man put such a thing behind him, and take a wife and sire children and start all over again,
as if nothing had happened? He laughed shortly, mirthlessly. Whatever magical strength they'd had, he
sure as hell lacked it. He lacked even an understanding of its nature.

You picked the weakest one this time, he thought. As if the family's destroyer could hear him. The least
deserving. Maybe he could hear, at that. Maybe he was aware of all their thoughts, and had chosen
Andrys to survive because somewhere, deep inside him, he saw-

What?

Don't kid yourself, he thought bitterly. There's nothing of value in you, and he knows it. He looked up at
the portraits of the other seven, one after another, and saw all too clearly what quality he shared with
them. If only he didn't see! If only he didn't understand-----

With a moan he staggered to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink, from the nearest full bottle at
hand. Sweet cordial, his late brother's vice. He threw it back quickly, wincing as the syrupy stuff slid
down his tongue, trying not to taste it. Alcohol was his elixir now, his solace, and its flavor was irrelevant.
If he could figure out how to pour it straight into his bloodstream, he'd do that and save himself the
glasses.

A shadow seemed to move suddenly in the corner of the room. Startled, he dropped his glass. It
shattered on the numarble floor, spraying the sticky cordial on his feet; the sugary smell of norange liqueur
filled the room. A small accident, but it was suddenly more than he could handle. He felt the tears start to
flow free, and with them memories from earlier in the day. Her voice. Her body. Her scorn. God in
Heaven! How much more merciful it would have been if he had been utterly emasculated, instead of this
half-life in which the memory of slaughter might or might not unman him at a crucial moment. In which he
could perform just often enough to get his hopes up, just well enough for him to convince himself that
maybe, just maybe, the healing had finally begun... and then suddenly the room he was in would be
splattered with blood, and the body he caressed so desperately would seem like that of a corpse, bodily
parts disassociated from one another and from their owner.... He wrapped his arms around himself,
shivering. It had to end. God, it had to end. One way or another. How long could a man go on like this?

Until you end it, an inner voice whispered. There's no other way. And how much would it hurt? You're
already dead, aren't you? Like the rest of your family. He killed them fast and he killed you slow, but he