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

killed you all the same.
"Oh, God," he whispered. "Help me. Please"

The memories were coming now, like they always did at night. Seeping into his brain like some dank
poison, corrupting his senses. Was that real blood, there on the carpet? Was that the smell of death in the
air? He whimpered softly and tried to fight it, but he lacked the strength.

Blood. Splattered everywhere. Drops of crimson glistening in the lamplight like a thousand cabochon
garnets, scattered across the rug and the floor and the clawed feet of the great table. Blood that dripped
from-

Dripped from-

"No!" he whispered. "Please. Not that."

Blood that pooled at the feet of the great chair, blood that coursed down in thin rivulets over the fine
novebony carvings, blood that dripped from his brother's head where it had been thrust upon the sharp
strut of the chair, impaled as if on some warrior's spear....

His eyes squeezed shut, his body spasmed into a foetal knot of terror. The memories hurt. God, they
hurt! Wasn't there any way to stop them? "Anything," he whispered, shivering violently. "Not again. I'll do
anything. Stop them!"

The room was a study in carnage, disjointed fragments too horrible to absorb: Imelia's body, laid out
across the great table. Gutted. Betrise's long hair strung out like silk in a pool of blood, yards from her
body. Dianna. Mark. Abechar. All the Tarrants, every single one of them except him-every brother and
sister and cousin that had ever laid claim to the name, down to the last helpless infant in its own crimson
puddle-and watching over all of it, as if from some grisly throne, his brother Samiel. Samiel, elder and
heir. Samiel, self-proclaimed Neocount of Merentha. His eyes were rolled back in their sockets now, as
if what they had gazed upon were too terrible for human sight; the blood smeared on his face made his
contorted expression doubly unreal, a parody of human terror.

For a moment Andrys was too stunned to react. Then sickness welled up in him, sickness and terror and
raw, unadulterated horror. Doubling over, he vomited. Again and again until there was nothing left in him
to bring up, and even then his body continued to spasm. As if somehow the effort might squeeze him dry
of fear, as well.

Only then did he become aware that there was someone else in the chamber: a tall figure, dark and silent,
who stood halfway across the room. Malevolence was so thick about the figure that it was almost visible,
and the cold that emanated from it chilled the tears on Andrys' face. Though the shadows of the room
obscured its expression, its purpose was clear. Man or

demonling, it was his family's murderer. And it was watching him. Waiting.

Panicked, he fell back as far as the wall behind him would permit. Knocking over a chair as he did so,
which skittered across the blood-slicked floor and at last fell across his sister's outstretched form. "Who
are you?" he cried. His voice was strained and broken, like his nerves. "What do you want?"

For a moment the figure was still; in the chill silence of the room Andrys could hear his own heart
pounding wildly. Then the dark form stirred, and in a voice as smooth and as refined as silk pronounced,