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

records were unclear) in some terrible accident.
Or were slaughtered.

Like this?

Oh, my God, Andrys thought desperately. Let this be some drunken dream. Let me wake up in the back
room of some tavern to discover that I passed out and had a nightmare, just a nightmare, please, God,
just that....

"I see you understand," the figure observed. "I trust you will not be so foolish as to repeat your brother's
mistake."

He turned away from Andrys then, meaning to leave him alone with the carnage. To make his peace with
his fate, if he could. But as he turned, a shaft of moonlight fell across his features, illuminating them.
Illuminating a face-

"No," he whimpered. "No!"

Illuminating a face so like his own that he screamed, he screamed, he started screaming and he couldn't
stop, because suddenly he understood-he understood-he knew what kind of dark vanity might drive a
man to murder his entire family except the one child who was most like him, knew it without being able to
put a name to it, knew it even though his soul burned from the understanding of it. And he knew that
every time he looked in the mirror from now on he would see that face, not his own, that those eyes
would stare out at him from his own reflection, terrible empty silver eyes so like and unlike his own, eyes
that had looked out upon the vast expanse of Hell and found its terrors wanting-

Moaning. Weeping. Balled up in a tight little knot, tears streaming down his face. Crying uncontrollably,
as he had done for so many nights now. Would it never end? Would there never come a point when the
memories would fade, in intensity if not in detail? When he could gaze upon the face qf the first Neocount
of Merentha-the only Neocount of Merentha-and riot relive the gut-wrenching shock of that horrible
revelation?

Never, an inner voice whispered. Not until you put an end to it.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Please. I can't take it any more."

It was then that the voice came: a whispering thing no louder than his tears, but it made his spine shiver as
though ragged fingernails were playing across his flesh. A demonic voice, without question; no fleshborn
creature could make such a sound.

"Andrys Tarrant," it murmured, in tones that made his flesh crawl. "Is that what you really want?
Oblivion? Or would you rather exult in life again?"

He raised himself up on one elbow, and with his other arm wiped the wetness from his face. Opposite
him stood a figure that was somewhat human in shape, though anything but human in substance. Its
surface was a tapestry of sharp edges and ragged darkness, and thin tendrils of fog curled about it like
questing serpents. Its eyes took in the lamplight and broke it up into jagged bits, reflecting it back in a
thousand burning sparks.

For a moment he stared in awe at the thing his fear had conjured. Never in his life had he manifested