"David Gemmell - Morningstar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

Prologue

You know me then? I thought so. It is rare for travelers to journey to the high
lands at the start of winter. What are you - a scholar, an historian, both? I know you
are no magicker, and you appear to be weaponless. Ah, a storyteller! Well, there is honor
in that.

I have been a storyteller for sixty-eight years. Aye, and a magicker of some
talent. Not great talent, mind you. But I could work the Dragon's Egg. Not many could do
that right. Have you seen it? Well, perhaps it is not as popular as once it was. But I
could make the dragon break clear of the egg, without the shell turning to dust. First
the head would come clear, then one tiny, beautiful wing. At last he would ease himself
from the shell, and then devour it with tongues of fire. It required great concentration,
but I could never get the scales right; they would shimmer and fade.

I cannot do it now, of course. The power is almost gone from me.

So, what stories can I give you?

The Morningstar? Everything is known of him - his courage, his battles, his
rescues. There are no new stories.

The truth, you say? Now that is novel. Perhaps unique. Why would you be interested
in the truth? Of what use is that to a sstoryteller? Your listeners will not want the
truth. They never do, and they never did. They want heroes, boy. Men of wonder, handsome
and tall, men of honor. The Highlanders of legend. They would sweep the truth from the
table and stamp it beneath their feet like a beetle. Truth has an ugly face, you see.

There are few still living who remember the Morningstar. Some are blind, some
senile. Whisper his name in their ears and you will see them smile, watch the strength
flow back into their limbs. That is real magick.

No, you don't want the truth. And neither do I.

Do you like my house? It was built a half-century ago. I wanted to be able to see
the sun rise over the eastern lakes, to watch the new pines grow on the flanks of the
mountains. Mostly I wanted a home surrounded by trees - oak, beech and elm. It is a
simple house. At least by your standards, for you are a nobleman. How do I know? Your
boots alone would cost two years' wages for a working man. But this house is comfortable.
I have three servants, and a local farmer supplies all my food. He charges me nothing,
for his grandfather marched with the Morningstar, and his father once sat on the great
man's knee.

Each year at the Harvest Feast, I sing for my supper. I stand at the head of the
farmer's table and I speak of the old days. Do I tell the truth? After a fashion. What I
tell them is a history they all know. It is comfortable, it fills them with pride. There
is no harm in that.

But the truth? Like a poisoned dagger, boy.