"Simon Hawke - The Iron Throne" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

Tonight, Aedan Dosiere felt very mortal. He had seen many others die,
more than his share, their lives snuffed out in battle or by disease or
age or bloodtheft, and now he felt the spark of his own life gut a
tering like the candles on his altar and his writing desk. Death stood
across the table, smiling with anticipation. Not tonight, thought
Aedan. And probably not tomorrow, or next month, and perhaps not even
this year. But soon. The Reaper was a patient player, and Aedan was
growing weary of the game.

At the next autumnal equinox, celebrated in the Anuirean Book of Days as
the Veneration of the Sleeping, he would be sixty-nine years old.

It was appropriate that he should have been born on such a day, though
he had never truly understood that until now. There was much that he
had never fully understood until now, for all the good it did him. If
youth was wasted on the young, he thought, then wisdom was squandered on
the aged, for they could no longer profit by it. They could but lecture
youth in their frustration, who, being young, would never hsten. Michael
was like that. He had been born on the Night of Fire, during the summer
solstice, which was always marked by a shower of falling stars. And
that, too, was appropriate.

A shooting star, thought Aedan. Yes, that was Michael Roele. He had
burned brightly from the very start, with an incandescence that was
blinding.

Everything that Michael was, Aedan had longed to be. Except the royal
scion. No, he had never wanted that. His own fate had carried
responsibility enough.

He was the firstborn of the House of Dosiere, standard bearers to the
royal line of the Roeles, and his path in life was set from the moment
he first drew breath. It had been his destiny to become the lord high
chamberlain to the next Emperor of Anuire, who had yet to be born when
Aedan came into the world.

His Imperial Majesty Hadrian Roele IV had married late in LIFE and, up
to that point, had sired only daughters. He was in the twilight of his
years, and there was a certain amount of urgency to the production of a
male heir. The beleaguered Empress Raesa, who was younger than her
husband by four decades, had spent most of her married life in almost
constant pregnancy. Finally, after gifting him with seven daughters,
the emperor's young wife bore him a son.

Doubtless, much to her relief. It had been an occasion of great
rejoicing and no small amount of trepidation as the empire held its
collective breath to see if the child would thrive. However, it had
little reason for concern. From the first angry cry that had erupted
from his tiny lungs when the midwife slapped his bottom, Michael Roele
had stormed into the world with an aggressive energy that would not be