"Mary Jacober - The Black Chalice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jacober Mary)

gave him away completely.
"I see," Karelian said. "Well then, listen, both of you, and I'll tell you something, and
maybe you'll rest easier for it. Before we left the Holy Land, I went to see a mage in Acre,
a man whom other knights had spoken ofтАФ"
Paul sank onto his heels, appalled. "A Saracen?" he whispered.
"He told me many extraordinary things, some of which I knew already, and some of
which I still don't understand. And he also told me this: I might go safely where other
men saw danger, and I should most fear danger where other men believed they were
safe. So ..." He smiled, and tousled Paul's hair lightly. "I don't think we'll have much to
fear in Helmardin."
"You trust the prophecy of a Saracen, my lord?" Reinhard asked harshly.
Karelian stood up, his easy mood broken in a breath, and the seneschal hurried on:
"I'm only thinking of your welfare, my lord тАФ"
"And so am I," the count said grimly. He walked to the window, staring out at nothing,
for the night was overcast and black. "I've looked for guidance in many places over the
years, my friend, and I found precious little of it anywhere. I'll take it where I can get it."
Quite suddenly Paul felt cold, as though Karelian had flung back the shutters, and the
icy night was spilling in.
"Surely God has guided you in all things, my lord," he whispered.
Karelian turned then, and laughed. "Really? If he has, then men have little good to
hope for in this world."
It was a terrible thing to say. Paul dropped his eyes. His master was weary, and
probably a little drunk. Even the noblest and most necessary wars would leave their
mark on a man, and move him sometimes to say harsh and bitter things. Only later,
looking back, did Paul understand. Karelian was already falling into the doom which
awaited him. Year after careless year he had disarmed himself with doubt and
worldliness, and he rode into Helmardin an easy target for his enemy. Like a rich man,
Paul thought bitterly, or a stranger in a foreign city, walking late along the harbor without
a sword.
 It was still dark when they mounted for the road. In the harsh light of torches
Karelian's face was drawn and weary, and his mood was extraordinarily dark. Nothing
was said about turning south again, and Paul knew nothing would be. Half asleep, the
soldiers loaded the pack animals and climbed into their saddles. Reinhard approached the
count, rubbing warmth back into his hands, his breath turning into coils of white fog.
"Everything is ready, my lord."
For a tiny moment Paul thought he might protest one last time, but then, as if
anticipating the possibility, Karelian paused, one hand on his horse's bridle, and met his
vassal's eyes. The expression in his own was unyielding.
Not another word, Reini, if you value my good will. Not one more word ....
This, too, was Karelian: a man whose smiles and easy words belied an astonishing
hardness of resolve. He was the youngest of seven sons, bred to high rank and dismal
prospects, living in war camps and trenches before Paul of Ardiun had been born. His
father was Helmuth Brandeis, the margrave of Dorn, a lineage known equally for its
excellent bloodlines and its unpredictable loyalties. Helmuth quarreled with the duke, and
was reconciled with him again, more times than anyone could remember. Each quarrel
left him poorer. Nonetheless he married three times, and had numerous children. By the
time Karelian was born there were already six strapping older brothers waiting to gobble
up the margravate s lands, the margravate's captaincies and baileys, the margravate's
carefully arranged marriages with its neighbors' carefully guarded daughters. Karelian
was going to have to make his own way in the world.