"Gwyneth Jones - Divine Endurance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Gwyneth)

Prologue: In the Rock Gardens
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To the east of the palace there were extensive rock gardens, where
it was pleasant to walk at different seasons of the year, and admire
the changing light on the twisted and fantastic shapes of the rocks.
It was especially pleasant to plan carefully and reach the gardens at
dawn, so that you could watch the rock creatures take shape out of
the dark, and then the sun coming up. From this vantage point the
first light seemed to rise straight out of the glass basin far away
across the plains, and the dawn colours were beautiful. The
Empress learned that the Emperor had decided on such an outing,
and she made her preparations.
There was a small hillock in the centre of the gardens that suited
her purpose well. When she reached the place she climbed up it
carefully, following the smooth steps worn into the rock by
countless pilgrimages of admiration. She did not pause at the
viewing point but began at once to descend the gentler eastern
slope. The Emperor would come exactly this way, straight into the
white risen sun. About halfway down she found a satisfactory
arrangement: a twisted horn of stone at ankle height on one side of
the path, and a tough-stemmed shrub on the other. She sat down
slowly just above; turned up the hem of her embroidered gown onto
her lap and picked at it with her fingernails.
It was hard work, because her fingers were weak and withered
but the gown was still in excellent condition. She paused frequently
to sigh and stare out over the landscape, rubbing her cramped
fingers. She had no personal feeling against the Emperor. She was
thinking it would be nice for him to see the dawn one last time.
Lost in the grand, stiff folds of her beautiful clothes she sat there
unpicking her hem and carefully winding up the thread: what
seemed like the dry skin and bones of a shrunken old woman. All
around her stretched the silent gardens: black rock arches and
spires and waves and broken bubbles, like a pot of boiling liquid
suddenly frozen. Where a little earth had crusted over the lava
small-leaved shrubs grew, some as tall as trees and some
blossoming yellow and scarlet. Like the EmpressтАЩs robes, the
flowers were young, but like the Empress the stunted trees were
old, very old, with riven trunks and knotted arthritic roots. It was a
harmonious scene, with the bright shapes of the rocks and the
bright flowers decorating what was solid, rugged and ancient; but it
was haunted, especially away towards the east. There, where the
gardens faded into dust and quieter stones, there were strange
shadows: a tall curve too smooth to be weathered glimpsed between
the branches of a tree; an occasional eruption from the crumpled
lava that appeared too straight and sleek for nature. The Empress,
when she paused and sighed, seemed to be looking sadly at these
ghosts.