"Paul S. Kemp - Sembia 2 - Shadow's Witness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kemp Paul S)

CHAPTER ONE

THE SUMMONING

The month of Hammer, 1371DR, the Year of the Unstrung Harp



The dim light from the guttering torches in the stairwell stopped at the edge of the doorway as though
blocked by a wall of magical darkness. Conscious of Riven beside him and unwilling to show the assassin
the nervousness which had him sweating beneath his robes, Krollir stepped briskly through the doorway
and into the summoning chamber. Riven followed, wary and apprehensive.

When both had stepped through the archway, Krollir turned and closed the door behind them. Instantly,
darkness as thick and impenetrable as scribe's ink cloaked the room. The iron portal's immense latch fell
into place with an ominous, resounding click.

Familiar from long habit, Krollir felt around in the blackness for the wrist-thick iron deadbolt, quickly
found it, and slid it home. The shrieking grate of metal against metal set his teeth on edge. He quelled the
apprehensive quaver that fluttered in his gut. I will succeed, he assured himself. I am the chosen of Mask.

Invisible in the darkness beside him, Riven's breath came harsh and rapid. Blindness apparently made the
assassin nervous. He no doubt suspected an ambush.

Krollir smiled behind the black felt of his ceremonial mask. His lieutenant's nervousness amused him.
Riven's breathing reminded Krollir of the frightened pant of a wary cur.

Despite Riven's earlier protests, Krollir had forbidden the assassin from bringing a torch or candle, even
while descending the dimly lit stairs. Unsanctified light brought into the Shadowlord's summoning chamber
spoiled its holiness. Only certain spells and specially prepared forms of luminescence could safely light
this room. His thoughts turned to the candles he had specially prepared for this night. He had spent
months painstakingly Grafting them and carefully instilling them with power.

Though blind in the darkness, Krollir knew his lieutenant well enough that he could imagine perfectly
Drasek Riven's stance-a ready crouch with his back to the wall-his single eye darting about the darkness
and both callused hands resting familiarly on his enchanted saber hilts.

Spitefully, Krollir let him simmer nervously in the soup of pitch darkness for a few extra moments. Let
him wonder and fear, he thought. He had told Riven nothing; he required the assassin's presence but left
his purpose unexplained. He enjoyed keeping his lieutenant off balance and making him nervous. Like all
dogs born vicious, Riven occasionally had to be reminded of his master's authority.

The summoning chamber of Mask-Krollir's patron deity-fairly stank of power. Behind the stale must, the
magical residue of past conjurations lingered in the dry air and ran tingling along Krollir's nasal passages.
No doubt Riven sensed it too, in his own thick way.

Inhaling deeply, Krollir drank in the sheer energy of the room while letting Riven stew in the dark.

The sinister majesty of the summoning chamber served as a pointed reminder to the one-eyed assassin
that Krollir Venastin-the Righteous Man-was not only the guildmaster of the Night Knives but also a