"Katherine Kurtz - Camber 3 - Camber the Heretic" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

Cinhil had felt on the night of his own magical initiation.
Then Joram was returning to Alister and giving the thurible into his priestly
hands, that the bishop might cense him, in turn. Joram bowed his head as
Alister swung the thurible with his customary dexterity, taking it back and
setting it on the table with another bow when Alister had finished.
That done, Joram knelt and brought forth Cinhil's sword, drawing it partway
from its gemmed scabbard and extending the hilt toward Cinhil with bowed
head.
Cinhil knew what he must do now. He steeled himself as his hand closed on
the familiar hilt, but he drew the weapon with a smooth, sure motion. He and
Alister had jointly blessed the sword the night before, adding their own
consecration to the one already placed on the blade the day of his coronation.
The very air around it seemed to vibrate as he raised the quillons before his
eyes and walked slowly to the eastern ward. There was no doubt in his mind
that the weapon was now, even if it had not been before, an implement of
magic.
The candlelight was golden from the eastern quarter candle, and he let that
light stream into his mind as well as his eyes as he raised the sword in salute to
the Presence signified by the Light above the altar beyond. With a short,
scarce-breathed prayer for courage, he let the tip of the sword sink to the floor
beside the gold-lit candle and turned slightly toward his right as he began to
retrace their circle a third and final time.
He did not know the formal words for what he did; he did not want to know.
Instead, he spoke extemporaneously from the heart, trusting that Those who
listened would recognize his good intent. He was surprised to find his grip firm
and sure on the weapon beneath his hand, his voice steady and confident.
"Saint Raphael, Healer, Guardian of Wind and Tempest, may we be guarded
and healed in mind and soul and body this night."
He had reached the red-lit southern ward, and he inclined his head a little
in acknowledgment as the tip of his blade passed by.
"Saint Michael, Defender, Guardian of Eden, protect us in our hour of need."
He walked on, feeling the inexorable building of energy and knowingтАФand
somehow taking comfort from itтАФ that he was a part of its source. He was in the
west now, and the color of the west was blue, the color of the Lady's mantle.
Again he inclined his head in passing, his lips now in invocation of the Western
Guardian as his sword continued to inscribe the sacred circle.
"Saint Gabriel, Heavenly Herald, carry our supplications to Our Lady."
And on to the north, where green-filtered fire reflected eerily off his blade.
"Saint Uriel, Dark Angel, come gently, if you must, and let all fear die here
within this place."
Another half-dozen steps, and it was done. Returning to the east, where he
had begun, he drew the final stroke which bound the circle, then raised his
blade in salute a second time. As the sword sank from that salute, suddenly
much heavier in his hands, he turned to look at all of them, paused, then
moved a few steps to the left to lay the sword along the northeast arc of the
circle. Blindly, then, he returned to his place before his son, facing the altar
and settling his thoughts into calmness once more.
He had done it! It was begun.
After a moment, he heard Evaine draw breath behind him, listened
transfixed as she wove the same spell she had made so many years before.