"Katherine Kurtz - Heirs 1 - Harrowing of Gwynedd" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

first flames already had been licking skyward on that cold December afternoon
when he and Revan scrambled to the top of the rise above the abbey, in the
wake of an excited band of Willimite brethren from the campsite the two had
just left. Partway down the slope on the other side, some of the Willimites had
started singing a militant, off-key hymn whose major theme was hatred of
magic, exhorting God's faithful to be His scourge to rid the land of the
undoubtedly evil magic of the Deryni. And in the yard beyondтАФ
"Jesu Christe, what are they doing!" Queron had gasped, stumbling to his
knees in the snowтАФthough at least he had had the presence of mind to keep
his voice down.
For the soldiers in the yard below seemed to have taken the Willimites'
hymn very much to heart. Dozens of stakes had been erected in Dolban's yard,
most of them unwillingly embraced by men and women in blood-soaked grey
habitsтАФfor the soldiers had bound their wrists above their heads and were
scourging them with weighted whips that rent mere cloth and laid open the
victims' backs with each new stroke. Queron quailed at the spectacle, hardly
able to believe his eyes, for he had been abbot to these innocent folkтАФthe
Order he himself had founded, to honor the blessed Saint Camber. Only by
chance had he not been among them on this Childermas of 917, three days
past ChristmasтАФfittingly called the Feast of the Holy Innocents, he had
realized, days later.
Knives and pincers figured in the treatment of some of the prisoners, and a
great deal of blood, but Queron mercifully was too far away to see exactly what
was being done. However, there was no mistaking the bundles of faggots the
soldiers had begun piling around the base of many of the stakes. A few already
sprouted flames among the kindling, and rising shrieks of agony began to float
up on the cold winter air.
"My God, this can't be happening," Queron sobbed. "Revan, we must stop it!"
But young Revan, not Deryni or highly trained or even of noble birth, had
shaken his head and set his heart, knowing with that certainty of common
sense so often lost or buried in those of more formal erudition that any
intervention by just the two of them was futile.
"There's nothing we can do, sir," Revan had whispered. "If we go down there,
we'd only be throwing our lives away. You may be ready to die, but I have a
responsibility to Lord Rhys and Lady Evaine. I'm willing to die for them, but I
don't think they mean it to be at Dolban."
Queron had refused to let the words make sense, something akin to
madness seizing him as the outrage unfolded below.
"I can do something!" he had whispered. "I'll blast them with magic! I shall
make them taste the wrath of Saint Camber, through his Servant. Magic can be
wovenтАФ"
"And if you do weave magic against them, what then?" Revan said, grasping
Queron's sleeve and jerking his face closer. "Can't you see that you'd be doing
exactly the thing that the regents say Deryni do? Is that what you want?"
"How dare you presume to instruct me?" Queron snapped, icy anger keeping
his words all but inaudible. "Take your hands off me and stay out of my way. Do
it now, Revan!"
Wordlessly Revan had released him, apparently cowed. But as Queron sank
back on his heels, preparing to unleash magical retribution, Revan had shifted
the olivewood staff hitherto nestled in the crook of his arm and cudgeled