"Mercedes Lackey & Eric Flint & Dave Freer - The Shadow of th" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

ignored, if not met with outright profanity.
"Come," the baron repeated. "The Emperor is waiting."
***
Passing from the narrow dark streets and sharp-angled tall houses into the brightness of the
imperial palace, Erik had little time to marvel and gawk at the heavy gothic splendor of it all.
Instead, Baron Trolliger rushed him throughтАФstill trailing mudтАФinto a large austere room. As soon
as Erik entered, the baron closed the door behind him, not entering himself.
In the center of the room, staring at Erik, stood the most powerful man in all of Europe. He
was a large man, though now a bit stooped from age. His eyebrows seemed as thick and heavy as the
purple cloak he was wearing; his eyes, a shade of blue so dark they almost matched the cloak.
Charles Fredrik. The latest in a long line of Hohenstauffens.
Guardian of the Church, Bulwark of the Faith. Lord of lands from northern Italy to the pagan
marches in the Baltic. Ruler over millions of people throughout central Europe.
The Holy Roman Emperor, himself. In direct line of descent from the great Fredrick Barbarossa.
All of that mattered little to Erik. His tie to the Emperor was a clan tie, not a dynastic
one. He was there to become the Emperor's servant, not his subject. So, Erik simply bowed to the
old man, rather than kneeling, and spoke no words of fealty. Simply the old oath: "Linn gu linn."
The words were Gaelic, but the oath that bound him came from the cold fjells of pagan Norway.
An oath that went back generations, to the time when a Hohenstauffen prince had rescued a pagan
clan from demons set loose by their own foolishness.
Charles Fredrik spoke like an old manтАФdespite being no older than Erik's father. But he voiced
the ritual words strongly. "From generation to generation."
He held out the dagger that Erik had heard described with infinite care all his life. The
dagger was iron. Old iron. Sky iron. Hammered with stone in the pagan Northlands, from a fallen
thunderbolt. The hilt was shaped into a dragon headтАФthe detail lost in the blurring of hundreds of
years of use.
It still drew blood for the blood-oath like new steel did. "Blood for blood. Clan for clan."
Erik renewed the oath calmly.
After binding their wounds himself, Charles Fredrik took Erik by the elbow and led him across
to a window. The window was a mere arrow-slit, testimony to the palace's ancient origins. Against
modern cannon, such fortifications were almost useless. But . . . there was a certain undeniable,
massive dignity to the huge edifice.
There they stood, silent for some time, looking out at the scattered shawl of lights which was
the great sleeping city of Mainz. Erik was quite sure that those lights represented more people
than lived in all Iceland. Their lives, and those of many more, rested in the hands of the old man
standing next to him.
The Emperor seemed to have read his thoughts. "It is a great load, at times," he said softly.
His heavy jaws tightened. The next words were spoken almost harshly. "I have called for the
Clann Harald because my heirs have need. My son is . . . very sickly. And I do not expect my only
surviving brother to outlive me. Not with his wounds. So I must take special care to watch over my
two nephews, for it is quite likely that one of them will succeed to the throne after I am gone."
The Emperor sighed. "Your older brother Olaf watched over my nephew Conrad for his bond-time,
as your father Hakkon watched over me." A slight smile came to his face. "To my surprise, I find I
miss him. He used to beat me, you know."
"He has told me about it, Godar of the Hohenstauffen." Erik did not add: Often.
Charles Fredrik's smile broadened. "According to your brother OlafтАФ'often.' " He chuckled. "It
did me the world of good, I eventually came to realize. Nobody had dared punish me before that. Do
you know that your family are the only people in the world who don't call me 'Emperor,' or 'Your