"Mercedes Lackey - Firebird" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

but which should it be?
In most families there would be no question but that it would be the oldest;
however, Ivan was a law unto himself. His steadfast unbelief in the spirits of forest,
hearth, and field was no more than a reflection of his contrary nature. He had thus far
declined to make a pronouncement that would render his choice official, leaving all
the sons in a perpetual state of servile uncertainty.
Ilya suspected that he knew why. Father doesn't trust us. Not any of us. That fact
was clear to anyone who had a reasonably acute mind. Tsar Ivan never went
anywhere without his bodyguards, not even to bed, and the way he eyed his
numerous offspring left no doubt in Ilya's heart that Ivan anticipated attempts by his
loving sons to murder him as a matter of course. He was not about to shorten his
own lifespan by giving one of them a real and tangible reason to want him out of the
way.
I don't know why. He didn't have to murder Grandfather to inherit. But maybe
he sees us as a wolf pack. One wolf is not necessarily dangerous, or even twoтАФbut
a pack can kill your horse in its traces and have you before you've run more than a
few steps.
So Tsar Ivan encouraged fighting among his sons for more reasons than one. He
obviously wanted the kingdom to go to the heir that was the strongest; battling one
another kept his offspring in outstanding physical shape for real warfare. And in
addition, well, if one of them managed to kill one of his siblings, there would be one
son less to make attempts to take the crown by force. Ivan had no intention of
actually doing away with any of his dangerous offspring, for that would be murderтАФ
Ah, but if one of us happens to eliminate another, it's hardly his problem, is it?
Ilya took a circuitous route through the trees around in back of the palace, by way
of the kitchen-garden and the nearby pigsties. There wasn't much left in the garden
by this time of year and the ground lay fallow, waiting for the seeds for next year's
planting; what remained green was mostly the tops of carrots, turnips, onions, and
beets in neat rows, ready for harvest before the earth froze. The rest had already
been harvested and eaten, put into storage, or preserved; the earth had been turned
under after a liberal application of pig-manure.
The pigs themselves were happily wallowing in mud in their sturdy Sties, blissfully
unaware that the date of their demise could not be far off. Once the nuts fell, they
would be herded into the forest to gorge themselves and put on more weight, and
that would be the end of their carefree existence. The first hard freeze would signal
butchering-time, and both porkers and cattle would become future meals, safely
preserved to provision the long winters. Ilya both anticipated and dreaded that
freeze. Butchering the animals and feasting after would keep his brothers too busy to
think of trouble, but the boredom of the long winters only gave them more time and
opportunity to make his life miserable.
 Ah well, worry about that when the snows lock us in. Maybe the wolves will eat
Pietor this year when he goes out in his sled, and that will leave me one less idiot
to contend with. Of course, they'd probably eat the horses first, unless Pietor was
out with Alexi or Yuri, and one of them got thrown to the wolves so that the other
could escape.
He entertained this pleasant thought while he walked down the dusty path to the
kitchen. The heavy wooden door leading into the kitchen stood wide open, and no
wonder: Heat from the bread-ovens came blasting out to meet Ilya, and the servants
working inside were half-naked, bodies, arms, and faces streaming sweat. Ilya stood
in the doorway for a moment, taken aback by the sight; the only light came from the