"Lawhead, Stephen - Albion 02 - The Silver Hand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

heart would burst with the effort. The ragged scream burst and
faltered in the air, dying at its height. A truncated echo resounded
along the sides of Glyn Du and flew up into the starry void-a spear
hurled into the eye-pit of night.

The warriors bearing the king's body halted at the sound. Strength
left their hands, and the bier pitched and swayed. For an instant I
thought they would drop the body, but they staggered, steadied
themselves, and slowly raised the bier once more. It was a dreadful,
pitiful moment, speaking more forcefully than the words of my lament
the anguish and heartbreak of our loss.

The bearers moved to the entrance of the cairn, where they paused while
two men with torches went ahead of them into the tomb. The bier
entered the grave mound next, and I followed. The interior was lined
with stone niches, small chambers containing the bones of Prydain kings
whose shields covered the openings.

Meidryn's body was laid in the center of the cairn, on its bier, and
the warriors saluted their king, each man touching the back of his hand
to his forehead, honoring Meldryn Mawr for the last time. Then they
began filing out one by one. I lingered long, looking upon the face of
the lord I had loved and served. Ashen white, sunken-checked and
hollow-eyed, pale his brow, pale like bone, but high and fair. Even in
death it was a noble countenance.

I considered the shields of other kings on the walls of the cairn:
other kings of other times, each a lord of renown who had ruled Prydain
in his turn. Now Meidryn Mawr, the Great Golden King, had relinquished
the seat of power. Who was worthy to take his place?

I was the last to leave, consigning the king's body to its long sleep.
One day, when death's handmaidens had finished their work, I would
return to gather the bones and place them in one of the empty niches.
For now, however, I bade Meldryn Mawr a final farewell and stepped from
the cairn. Passing slowly down the shimmering pathway of the Aryant
01, I raised my voice in the Queen's Lament.

As I sang, the women joined in, blending their willowy voices with
mine. There is a measure of solace in the song and as I sang I became
the Chief Bard in more than name only. For I sang and saw the life of
the song born in my people; I saw them take strength and sustenance
from its beauty. I saw them live in the song, and I thought: Tonight I
grasp Ollathir's staff, and I am worthy. I am worthy to be the hard of
a great people. But who is worthy to be our king?

Gazing upon the faces of all those gathered on the slopes of the Cnoc
Righ, I wondered who among them could wear the tore Meldryn Mawr had
left behind. Who could wear the oak-leaf crown? There were good men
among us, fine and strong, chieftains who could lead in battle-but a