"Stephen Lawhead - Song Of Albion 2 - The Silver Hand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

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
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ahead of them into the tomb. The bier entered the gravemound 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 bard of a great people. But who is worthy to be our king?


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Gazing upon the faces of all those gathered on the slopes of the Cnoc Righ, I wondered who among
them could wear the torc Meldryn Mawr had left behind. Who could wear the oak-leaf crown? There
were good men
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among us, fine and strong, chieftains who could lead in battle-but a king is more than a war
leader.
Who is worthy to be king? I thought. Ollathir, my teacher and my guide, what would you have me do?
Speak to me, old friend, as you did in former times. Give your Fiidh benefit of your sage wisdom.
I wait on your word, Wise Counsellor. Instruct me in the way that I should go...
But Ollathir was dead, like so many of Prydain's proud sons, his voice but an echo fading in the
memory. Alas, his awen had passed out of this worlds-realm, and I must find my way alone. Very
well, I thought, turning to my task at last. I am a bard, and I can do all that a true bard can
do.
I placed a fold of my cloak over my head and raised my staff high. "Son of Tegvan, son of Teithi,
son of Talaryant, a bard and the son of bards, I am Tegid Tathal. Listen to me!"
I spoke boldly, knowing there were some who would rather I remained silent. "Most mournful of men