"George R. R. Martin - In the House of the Worm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

IN THE HOUSE OF THE
WORM

George R.R. Martin
A DF Books NERDs Release

For ages past remembering, the House of the Worm had been lost in decay, and that was as it should be,
for decay is but one name of the White Worm himself. So the yaga-la-hai, the worm-children, only
smiled and went on as always, though the tapestries rotted on the walls of their endless burrows and their
numbers dwindled each year, though meat grew ever more scarce, and the very stone around them
turned to dust. In the high burrows with slit windows, awash with the red dimness of the vast dying ember
above, they came and went and lived their lives. They tended their torches and held their masques, and
made the sign of the worm whenever they passed near the dark windowless burrows where the grouns
were said to mutter and lie in wait (for the halls and tunnels of the House of the Worm were reputed to
be infinite, descending as far below the earth as the black sky ascends above, and the yaga-la-hai
claimed only a few of its many ancient chambers).

It was taught to the worm-children that the White Worm comes for all in the end, but he crawls most
slowly, and in the long decay there is fine feasting and the bright sickly colors of rot. Such wisdom was
enforced by the current manworm and his bronze knights, even as their ancestors had enforced it for
generations untold. Thus did the House of the Worm endure, though the grouns might crawl below and
the sun burn out above.

Every fourth year the brightest and wittiest and highest-born among the yaga-la-hai would gather in the
Chamber of Obsidian to view the sun and feast in its dying rays. The chamber was the only place for
such a brilliant masque. It was high in the House of the Worm, so that all the tunnels leading to it slanted
upward, and the floor and ceiling and three of the walls were sheets of fused obsidian, cold and shiny as
a mirror and dark as death. For the four-years-less-a-day that passed between the Sun Masques, the
lesser-born worm-children, called torch-tenders, worked tirelessly in the chamber, polishing and rubbing,
so that when the bronze knights came to fire the torches, their reflections would gleam in the black glass
around them. Then the guests would assemble, a thousand strong in gay costumes and fantastic masks,
and the obsidian would bend and distort their bright faces and graceful forms, until they were a whirling
motley of demons dancing in a great black bottle.

And that was only part of the Chamber of Obsidian. There was more; there was the window. It occupied
all of the fourth wall behind the sand-filled hollow where the Manworm coiled; crystal clear the window
was, yet stronger than any glass they knew. Nowhere in the House of the Worm was there another
window a fraction of its size. The glass, if glass it was, looked out on a dead and desolate plain where no
wind stirred; all darkness there, all empty, though there were crumbling stone shapes near the
sometimes-seen horizon that might or might not be ruins. It was hard to tell; the light was very bad.

The sun filled half the sky; from one end of the horizon to the other it arched, bulking high enough to
touch the zenith. Above it was unending black sky, broken by a handful of stars. The sun itself was a
softer black, the color of ash, except in the few places where it still lived. Rivers ran across it, twisting
ribbons of glowing red, veins of fire across its tired face. The worm-children had studied them once, in
the long-ago years when they played with telescopes, and each of the burning channels had once had a
name, though most had been forgotten. Where the rivers met and joined, sometimes smoldering orange
lakes could be seen, and there were other places where gleams of red and yellow pulsed beneath the
ash-dark crust. Best of all were the seas, two huge oceans of angry red that grew smaller and darker
with every masque; one up near the rim continued on the side never seen, and a second burned near the