"02.Planeswalker" - читать интересную книгу автора (McGough Scott)

what he had seen.
His eyes had recorded the final battle between the
Thran and the Phyrexians. It seemed reasonable to assume
that recording Phyrexian defeats was part of their
function. From that assumption, it was easy to conclude
that the Thran had intended the recording stones as a
warning to all those who came after.
Urza had had a vision when he first touched what became
his Mightstone. He recalled it as he entered the cavern.
Despite his best efforts, the images were dreamlike yet
they strengthened his newborn conviction: The Thran had
vanished because they'd sacrificed themselves to defeat the
Phyrexians.
Within the cavern, Urza gazed up at the rough ceiling.
"We didn't know," he explained to any lingering Thran
ghosts. "We didn't know your language. . . . We didn't
guess what we couldn't understand."
He knew now. The artifact in which they'd found the
single stone-the artifact that he and Mishra had destroyed
utterly- had been the Thran legacy to Dominaria and the
means through which they'd locked their enemy out of
Dominaria.
"We didn't know. . .."
When the stone had split into its opposing parts, the
lock had been sprung and the Phyrexians had returned. The
enemy had known better than to approach him, the bearer of
the Mightstone, but they had-they must have-suborned,
corrupted, and destroyed Mishra, who'd had only the
Weakstone for protection. The stones were not, after all,
truly equal. Might was naturally dominant over weakness, as
Urza, the elder brother, should have been dominant over the
younger.
But blinded by an elder brother's prejudice and-admit
it!- jealousy, Urza had done nothing.
No, he'd done worse than nothing. He'd blamed Mishra,
gone to war against Mishra, and undone the Thran sacrifice.
Guilt was a throbbing presence within Urza's skull. He
closed his eyes and clapped his hands over his ears, but
that only made everything worse.
Why hadn't he and Mishra talked?
Through their childhood and youth, he and Mishra had
fought constantly and bitterly before repairing the damage
with conversation. Then, after the stones had entered into
their lives, they hadn't even tried.
Then insight and memory came to Urza. There had been
one time, about forty-five years ago in what could be
called the war's morning hours. They'd come together on the
banks of the river Kor, where it tumbled out of the Kher
mountains. The Yotian warlord, his wife's father, had come
to parley with the qadir of the Fallaji. Urza hadn't seen