"Shirley Meier & S. M. Stirling - Fifth Millenium 02 - Saber and Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Meier Shirley)

"Young one," Cubilano said quietly, "strength of will can overcome the need to
move injudiciously. My child, go from here to the Great Altar; there you may
assume the posture of submission and remain, contemplating what virtue lies in
stillness, for as long as it would take the Sun to pass through the width of
two hands."

The young priest began to stand. "You have not been given leave to depart,"
the hierarch said in mild reproof. "Meditate for the same length of time
again, on the usages of proper respect. Go."

He watched the boy back out of the room, then gazed slowly around at the dozen
others arrayed against the walls. These were the shaven-headed symbols of his
power, identical in their robes of orange satin. One did not need things
cluttering one's life in order to show strength.

The furnishings of the room were sparse, befitting a man of austerity; a low
table, racks for books and scrolls and the pillows Fehinnans preferred for
their cross-legged sitting posture. Tropical cedar from the islands of the
Kahab Sea lay warm against tile, in light that the tinted skylight washed pale
yellow. This deep in the temple the wild noise of the storm came muffled and
the lamps never flickered on their serpent-carved stands.

The silence had been a physical presence to be felt; now it deepened to an
unbearable motionless tension.

Cubilano might have been a figure carved of gold and mahogany, here in the
centrum of his might. His face was the ordinary, wrinkled, thick-boned
countenance of any land-bound peasant lucky enough to see sixty seasons; but
his eyes were not ordinary at all. They were willing to see the world bum for
the favor of his God.

One of the acolytes leaned close and whispered. The door opened, swinging on
ironwood bearings.

That door ... he thought. How many Sun-turnings had it been? It had been his
second week in the temple, still speechless with awe; even the little
provincial seminary had been impressive enough, after his kin-fast's
wattle-and-daub huts, but Illizbuah had been stunning.

All new acolytes were presented to the Reflection; it was a tradition, but no
great ritual. He had advanced with eyes firmly fixed on the ground, a stocky
boy of ten in a saffron gown. The hand had fallen on his head; he still
remembered the dry cool feel of the old woman's skin on his scalp.

"So this is the one who shows such promise," the voice had said. That had
startled him enough to make him glance up. Their eyes had met, the young boy's
and the old woman's, for a long minute. Her face had looked incredibly old to
him, an aristocrat's face seamed and worn to a blade of bone and skin, the
face of a dying eagle; beyond the indignities of hope.