"Modesitt, L E - Recluce 10 - Magi'i Of Cyador" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

Jerial nods. "You would."
"I've seen you and Myryan do it. There's a black mist that enfolds you-is that why you like black?"
"Black has its uses, one of which is illusion."
"Ciesrt wouldn't like black," Lorn notes. "About the healing?"
"I think of it almost as an order of sorts. It's the opposite of the surging power of chaos, and there really are two kinds of chaos, the unclean kind in a wound and the kind in the towers and the power cells of the firewagons-"
"You've never been near a tower," Lorn says.
"I don't have to be. Father has been clear that the chaos that powers the firewagons is the same as the chaos that come from the towers. You've all talked about how the Magi'i transfer that chaos into the firewagons, and I've certainly been close enough to firewagons to sense the difference."
"And you've looked with all your senses. Most healers don't."
"Except healers raised in this house," counters Jerial.
"That's true enough." He glances from Jerial to the dice, and then back to her fine-featured face, a visage that, for all its beauty, might have been carved from sunstone or granite.
"What do you want to do with what I show you?" Jerial asks.
Lorn offers a lazy smile, hoping he will not have to respond verbally.
"Brother dear... you're sweet when you want to be, but you use everyone and everything." Her hard smile softens. "Sometimes."
"I've tried not to hurt either of you."
"You've learned to use people, including us, without hurting them, but it's still use, Lorn. Remember when you gave both Myryan and me those chaos-cut emeralds set in cupridium."
"Yes," Lorn admits warily.
"You never told mother and father, did you?"
"No."
"But they knew all the same." Jerial smiles as if the answer were obvious.
"I suppose so."
"How would either of us wear something that costly without mother or father asking?" She laughs. "That way, you created the impression of modesty and caring." A shrug follows. "I know you care, but you also wanted them to know you cared, and you impressed them all the more by doing it quietly." A crooked smile follows. "And... they couldn't ask you how you managed to come up with all those golds."
Lorn flushes.
"How did you? Gambling... or theft?"
Lorn steels himself, then shrugs reluctantly. "Neither. Trade. You know that. That's why you talked about enumerators."
"You aren't allowed handle coins, and the Lectors-oh... who is it? What woman, I should ask. It would have to be a merchanter woman." Abruptly, she laughs. "The scent! Of course." Jerial shakes her head. "So much scent that we all thought..."
"I don't believe you've met her," Lorn says quietly. "I've known her for over a year. Over two," he corrects himself.
"Do you... I won't ask that."
"Thank you."
"You must want to know about healing badly... or you wouldn't have given away so much. You can't use it on yourself, you know? Except to keep flux-chaos out, if you have the strength."
"I know."
"Very astute." Jerial nods. "I'll show you some more." She smiles. "Myryan told me what she showed you."
"A man has no secrets...." he protests.
"From his sisters?" She laughs warmly. "Not too many, but you hold more than most men."
Lorn sincerely hopes so. Most sincerely.


XV

Lorn stands beside the immaculate white oak desk-table in his own chambers, glancing out through the glass window at the cold mist that has replaced the earlier rain. He will be leaving in the morning for Kynstaar, and his promise to Myryan remains unfulfilled. He purses his lips as he looks toward the rain he does not see.
The problem with Ciesrt is not the student magus himself, who is about to become a fourth level adept, but his sire, Kharl'elth, the Second Magus and Senior Lector. Consorting Myryan to Ciesrt is advantageous to both families. The talent for handling chaos runs strongly in Kien'elth's children, even in Vernt, if slightly less powerfully, and any children that Myryan might bear will have a far better chance of holding the talent than those of anyone else that Ciesrt might take as consort. The alliance will also benefit Vernt, and both parents-even Lorn. The one person it will not benefit is the sensitive Myryan.
Lorn frowns. With the little time he has remaining, so far as he can determine, he has limited choices. To remove Ciesrt's father or to persuade his own father to act otherwise. Can he justify murdering a man because his sister Myryan is unhappy with her proposed consort? Yet Lorn has promised to do something.
He has to do something.
For a few moments more, he watches the misting rain. Then he turns quickly and walks out of his chamber, leaving the door open. He makes his way up the stone steps to the uppermost level of the house, pausing briefly in the open air of the covered portico to look through the late twilight toward the harbor, mostly obscured in mist and rain, with the evening beacons not yet lit for late-arriving ships.
Finally he approaches the study door, closed-and knocks. The brief chill that is in the mind and that betokens screeing crosses him.
"You can come in, Lorn."
Lorn steps into the warmth of the study and closes the white oak door behind him. His father looks up from behind the wide desk, but does not stand. The two look at each other for a time.
Lorn waits, the bare hint of a smile on his lips, an expression that is one of his most somber.
"It's too late for last chances, you know," Kien'elth says mildly. "I warned you for almost two years about your lack of enthusiasm."
"I know. You did what you could. That wasn't why I wanted to talk to you. It's nothing about me."
Kien'elth raises his fine white eyebrows, then fingers his chin. "Lorn, pardon me if I appear somewhat... skeptical... but many of your exploits have not exactly borne the stamp of altruism. I felt your mercantile ventures were, shall we say, useful for your education and understanding of how Cyad operates, and you did maintain yourself with a certain dignity and were not involved in anything too sordid." The older man clears his throat. "What did you have in mind?"