"Michael Moorcock - Castle Brass 2 - The Champion of Garathor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

that not be exhilarating? The last you saw of the outside world it was wasted, ruined. Now it
flourishes again.'
'I have important things to do here,' Hawkmoon said.
'What things?' Count Brass spoke almost sharply. 'You have not left your apartments for months.'
'There is an answer," Hawkmoon told him curtly, 'in all this. There is a way to find Yisselda.'
Count Brass shuddered.
'She is dead,' he said softly.
'She is alive,' Hawkmoon murmured. 'She is alive. Some-where. In another place.'
'We once agreed, you and I, that there was no life after death,' Count Brass reminded his friend.
'Besides - would you resur-rect a ghost. Would that please you - to raise Yisselda's shade?'
'If that were all I could resurrect, aye.'
'You love a dead woman,' Count Brass said in a quiet, dis-turbed voice. 'And in loving her you
have fallen in love with death itself.'
'What is there in life to love?'
'Much. You would discover it again if you came with me to Londra.'
'I have no wish to see Londra. I hate the city.'
'Then just travel part of the distance with me."
"No. I am dreaming again. And in my dreams I come closer to Yisselda - and our two children.'
'There never were children. You invented them. In your mad-ness you invented them.'
'No. Last night I dreamed I had another name, but that I was still the same man. A strange,
archaic name. A name from be-fore the Tragic Millenium. John Daker. That was the name. And John
Daker found Yisselda.'
Count Brass was close to weeping at his friend's insane mutterings. 'This reasoning - this
dreaming - will bring you much more pain, Dorian. It will heighten the tragedy, not decrease it.
Believe me. I speak the truth.'
'I know that you mean well, Count Brass. I respect your view and I understand that you believe
that you are helping me. But I ask you to accept that you are not helping me. I must con-tinue to
follow this path. I know that it will lead me to Yisselda.'


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'Aye,' said Count Brass sorrowfully. 'I agree. It will lead you to your death.'
If that is the case, the prospect does not alarm me.' Hawkmoon turned again to regard Count Brass.
The count felt a chill go through him as he looked at the gaunt, white face, the hot eyes which
burned in deep sockets.
'Ah, Hawkmoon,' he said. 'Ah, Hawkmoon.'
And he walked towards the door and he said nothing else before he left the room.
And he heard Hawkmoon shout after him in a high, hysteri-cal voice:
'I will find her, Count Brass!'
Next day Hawkmoon drew back the tapestry to peer through his window down into the courtyard below.
Count Brass was leaving. His retinue was already mounted on good, big horses, caparisoned in the
Count's red colours. Ribbons and pennants waved on bolstered flame-lances, surcoats curled in the
breeze, bright armour shone in the early morning sunlight. The horses snorted and stamped their
feet. Servants moved about, making last minute preparations, handing warming drinks up to the
horsemen. And then the Count Brass himself emerged and mounted his chestnut stallion, his brazen
armour flickering as if fashioned from flame. The count looked up at the window, his face
thoughtful for a moment. Then his expression changed as he turned to give an order to one of his
men. Hawkmoon continued to watch.