"Andrew J. Offutt - Cormac 01 - The Mists of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Offutt Andrew J)

and oppressive over them. Of these some sought to emerge into the light; others, like fearful rabbits, did not.
When those fathers died, many of those sons, those permanent sons, subjects, were so unaccustomed to
the light of freedom and decision and deeds that they were as blinded. Unequipped and unable to cope were
they; such тАЬmenтАЭ became never men and were useless. Others kicked up their heels in the sudden freedom
of the fatherтАФto which they were unaccustomed, and with which they were unable to cope. No longer
controlled, they were unbridled. And they too were useless.
The sons of other men somehow emerged from the shadow naturally, perhaps realizing that they had been
aided by their fathers and perhaps not. They became men.
And for some the shadows were foreshortened, removed; the great oaks fell before the coming of their time.
Many of them sought the father, Father, all their lives. Religion helped; the religion of the Priests of Rome was
for them, as it was for all who sought slavery or indeed were slaves, for among them had it been born. Some
few of these sons who were early rendered fatherless became men. Perhaps they realized they were
fortunate never to have been overshadowed, or to have joined the ranks of the seekers of Father. And for them
and their presence in it the world, too, was fortunate.
It remained to be seen into which category Cormac mac Art would enter. Mac Art he was and would remain,
though there was no longer an Art.
Art was dead. His son was alive, very alive.
He was not one with those who loved their fathers to fault. He was not one of those consumed with love for
the father. Nor was he one of the many who hated the man who both sired and tyrannizedтАФor ignoredтАФhim.
For Art had been neither ineffective nor tyrant; each bred hatred. Consummate respect had been on Cormac,
for Art; his fourteen years of life and his deed had reflected it. HeтАЩd HeтАЩd had much to prove; Art was to be
respected, and to be impressed; he was worthy. And too his son was not the sort to be a basker in the light
of anotherтАФor a delicate flower either, to dwell tranquilly in anotherтАЩs shade.
Cormac would not exult in ArtтАЩs death. It did not occur to him that a son were the better for breaking free of
the shade or having it removed from off his life.
Nor would he grive to excess and know despondence. It was not in him, and respect and love were never the
same. As Art had been stern, and military and gruff, and busy so that Cormac had spent much time with the
weapon-man Midhir and the sage druid Sualtim. Cormac had indeed respected more than loved his father;
sought his approbation more than his attention and demonstrations of paternal love.
All of which was to say that ArtтАЩs son Cormac had had a quite normal relationship with his father, though he
was blessed in having one worthy of respect and who did not generate hatred. Few such peopled the ridge of
the world. Siring sons, as Sualtim had pointed out in warnings to the boy as he approached puberty, were a
simple matter. Being father to them was something else again.
Cormac had wept, but not in despair. And he had put by his weeping; there was not time for it just now. Such
luxuries must be deferred. Just now...
Art was dead and laid out white on his bed, as had been his wife but two years agone. But was no disease or
accident that had laid low Art son of Comal and called him hence to await rebirth and return.
Sualtim had found him yester eve, on the westward side of the barracks. The throat of the master of
Glondrath had been slashed open. Nor were there footprints, or other traces of the slayer.
The druid and the women of Glondrath had washed the dead man, and his hair, and had dressed him in his
cerements. So he had lain until the arrival of Cormac and Midhir. And Midhir had made a weapon-manтАЩs
pronouncement; ArtтАЩs throat had been cut, with the blade of a dagger, not a sword or broad blade of a spear.
These few facts the three exchanged and mulled over now, in a dim-lit room within the greathouse. CormacтАЩs
tears had begun to seep again, though he made no sound, Outside, the death-keening rose loud and eerie.
Was the way of Eirrin.
тАЬWas someone he knew and trusted, sure,тАЭ Midhir said, the words emerging between teeth that were set
together. тАЬFor no enemy would have got so close as to slit the throat of such a warrior!тАЭ
тАЬAye,тАЭ Sualtim said. Catching CormacтАЩs eye, he looked pointedly at the young manтАЩs beer, that made of
wheat and honey. тАЬAye,тАЭ the druid repeated. тАЬAengus mac Domnail bethought him that he saw a man
clambering over the rath-wall a short time before I discovered the boтАФdiscovered the lord Art.тАЭ