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

Solemn, stern, their life-symbolizing robes of forest green laid aside for the pure colourlessness of white,
Sualtim and several assisting druids said the ancient words, their voices rising from mere murmur to volume
that was nigh-shouting, and descending again.
Cormac stared dully, stricken, while his father was buried. The belief that Art would be back was a sustaining
comfort, but provided little relief for grief and its normal companion, self-pity. Art would not be Art again. He
would return as an infant and would bear the new name of that father. Even should his and CormacтАЩs
life-paths cross, theyтАЩd know each other not.
Midhir stepped forward, for custom prevailed and was time for personal statements of loss.
тАЬO Art my lord, you were betrayed to your death; your end is sorrowful to us all. You to die and we to be
living! Our parting is a grief forever.тАЭ His voice caught and trembled as he said, тАЬFarewell, weapon-companion;
farewell, my lord.тАЭ
And Branwen said, тАЬDear to me O my lord Art, was your beautiful ruddiness, dear to us all your manly form
and your kindness; dear to us your clear grey eye that saw so much and held such wisdom. DearтАФтАЭ The
housekeeper broke down weeping then, and her husband drew her away, nor were the eyes of Conor dry.
Was Aengus moved then to the fore, nearest that which had been Art mac Comail.
тАЬMy lord and my commander,тАЭ he said quietly. тАЬThere has not come your match to the battle; there had not
come and been made wrathful in combat, there had never held up shield on the field of weapons the like of
yourself, O Art of Comal!тАЭ
As Aengus stepped back, Sualtim switched from the Old Language to their own Gaelic: тАЬ...for had the world
been searched from BehlтАЩs rising to sunset, Art mac Comail, the like would not have been found of your
valiant and wise self. And it is breaking my own heart is in my body, to be here speaking so and listening to
the sorrowing of the women and men of Glondrath of Connacht, and Connacht to be in its weakness, and
without strength to defend itself, for Red ComalтАЩs son is gone from among us.тАЭ
Exaggerations all, as were the loud cries of lament and the wringing of hands and beating of breasts.
Was the way of Eirrin, and none was hypocritical of lament or plaint for well-liked had been Art ComalтАЩs son.
And when all, others had spoken their last to the man to be received by the earth and by Donn, Lord of the
Dead, his son came forward. Tears shimmered like dewdrops on CormacтАЩs face.
тАЬI am a raven that has no home,тАЭ he said, little above a whisper. тАЬI am a boat tossed from wave to wave; I am
a ship that has lost its rudder; I am... the apple left dangling on the tree alone, and itтАЩs little thought I had of
your being plucked from beside it. Grief on me! My sorrow, my father! Ochone! Grief and sorrow will be with
me from this day to the end of time and life.тАЭ
After a long silence Cormac added, тАЬMay the gods make smooth the path of Return for you, Art mac Comail,
athair na Cormaic Aenfher!тАЭ
And he who had been called Cormac Pictslayer and Cormac Bearslayer and who now called himself Cormac
the Lonely turned away of a sudden. He would not watch whilst they poured dirt over his father, but returned
alone to the rath-house whilst those others completed the funerary rites of the murdered Art mac Comail of
Connacht.


Chapter Four:
Master of Glondrath
Cormac mac Art had sat alone in his fatherтАЩs command chamber all the morning. Outside birds twitted and a
jay shrieked his raucous cry, as though angry. Otherwise there were only the somewhat muted sounds of the
rathтАЩs going about its normal business; the mournful, ear-grating keening for the dead warrior had ended. Art
was in the ground. His son sat in the chamber wherein the master of Glondrath had spent most of his last
eleven years. This day Cormac gave to grief, and memories. And there was the encroachment of some
bitterness.
His father had been a weapon-man all his years, a man with the blood of conquerors and kings in his veins.
Yet he had held little power, little land that was his own. A few acres, well away from here, in stewardship. He
had known that his wife was far happier there than here; she had said naught, and he had striven for her