"Nancy Varian - Berberick - Dalamar the Dark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varian Nancy)

first sight, struck fear into Dalamar's heart. To the Dark Son, from a dark
son, by night are we bound. Thus had a mysterious mage dedicated himself to
the son of the Dragon Queen, to Nuitari whose obsidian halls lay in mansions
of the sky just beneath the secret moon, the black moon. Yet soon Dalamar's
fear had eased, and during the months of the summer past, he had taught
himself more about magic, spells, incantations, and arcane philosophy than
he'd been allowed to learn with House Mystic. The little northern cave was
Dalamar's refuge. His secret trips there, time stolen from his master, were
the cause of Eflid's anger and, ultimately, the reason for Dalamar's new
status among Lord Ralan's servants, housed and untrustworthy.
Dalamar tossed a spare robe of plain white wool and two sets of hose onto the
bed. He tucked a pair of boots into the corner, soft dark leather ones he'd
only lately purchased and not yet worn. A belt of knitted wool, the color of
the sky when the last light is nearly gone, and the small bone-handled knife a
mage is allowed for ceremonial use were the only other things he'd brought
here from his home.
Outside the window, the morning grew warm. The air sat heavily over the city
as it does when a storm is brooding. Though no breeze blew, still Dalamar
smelled the herbs in the kitchen garden, the twining scents of mint and basil,
of horehound and sage and sweet thyme. Before he'd been caught away from his
work, he'd been assigned to assist the old man from House Gardener who tended
Ralan's herb beds. Now he was consigned to the hot kitchen and the cross-eyed
cook whose best delight was to harry potboys and torment the young girls who
stood in the corners to flirt with the bakers' lads. The loss of his privacy,
these menial tasks, this fee he paid for a day away was steep indeed. Yet,
though he did not like the price, he did not regret it. He had chosen his path
this morning, clear-eyed and knowing what he might have to pay.
Dalamar thought about choices as he walked out of the room and down the long
airy corridor. No one would think he had any, a servitor whose life's path was
ordained by ancient custom. Yet this year, in the summer, Dalamar had made a
choice, one no one imagined he would consider. He must learn more of magic
than the crumbs House Mystic granted.
Sunlight splashed into the corridor from open doors and wide windows. Shadow
barred the tiled floor where sunlight did not reach. Into sun and out to
shadow he went, walking. How far would he go for the Art of High Sorcery
denied him by House Mystic? All the way to the Dark Son himself? Out in the
light of the day, in the thickness of the air, Dalamar looked away north, not
to the small place where his secrets were kept, but farther to the land beyond
the forest where the armies of Takhisis brooded. She was god-Nuitari's mother,
that Dragon Queen, and his father was the god of Vengeance, Sargonnas himself.
Their son was a child of magic and secrets, and Dalamar could think of no
better god to whom he could dedicate his own secret heart.
Blasphemy! It was blasphemy in the Silvanesti kingdom to think such a thing.
Dalamar shivered, quick excitement running up his spine. He could choose if he
wanted to choose. He could make a forbidden god his own in secret and silence,
and no one would know. Such power there was in secrets! Smiling, he walked
through the garden, a generous place enclosed on three sides by hedges of
wisteria, on the fourth by the servants' wing of the hall. Though they waited
for him in the kitchens, he took time to enjoy the heady scent of dewy roses
and the tang of curly mint underfoot. Water bubbled from a fountain, a marble