"Joan D. Vinge - The Storm King" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vinge Joan D)

and he froze. Was the dragon wakingтАФ?

But there was no further disturbance, and he breathed again. Two days, the
girl had told him, the dragon might sleep. And now he had reached his final trial, the
penning of the beast. Away to his right he could hear the cataractтАЩs endless song.
But would there be enough water in it to block the dragonтАЩs exit? Would that be
enough to keep it prisoner, or would it strike him down in lightning and thunder, and
sweep his body from the heights with torrents of rain?...Could he even move one
droplet of water, here and now? Or would he find that all the thousand doubts that
gnawed inside him were not only useless but pointless?

He shook it off, moving out and down the mist-dim slope to view the cave
mouth and the river tumbling past it. A thin stream of water already trickled down the
face of the opening, but the main flow was diverted by a folded knot of lava. If he
could twist the waterтАЩs course and hold it, for just long enough . . .

He climbed the barren face of stone at the far side of the cave mouth until he
stood above it, confronting the sinuous steel and flashing white of the thing he must
move. It seemed almost alive, and he felt weary, defeated, utterly insignificant at the
sight of it. But the mountain on which he stood was a greater thing than even the
river, and he knew that within it lay power great enough to change the waterтАЩs
course. But he was the conduit, his will must tap and bend the force that he had felt
stir in him two days ago.

He braced his legs apart, gathered strength into himself, trying to recall the feel
of magic moving in him. He recited the spell-words, the focus for the willing of
powerтАФand felt nothing. He recited the words again, putting all his concentra-tion
behind them. Again nothing. The Earth lay silent and inert beneath his feet.

Anger rose in him, at the EarthтАЩs disdain, and against the strange women who
served HerтАФthe jealous, demanding an-ger that had opened him to power before.
And this time he did feel the power stir in him, sluggishly, feebly. But there was no
sign of any change in the waterтАЩs course. He threw all his conscious will toward
change, change, changeтАФbut still the EarthтАЩs power faltered and mocked him. He
let go of the ritual words at last, felt the tingling promise of energy die, having burned
away all his own strength.

He sat down on the wet stone, listened to the river roar with laughter. He had
been so sure that when he got here the force of his need would be strong enoughтАжI
have enough hate in me, he had told the girl. But he wasnтАЩt reaching it now. Not the
real hatred, that had carried him so far beyond the limits of his strength and
experience. He began to concentrate on that hatred, and the reasons behind it: the
loss, the pain, the hardship and fear. . . .

His father had been a great ruler over the lands that his ancestors had
conquered. And he had loved his queen, Lassan-dinтАЩs mother. But when she died,
his unhealing grief had turned him ruthless and iron-willed. He had become a despot,
capricious, cruel, never giving an inch of his power to an-other manтАФeven his
spoiled and insecure son. Disease had left him wasted and witless in the end. And
Lassan-din, barely come to manhood, had been helpless, unable to block his jealous