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

They called him the Storm King, and he had all the power he had ever
dreamed ofтАФbut it brought him no pleasure or ease, no escape from the knowledge
that he was hated or from the chronic pain of his maimed back. He was both more
and less than a man, but he was no longer a man. He was only the king. His comfort
and happiness mattered to no one, except that his comfort reflected their own. No
thought, no word, no act affected him that was not performed out of selfishness;
and more and more he withdrew from any contact with that imitation of intimacy.

He lay alone again in his chambers on a night that was black and formless, like
all his nights. Lying between silken sheets he dreamed that he was starving and slept
on stones.

Pain woke him. He drank port wine (as lately he drank it too often) until he
slept again, and entered the dream he had had long ago in a witchтАЩs hut, a dream that
might have been something more. . . . But he woke from that dream too; and waking,
he remembered the witch-girlтАЩs last words to him, echoed by the stormтАЩs
roaringтАФтАЬMay you get what you deserve.тАЭ

That same day he left his fortress castle, where the new stone of its mending
showed whitely against the old; left his rule in the hands of advisors cowed by
threats of the dragonтАЩs return; left his homeland again on a journey to the dreary,
gray-clad land of his exile.

He did not come to the village of Wydden as a hunted exile this time, but as a
conqueror gathering tribute from his sub-ject lands. No one there recognized the one
in the other, or knew why he ordered the village priest thrown bodily out of his
wretched temple into the muddy street. But on the dreary day when Lassan-din made
his way at last into the dripping woods beneath the ancient volcanic peak, he made
the final secret journey not as a conqueror. He came alone to the ragged hut pressed
up against the brooding mountain wall, suffering the wet and cold like a friendless
stranger.

He came upon the clearing between the trees with an unnatural suddenness, to
find a figure in mud-stained, earth-brown robes standing by the well, waiting, without
surprise. He knew instantly that it was not the old hag; but it took him a longer
moment to realize who it was: The girl called Nothing stood before him, dressed as a
woman now, her brown hair neatly plaited on top of her head and bearing herself
with a womanтАЩs dignity. He stopped, throwing back the hood of his cloak to let her
see his own glittering faceтАФ though he was certain she already knew him, had
expected him.

She bowed to him with seeming formality. тАЬThe Storm King honors my
humble shrine.тАЭ Her voice was not humble in the least.

тАЬYour shrine?тАЭ He moved forward. тАЬWhereтАЩs the old bitch?тАЭ

She folded her arms as though to ward him off. тАЬGone forever. As I thought
you were. But IтАЩm still here, and I serve in her place; I am Fallatha, the EarthтАЩs Own,
now. And your namesake still dwells in the mountain, bringing grief to all who live in
its cloud-shadow. ... I thought youтАЩd taken all you could from us, and gained