"Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 3 - Fire Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

laugh more. We laughed a lot, then."

The old man hums to himself, a melody of his youth. I have been standing in the shadows of the
hall, all this time, watching the scene through a crack in the nearly closed door. I decide that it is
time to make my presence known, if only to Edmund. It is beneath my dignity to snoop. I summon
a servant, send it to the king with an irrelevant message. The door creaks open, a draught of chill air
wafts through the hall, nearly dousing the flame of the gas lamp. The servant shambles into the hall,
its shuffling footfalls leaving behind whispering echoes in the all-but-empty palace.

Edmund raises a warding hand, motions the servant to withdraw. But he glances out the door,
acknowledges my presence with a slight nod, and silently bids me wait for him. He does not need
to speak or do more than that nod of the head. He and I know each other so well, we can
communicate without words.

The servant withdraws, its ambling footsteps taking it back out. It starts to shut the door, but I
quietly stop it, send it away. The old king has noticed the servant's entrance and exit, although he
pretends that he doesn't. Old age has few prerogatives, few luxuries. Indulging oneself in
eccentricities is one of them. Indulging oneself in memoryтАФanother.

The old man sighs, looks down at the golden throne on which he sits. His gaze shifts to a throne
that stands next to his, a throne done on a smaller scale, meant for a woman's smaller frame, a
throne that has long been empty. Perhaps he sees himself, his youthful body strong and tall, leaning
over to whisper in her ear, their hands reaching out to each other. Their hands were clasped
together always, whenever they were near.

He holds her hand sometimes now, but that hand is chill, colder than the cold pervading our world.
The chill hand destroys the past for him. He doesn't go to her much, now. He prefers memory.

The gold gleamed in the light, then," he tells his son. "The diamonds sparkled sometimes until we
couldn't look at them. They were so brilliant they'd make the eyes water. We were rich, rich beyond
belief. We reveled in our wealth.

"All in innocence, I think," the old king adds, after some thought. "We were not greedy, not
covetous. 'How they'll stare, when they come to us. How they'll stare when they first set eyes on
such gold, such jewels!' we'd say to ourselves. The gold and diamonds in this throne alone would
have bought a nation back in their world, according to the ancient texts. And our world is filled
with such treasures, lying untouched, untapped in the stone.
"I remember the mines. Ah, that was long ago. Long before you were born, My Son. The Little
People were still among us, then. They were the last, the toughest, the strongest. The last to survive.
My father took me among them when I was very young. I don't remember much about them except
their fierce eyes and thick beards that hid their faces and their short, quick fingers. I was frightened
of them, but my father said they were really a gentle people, merely rude and impatient with
outsiders."

The old king sighs heavily. His hand rubs the cold metal arm of the throne, as if he could bring the
light back to it. "I understand now, I think. They were fierce and rude because they were frightened.
They saw their doom. My father must have seen it, too. He fought against it, but there was nothing
he could do. Our magic wasn't strong enough to save them. It hasn't even been strong enough to
save ourselves.