"Weis, Margaret & Hickman, Tracy - Darksword 03 - Triumph of the Darksword UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

He smiled, a half-smile. This smile was not bitter, as his smiles once had been. This smile -was sad and filled with regret. "Our situations are reversed. Father. Once I was cold as stone, warmed by your love and compassion. Now it is you whose flesh is icy to my touch. If only my love Ч learned too late Ч could warm you!"
He bowed his head, overcome by grief, and his tear-dimmed gaze fell upon the statue's hands that held the sword in their stone grip.
"What is this?" he muttered.
Examining the statues hands more closely, the man saw that the stone flesh of the palms on which the sword rested was cracked and gouged as though it had been struck by hammer and chisel. Several of the stone fingers were broken and twisted.
"They tried to take the sword!" he realized. "And you would not give it up!"
Stroking the statue's injured hands with his own, he felt die anger that he thought was dead flickering to life within him once more. "What suffering you must have endured! And they knew it! You stood there, helpless, while they gouged your flesh and broke your bones! They knew you would feel every blow, yet they didn't care. Why should they?" he questioned bitterly. "They couldn't hear your cries!" The man's own hands went to the weapon, touching it haltingly. Reflexively, his hand closed over the hilt of the stone sword. "I have come upon a fool's errand it seemsЧ "
The man stopped speaking abruptly. He felt the sword move! Thinking he might have imagined it in his anger, he gave the stone weapon a tug, as though to draw it out of its rock scabbard. To his amazement, the sword slid out easily; he nearly dropped it in surprise. Holding it, he felt the cold
WEIS AND HICKMAN
TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD
stone warm at his touch and, as he watched, astonished, the rock turned to metal.
The man lifted the Darksword to the light. The rays of the dying sun struck it, but no flame blazed from its surface. Its metal was black, absorbing the sun's light, not reflecting it. He stared at the weapon for long moments. One part of him was attentive to the woman's voice; he could hear her moving farther down the beach, calling to person or persons unseen. He did not watch her. He knew from long experience that, although she never acknowledged his existence, she would not stray far from him. His gaze and his thoughts focused on the sword.
"I thought I had rid myself of you," he said, speaking to the weapon as if it were alive. "Just like I thought I had rid myself of life. I gave you to the catalyst, who accepted my sacrifice, then I walked Ч walked gladly Ч into death." His eyes shifted to the gray fog that rolled upon the white sand shore. "But death is not out there. . . ."
He fell silent, his hand gripping the hilt of the sword more firmly, noticing how much better it suited him, now that he was older, with a mans strength. "Or maybe it is," he remarked as an afterthought, his thick, black eyebrows drawing together in a frown. His gaze came back to the sword, then his eyes shifted to meet the unseeing eyes of the statue. "You were right. Father. It is a weapon of evil. It brings pain and suffering to everyone who comes in contact with it. Even I, its creator,- do not understand or comprehend its powers. For that reason alone it is dangerous. It should be destroyed." The mans gaze turned once again, frowning, to the gray fog. "\et now it has been given to me again . . ."
As if in answer to some unspoken question, the leather scabbard fell from the statue's hands and landed in the sand at the man's feet. He bent down to pick it up, then started as something warm dropped on his skin.
Blood.
Aghast, the man looked up. Blood oozed from the cracks in the statues hands, dripped out of the deep gouges in the stone flesh, ran down the broken stone fingers.
"Damn them!" the man cried in fury.
Standing up, he faced the statue of the catalyst, seeing now not only blood running from the hands but tears failing from the stone eyes.
"You gave me my life!" the man cried. "I can't return that to you, Father, but at least I can give you the peace of death! By the Almin, they won't torment you anymore!"
The man lifted the Darksword and the weapon tegan to glow with an eerie, white-blue light. "May your soul rest in peace at last, Saryon!" the man prayed, and, with all the strength of his body, he drove the sword into the statues stone breast.
The Darksword felt itself wielded. Blue light twined and twisted along the blade, surging up the man's arms as the weapon thirstily drank the magic of the world that gave it life. Deep, deep into the rock it plunged, striking the statues stone heart.
A cry escaped the statue's cold, unmoving lipsЧ a cry heard not so much with the ears as with the soul. The stone around the sword began to shatter and crack. Jagged lines spread through the statues body with snapping, rending sounds that obliterated the catalyst's pain-filled voice. An arm broke at the shoulder. The torso split into shards and toppled from the trunk. The head cracked at the neck and tumbled to the sand.
The man yanked the sword free. Blinded by his tears, he could not see, but he heard the shattering of the stone and he knew the man he had learned too late to love was dead.
Hurling the Darksword to the sand, he pressed his hands against his eyes, fighting to stop the tears of rage and pain. He drew a deep, shuddering breath.
"They will pay," he vowed thickly. "By the Almin, they will-"
A hand touched his arm. A voice, deep and low, spoke hesitantly, "My son? Joram?"
Lifting his head, the man stared.
Saryon stood amidst the ruins of the stone body.
Reaching out a trembling hand, Joram grasped the catalysts arm and felt warm, living flesh beneath his fingers.
"Father!" he cried brokenly, and was clasped fast in Saryons embrace.
TRIUMPH OF THE DARKS WORD
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ie two men held each other , then separated. Each regarded the other intently. Joram's eyes went to the catalyst's hands, but Saryon hastily folded them one over the other, keeping them hidden in the sleeves of his robes.
"What has happened to you, my son?" The catalyst studied the stern face that was familiar, yet vastly different. "Where have you been?" His puzzled gaze went to the deep lines carved near the firm mouth, the fine lines around the eyes. "I have lost track of time, it seems. I could have sworn that only one year has passed Ч only once has the winter chilled my blood, only once the sun beaten down upon my head. Yet I see the marks of many years upon your face!"
Joram s lips parted to speak, but a wail interrupted him. Turning, he saw the woman slump down In the sand, frustrated and disconsolate.
"Who is this?" Saryon asked, following Joram as he walked toward the woman.
Joram glanced at his friend.
"Do you remember what you told me, Father?" he asked harshly. "About the grooms gift. 'All I could ever give her,' you said, 'was grief.'"
"Blessed Almin," Saryon breathed in sorrow, recognizing now the golden hair of the woman who sat, weeping, on the shore.
Walking over to her, Joram leaned down and placed his hands upon her shoulders. Despite his grim expression, his touch was gentle and loving and the woman yielded to him as he lifted her to her feet. Raising her head, she looked directly at the catalyst, but there was no recognition in her wide, too-bright eyes.
"Gwendolyn!" Saryon murmured.
"Now my wife," said Joram.
"They are here." Gwen spoke sadly, seeming to pay no attention to Joram. "They are all around me, yet they will not speak to me."
"Who is she talking about?" Saryon asked. The beach was empty, except for themselves and, in the far distance, another stone Watcher. "Who Is all around us?"
"The dead," Joram answered, holding the woman to his breast and soothing her as she leaned her golden head upon his strong chest.
"The dead?"
"My wife no longer communicates with the living," Joram explained, his voice expressionless as though he had long ago accustomed himself to this pain. "She talks only with the dead. If I were not here to watch her and care for her," he added softly, stroking the golden hair with his hand, "I think she would join them. I am her one link with life. She follows me, she seems to know me, yet she will not speak directly to me or call me by name. She has not spoken to me Чexcept once Ч in these past ten years."
"Ten years!" Saryon's eyes opened wide, then narrowed as he studied Joram intently. "Yes, I might have guessed. So wherever you have been, ten years have passed for you to one of ours."
"I did not know that would happen," Joram said, his thick, black brows drawing together. "Yet I might have, if I had considered it." He added, after a moment's thought,