"Janny Wurts - The Cycle of Fire1 - Stormwarden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wurts Janny)

Emien drew a shaking breath and stared at hands already deeply scarred by hours of hauling twine.
"Stormwarden, a Constable waits at the Fisherman's Barrel with a writ sealed by the King."

Anskiere contemplated the sky's edge. "And?"

"Kordane's Blessed Fires!" Emien's blasphemy was laced with tears. "Warden, they call you murderer.
They tell of a storm that arose from the sea and tore villages, boats, and cattle from the shore of Tierl
Enneth. Your doing, they said." The boy faltered. "Warden, they say you watched, drunk with laughter,
as the people screamed and drowned. And they carry with them a staff marked with the device you wore
when you first arrived here."

"A falcon ringed with a triple circle," Anskiere said softly. "I know it well. Thank you, Emien."

The boy stepped back, startled into fear at the sorcerer's acceptance. The penalty for malign sorcery
was death by fire. "Then it's true?"

"We all have enemies." Anskiere stepped firmly onto the trail, and around him, the wind dwindled to
ominous stillness.

Market square lay under a haze of dust churned up by milling feet. The entire village had gathered to see
their Stormwarden accused. Taciturn, a unit of the King's Guard patrolled the streets off Rat's Alley.
Foot lancers clogged the lanes between the merchants' stalls, and before the steps of the Fisherman's
Barrel Inn a dais constructed of boarding planks and pickling vats held a brocaded row of officials.

"We've brought him!" Mordan shouted above the confusion.

"Be still." Anskiere bestowed a glare dark and troubled as a hurricane. "I'll go willingly, or not at all."

"Just so ye go." Mordan fell back, bristling with unease. Anskiere slipped past. Though his storm-gray
cloak stood out stark as a whitecap amid a sea of russets and browns, no one noticed him until he stood
before the dais. A gap widened in the crowd, leaving him isolated in a circle of dust as he set his satchel
down.

"If you have asked for me, I am Anskiere." His pale, cold eyes rested on the officials.

The villagers murmured and reluctantly quieted as a plump man in scarlet leaned forward, porcine
features crinkled with calculation. "I am the Constable of the King's Justice." He paused. "You have been
accused of murder, Anshiri." A syrupy western accent mangled the name. "Over four thousand deaths
were recorded at Tierl Enneth."

A gasp arose from the villagers, cut off as the Constable sighed and laced ringed fingers under his chin.
"Have you anything to say?"

Anskiere lifted hands capable of driving sea and sky into fury. The crowd watched as though
mesmerized by a snake. Yet neither wind nor wave stirred in response to the sorcerer's gesture. Gray
cloth slipped back, exposing slim veined wrists, and Anskiere's reply fell softly as rain.

"I am guilty, Eminence."
 Stunned, the onlookers stood rooted, unable to believe the Stormwarden who had protected their fishing