"Zelazny, Roger - Amber Short Story 02 - The Salesman's Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

dealt with over the years, and of something else. I withdrew my deck of cards.
Uncasing them, I moved slowly through until I came to the sad one--dad's. I had
kept his card for sentiment's sake, not utility. He looked just as I remembered
him, but I hadn't sought it for purposes of reminiscence. It was because of the
item he wore at his side.
I focussed on Werewindle, by all accounts a magical blade, in some way
related to Corwin's Greyswandir. And I recalled Merlin's telling me how his
father had summoned Greyswandir to him in Shadow, following his escape from the
dungeons of Amber. There was some special affinity between him and that weapon.
I wondered. Now that the pace had quickened and new adventures were looming, it
would probably be advisable to face things prepared with the appropriate steel.
Though dad was dead, Werewindle was somehow alive. Though I could not reach my
father, might I somehow reach his blade, its whereabouts, of last report,
somewhere in the Courts of Chaos? I focussed my attention upon it, calling it
with my mind. It seemed that I felt something, and when I touched it the spot it
occupied on the card seemed to be growing cold. I reached. Farther. harder.
And then there was clarity and nearness and the feeling of a cold, alien
intelligence regarding me.
"Werewindle," I said softly.
If there can be the sound of an echo in the absence of a prior sound this
is what I heard.
"Son of Brand," came a reverberation.
"Call me Luke." There was silence. Then, "Luke," came the
vibration.
I reached forward, caught hold of it, and drew it toward me. The scabbard
came with it. I drew back. I held it in my hands then and I drew it. It flowed
like molten gold around the design it wore. I raised it, extended it, executed a
cut. It felt right. It felt perfect. It felt as if enormous power lay behind its
every movement.
"Thanks," I said, and the echo of laughter came and went.
I raised my pad and opened it to the appropriate page, hoping it was a good
time to make the call. I regarded the lady's delicate features, her unfocussed
gaze that somehow indicated the breadth and depth of her vision. After a few
moments, the page grew cold beneath my fingertips, and my drawing took on a
3-dimensional quality, seemed faintly to stir.
"Yes?" came her voice. "Your Highness." I said. "However you may
perceive these things, I want you to know that I have intentionally altered my
appearance. I was hoping that--"
"Luke," she said, "of course I recognize you--your own Majesty now," her
gaze still unfocussed. "You are troubled."
"Indeed I am." "You wish to come through?"
"If it is appropriate and convenient."
"Certainly."
She extended her hand. I reached forward, taking it lightly in my own, as
her studio came clear, banishing gray skies and crystal hill, I took a step
toward her and I was there. Immediately, I dropped to my knees, unclasped my
swordbelt and offered her my blade. In the distance, I could hear sounds of
hammering and sawing.
"Rise," she said, touching my shoulder. "Come and be seated. Have a cup of
tea with me."