Peril’s Gate: Third Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts
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Название: Peril’s Gate: Third Book of The Alliance of Light
Автор: Janny Wurts
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Книги о войне
isbn: 9780007318087
isbn:
Lysaer s’Ilessid straightened up from the map, his golden hair hazed in low light like a nimbus. His regard felt like touching live embers bare-handed, or staring too long at the sun. ‘When else would the minion of darkness seek foothold, but amid the cruel hardship of winter?’
The mayor lacked words. He could not sustain that attentive regard, or such powerfully riveted sincerity.
‘Forgive me,’ said Lysaer. Recalled to the fact he conversed with a man outside his accustomed circle, he gentled the blaze of his majesty. ‘Of course, you would fret for your people of Narms.’ His smile was magnetic. ‘Put aside all such fear. Your town will be vigorously defended.’ On his feet, incandescent with purpose, he was a male form stamped from foil and light, his charisma too bright to seem human. ‘We’ve prepared well for this hour of trial. The faithful will march on the barrens and rise above inconvenience. Terrain and cold weather can be overcome. No foul tactic from Halwythwood’s barbarians will defer the arm of the Light’s righteous justice.’
The mayor licked dry lips. ‘I have no seasoned men-at-arms here to offer. Only those hardened few headhunters who lay over in south quarter lodgings until spring.’
Yet even the field-tested courage of such men balked at crossing the haunted vales of Daon Ramon. The woodland barbarians themselves gave wide berth to the blessed ground at Caith-al-Caen. Nor did men tread the ancient Paravian road which passed through the ruined heart of Ithamon. At the moon’s full phase, and under her darkened new face, the eerie, silver-point ghosts of the unicorns galloped in silenced passage. Their dead were still seen to pace under starlight. Ethereal spirits of departed Athlien danced in the change of the seasons, and along the avenue of hallowed standing stones stitched across Daon Ramon, the east wind sang as if speaking.
‘We’ll face a more brutal reckoning than old haunts, should the s’Ffalenn bastard establish a presence at Ithamon.’ Sulfin Evend shifted his raptor’s glance to the lanky sunwheel diviner. ‘How soon can you contact the priests of the Light stationed at Etarra and Morvain? Both cities keep garrisons prepared for fast summons. We can march eighteen companies of strike troops due east, and mount twice that number from Etarra. We’ll still be hard-pressed. To cordon Ithamon and crush Red-beard’s war bands, we need our best men called to arms damn well yesterday!’
The diviner knotted his weight and chain between restless, bird-boned fingers. ‘Word can be sent on the wings of a prayer ritual, or faster yet by the will of his divine Grace.’
‘I’ll handle this personally,’ snapped Lysaer s’Ilessid. His vehemence spat glints off gold braid and diamonds as he cut off a burly officer’s objection. ‘By the charge of truth I’m invested to uphold, I’ll suffer no minion of evil to lay his fell shadow on the land.’
Driven in dazzling, prideful magnificence, the prince clasped the Mayor of Narms by the shoulder. ‘My chosen are dedicated, trained, and relentless in their commitment to uphold the Alliance of Light. Be assured of my pledge to secure your deliverance. Nothing will stand in the way of my charge to take down the Spinner of Darkness. From Narms, we’ll require horses, fast couriers, and the skilled guidance of your veteran headhunters. If the Master of Shadow is to be brought down, every fighting man you have with experience in the barrens must lend his unstinting effort.’
Few men could withstand the imperative fire of Lysaer’s intimate company. Those candid blue eyes saw too far into the heart, lucid with a too powerfully seductive perception. Swept beyond memory of his promise to his wife, the Mayor of Narms bowed in unreserved acquiescence. ‘Prince Exalted, is there nothing my household can offer in return to grant you ease or refreshment?’
Lysaer s’Ilessid released his sure grip, warmed into touching gratitude. ‘You can give me the use of a private room, and no interruptions for an hour.’
Winter 5670
High Priest
Dedicated to his post in far-distant Tysan, Cerebeld, High Priest of the Light, was a disciplined early riser. Candles burned in his chamber before the glimmer of daybreak lit the roofs of Avenor the colors of pewter and poured lead. For the watch, shivering through the bitter misery of the night, the carmine glow from the priest’s tower windows infallibly signaled the final hour before dawn. The taciturn pair of novices who attended his eminence had learned not to trouble his solitude. Cerebeld refused to have servants assist with his dress. He donned his layered white robes on arising, and arranged the seven roped chains of high office. Washed, face and hands, in the chill basin filled for his use the past evening, he followed his rigid habit of keeping devotions until after sunrise. None dared cross his threshold before his sharp clap summoned the hot bread he preferred for his breakfast.
No aspirant who demanded an earlier audience would be admitted into his presence. The novices turned petitioners away regardless of rank, no matter their reason or urgency.
Yet predawn on this day, six men-at-arms clad in royal blue tabards with the eight-point gold star of Tysan delivered an irresistible force of persuasion. The steel-strapped oak door to Cerebeld’s chamber crashed back. The lead pair held the novices pinned to the wall, their mailed gauntlets and battle-trained strength overriding the howled chorus of protest. The ruffian in front still brandished the mace just used to mangle the door latch. With a flash of white teeth, the burly henchman who had rammed the locked panel refused any grace of apology. He offered his arm, inviting someone else poised in the stairwell across the High Priest’s breached threshold.
A suave power who matched brute force with calculation, Cerebeld arose from the sunwheel cushion that enthroned him in meditation. He knew who had come. With Prince Lysaer away on campaign in the east, only one voice dared command the elite royal guard from the garrison.
‘Her Grace, the Princess of Tysan,’ announced the rogue who intruded, his sneer for the effete scent of sandalwood wafted from the priest’s inner quarters.
Cerebeld looked down his axe-blade nose, his eyes colorless as rimed ice. His dark hair was slicked as a seal’s coat with ambergris. Even this early, he was ceremonially clothed, his sunwheel vestments of stainless white mirrored in the wax-polished floor. The gray bristles of his beard were trimmed to a point, accent to the wrought gold of yoked chains whose links were interlocked dragons. His beeswax complexion showed no flush of anger. Erect, unblinking, he displayed a sangfroid intimidation more effective than bluster or speech.
On that cold, predawn morning, the Princess of Tysan swept into his presence, unfazed. She shed her cloud of ermine cloak into the hands of her armed attendants. The candles on Cerebeld’s locked aumbries lit her crisp dazzle of sapphire silk and wired jewelry. For this audience, the lady wore formal state trappings, the stamped brilliance of gemstones and shining gold circlet a blaze of royal authority. Unasked, she sat in the chamber’s sole chair. Her skirts pooled around her demurely crossed ankles, damascened blue against her ringed hands, clasped in graceful deportment in her lap.
Doe brown eyes matched Cerebeld’s hauteur with a mutual bristle of antagonism. ‘I’m here on account of the prince, my blood son.’
The High Priest’s plum lips thinned with distaste. ‘The boy’s doings are none of my affair, your Grace, unless he strays into liaison with unwholesome powers of darkness.’
Ellaine firmed her chin. Her spring-rose beauty had lost its fresh dew. The small, timeworn lines tooled into her complexion by year upon year of resignation today underscored her striking determination. ‘The heir apparent of this kingdom has left for Karfael with the guard. I find your seal of approval gave him СКАЧАТЬ