Scion of Cyador (L. E. Modesitt) читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги

CXIX

In the golden glow of the single lamp, Lorn sits on the edge of the ornate bed, his eyes focused nowhere. He can hear Kerial’s gentle breathing from the small bed against the wall.

“You’re worried about Myryan.” Ryalth sits up, propping a pillow behind her against the headboard.

“Wouldn’t you be?” asks Lorn. “I’ve thought about it, but I can’t think of anything that would help.” He frowns. “Not that wouldn’t hurt you and Kerial worse.”

“You’ve thought about that before.”

“I debated killing Kharl’elth just before I became a lancer officer, when it was clear Father would consort Myryan to Ciesrt. I didn’t try. Instead, I pleaded to Father. He waited almost two years, but he still did it. He wrote me, told me that none of us had the choices others thought we did. I’m still not sure if he was right-or if I shouldn’t have done something then.”

“They would have found out, and killed you, and then I’d have lost you, and Kerial wouldn’t be.”

“They didn’t find out other-”

“Lorn…he’s the Second Magus. The Magi’i would never stop looking.”

“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t. I didn’t even try.” He does not look at Ryalth, instead looks nowhere.

“Lorn…”

“What?”

“You won’t solve this by looking into space. You can try to sleep. You can talk to me. You can try to find a verse in the book that helps. You can use the chaos-glass…seek out something…I know you…”

He turns, opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it. He shakes his head. “That’s not fair.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Nothing.”

After a long silence, he finally reaches for the silver-covered volume that has remained on the bedside table since he returned from Assyadt. He looks at the cover, the green-tinged silver that almost holds a rainbow in the lamplight, before he turns the pages. After a time, he reads.

Should I again listen to which song?

We have listened oh so long.

Should I again fly on learning wings?

We have learned what yearning brings.

“That’s sad,” Ryalth says. “It is like Myryan in a way.”

Lorn swallows. “I know. That’s why I read it.” He continues to turn pages. Then he begins again, more slowly, until he comes to a verse which, strangely, he does not quite recall, not really, yet now the words seem all too clear.

The sages honor the chains of duty, pride,

how they uplift those who live, those who died.

What think they of the death of love and care?

Of the children women will never bear,

a dry-eyed consort too bereft to cry,

a mother who will see her sons but die,

a consorting suit that never will be worn —

these weapons of the forgotten and forlorn

pierce bright cupridium and chaos fire,

flaming honor to ashes of desire.

Speak not of honor, you who command hold,

nor bright ballads write of your days of old,

when, in age, you put your pen upon the page

and claim that all you did was meet and sage.

I have claimed the same, and yet well I know

that to that chaos I created will I go.

Lorn shakes his head. After a while, he begins to speak. “That’s the problem. No matter how great the ideal, no matter how noble the cause, the innocent suffer. Anything I do for Myryan-that I know how to do-will hurt others worse. All I can do is listen, and try to cheer her up. And it’s not enough.”

“Sometimes…sometimes listening is all anyone can do. And sometimes it is enough.” Ryalth offers a kind smile. “She knows you care. That helps.”

As he sets down the book, and finally turns down the lamp wick until the flame gutters out, Lorn wonders: Will his caring help enough?