Книга только для ознакомления
.
"Bah!" Dalamar interrupted. "You might as well say it is
refreshing to see a man with his eyes gouged out!" Snatching his
arm from the old wizard's grasp, he gestured at Caramon. "You
were blind to your brother's dark ambition for years, until it was
almost too late. Now you turn sightless eyes to your own son-"
"My son is a good boy, as different from Raistlin as the silver
moon and the black! He has no such ambition! What would you
know of him anyway, you . . . you outcast?" Caramon shouted,
rising to his feet in anger. Though well over fifty, the big man had
kept himself in relatively good condition through hard work and
training his sons in the arts of battle. His hand went reflexively to
his sword, forgetting as he did so, however, that in the Tower of
High Sorcery he would be as helpless as a gully dwarf facing a
dragon. "And speaking of dark ambition, you served your master
well, didn't you, Dalamar? Raistlin taught you a lot. Perhaps more
than we know-"
"And I bear the mark of his hand upon my flesh still!" Dalamar
cried, rising to his feet in turn. Ripping his black robes open at the
neck, he bared his breast. Five wounds, like the marks of five
fingers, were visible on the dark elf's smooth skin. A thin trickle of
blood trailed down each, glistening in the cold light of the
Chamber of Wizards. "For twenty-five years, I've lived with this
pain. . . ."
"And what of my pain?" Caramon asked in a low voice, feeling
memory's hand dig sharp nails into his soul
|
