Готовый перевод Нова Проспект / Nova Prospect: Edge and Pearl (Эредин)

Edge and Pearl (Eredin)

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He wanted to immortalize that rounded hip line, so gracefully accentuated by the scarlet glow of the sunset. Not the abstract constellation of shapes and colors that Ge'els loved so much, but a work in the spirit of the old masters who were able to bring out the divine in the mundane.

Eredin leaned back on the pillows, shifting his gaze from the waterfalls flowing down the stairs to the naked body of his lover, but the pleasure of contemplation was overshadowed by the name that loomed intrusively in his thoughts.

Zireael.

The very memory of Lara Dorren's human descendant prevented him from savoring Eltara's exquisite beauty forged over generations, but Eredin could not get the thought of his folk's fatal mistake out of his mind.

Not a nation, though - just one renegade, a traitor who couldn't control her lust and threw herself into Dh'oine's arms. A mistake for which he had to pay.

Eredin rose from his bed, causing Eltara's carefully concealed displeasure. He had long ago learned that capricious grimaces always suited beautiful women, and his current lassie, with a look of mild disappointment on her face, was utterly charming. If Eredin hadn't had a meeting with the counselor, he wouldn't have been tempted to take her again.

Zireael.

How long would that girl with the tainted blood take up his time? How long could she run from her destiny? Eredin felt that sacrificing herself for Aen Elle, the race whose genes she owed her uniqueness to, would be the best thing Zireael could have done in her short human life. And what a pity the girl was too stupid to realize it.

The empty eyes of the servants watched his every move as Eredin entered the reception hall. He had left the hall decoration unchanged since Auberon's time, driven by indifference rather than respect for his predecessor.

There was no more worthy candidate for ruler among the Aen Elle than Eredin. And so he was disgusted by the rotten stench of rumor surrounding his ascension to the throne. But his subjects chattered and whispered in the nooks and crannies of countless rooms, their gossip echoing beneath the white vaults of the palace, settling on the walls like dirt.

The ignorant assumption, first expressed by the same Zireael, had grown into a weed in his lands - and like all things human, multiplied, spreading faster than the plague.

Fortunately, this nonsense could not poison Karanthir's mind. He was in many ways superior to his mentor, whose dry, encyclopedic knowledge often prevented him from seeing things for what they were. Avallac'h was blind. But while Eredin could still forgive blindness, he could not forgive weakness. Avallac'h had shown it by chasing after the ghost of a former love, a distorted copy, many times inferior to the original. It meant that his past failures had not taught him the simple rule that if you want to control fate and women, you must use your power, not run after them with an outstretched hand.

Caranthir, clad in a spacious robe, was already waiting for Heredin, gazing at the reflection of the scarlet sunset in Easnadh. When he heard the king's footsteps, he turned and bowed in a perfectly honed movement. Eredin, who had grown accustomed to simplicity in his years of military service, once again mentally regarded court ceremonial as superfluous, though he recognized in it a certain fundamental and traditional nature on which the culture of his people had been built.

"Zireael," Karanthir began his speech with a familiar name, "is caged."

The irony of the phrase made Eredin think that his favorite songbird was too old to enjoy singing. It was time to find a replacement.

The news of the swallow did not surprise him in the least. He had been the first to notice the marks in the Betweenworlds, rough, desperate blows as if someone buried alive was trying to break free. It was Eredin who had ordered Caranthir to find out their nature, sensing the unmistakable scent of the Elder Blood.

"The world she's trapped in is... unusual."

Without waiting for a clarifying question, Caranthir led his king to a bizarre device - two tubes topped with metal spheres. One of them was tied with a silk ribbon. Eredin had never seen anything like it before, the crude workmanship of the metal suggesting that the mechanism was of human origin.

"How does it work?" Eredin leaned over to get a closer look at the gimmick.

"With the forces that make lightning shake the sky."

Karantir placed his palm on the metal sphere. A few moments later, magical currents stirred around the device, but they were created not by the sorcerer's will, but by nature itself. A spark erupted in the air, and a miniature lightning bolt erupted from the sphere in a bright flash.

"If we control nature by taking energy for ourselves, then humans have created tools to curb that energy," Caranthir explained the meaning of the experiment.

"I can't say I'm impressed," Eredin grinned, and with a small gesture, he created a lightning bolt in his hand that, unlike the one created by the device, would have been fatal.

Caranthir did not share his skepticism as he watched the sparkling orb. When Eredin turned to him, breaking the long silence, Karantir nodded toward the garden, which stretched in a green maze all the way to Easnadh.

The suggestion of a walk was the usual precursor to a tedious lecture. Karanthir had inherited his passion for long discourses from his mentor.

"There are many more of these weapons in their world. People have been able to control the various forces of nature," Caranthir glanced down at the taut jets of the waterfall, crashing noisily against the river's surface.

Their world did not tolerate fussiness. With that in mind, Eredin did not interrupt his advisor, waiting for him to get to the point of his rant. Caranthir silently looked at the falling leaf of the weeping willow. It was such long and well-timed pauses that had made Caranthir famous as a sage.

"But that's not what I'm worried about, it's that humans have curbed the energy of elementary particles. And that, my friend, is death. The destroyer of worlds, the destroyer of all life."

None of the inventions of the human race could be more terrifying than the White Chill. Scientific progress was of little concern to Eredin: the main weakness of the human race was not technological backwardness, but their very essence.

"Tell me, Eredin, what is the power of humans?"

Eredin glanced at the servants, phantoms gliding through the palace. All the power they had once possessed had been destroyed by careful selection. His eyes flashed before his eyes, the faces of people distorted in pain, thousands - hundreds of thousands - who had died by his sword. But no matter how many lives he took, new ones took their place, no different from their predecessors.

"In fertility."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eltara leaning over a book in the shade of a centuries-old oak tree. The snow-white dress was fitted to her slim waist. It would be years, decades before that smooth line rounded out. Monogamy was not one of Eredin's virtues - but none of his many passions had given him an heir.

"Nine billion. There are nine billion souls in that world."

My name is Legion, for we are many. The number seemed monstrous, even by human standards, and conjured up an anthill, a thousand swarming insects. Eredin stepped a little harder on the stone slab of the path, driven by the desire to crush the horde before it filled all the inhabited worlds.

"Let me contradict you, my friend, the strength of humans is in adaptability."

There was some truth in Caranthir's words. Humans could multiply in places where an elf would hesitate to set foot. They'd built their cities in deserts, in tundras, in mountains - no doubt they'd breed in dungeons, too, if forced into them.

"Those people burned their magically gifted kin and took a different path. They put metal in their bodies and created mechanical servants."

Their path led them past a pond where small, colorful fish swam. Avallac'h had been able to breed fish whose scales shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow by crossbreeding the best of each generation. Eredin grinned - the biography of the pond's inhabitants reflected Caranthir.

"They're dangerous."

Eredin cast a doubtful glance at his companion. Had cowardice poisoned his heart? He despised cowardice far more than humans.

"What do you suggest, Karantir?"

Caranthir halted his step, and his wandering gaze lingered on Eredin for the first time.

"Caution and prudence," he said quietly. "We don't need war, we need Zireael."

"I will go first," Eredin replied in a tone that suggested no further discussion, "my army will follow."

His army was thirsty for human blood, eager to regain their glory as conquerors. If he gave the signal, they would enter the new world through hundreds of portals. The human race would have to confront Aen Elle with more than metal tools.

The Wild Hunt could not go on forever - it was time to end it. He had always favored foreign policy over domestic policy, shifting the burden of dealing with palace intrigue to Ge'els.

He will not sit on the throne as a lifeless puppet, as Auberon did, while his folk are threatened. He would give his life, both his own and Zireael's, to avert the threat.

Eredin was luxurious at home, but he traveled as a warrior, not as a king, without excessive luxury or fuss. When he informed Eltara of his imminent departure, she responded with a brief nod and a ceremonial wish for good luck in battle. She would never stoop to vulgar lamentations, never question him, never dare to irritate him with her anxiety.

When the gates to the new world opened before him, he looked like the warriors depicted in ancient frescoes, his face hidden by a helmet and his body shrouded in steel armor. He had never feared the portals - they beckoned to him, promising new lands, new wars, and new women.

The portal took him to the white spiral staircase of a tall tower. Eredin had expected to see something extraordinary, but through the wide window, all he could see was a vast gray sky and many tall buildings. Gray, black, brown - the planet seemed to be writhing in malaise, afflicted by a severe disease - and the name of the disease was "human".

And yet she was beautifully virginal. Eredin felt the magic flowing through the space, unbridled and wild. For a moment, he was intoxicated by a sense of power that normally had to be shared with others, and here it was all his own.

Zireael must have been a natural inmate of the towers - this one was called, judging by the ornate inscription on the door, +++"Medical Research Center. The person who'd named the building that way had no idea of euphony.

Eredin closed his eyes, searching the streams for the trail of the Elder Blood, and soon he felt it. It led to the top of the tower. It was at least a dozen stairways before he saw the sign on the door that read ++"Psychiatric Ward.

The door opened silently, without the usual creak, revealing a snow-white room. A human woman sat at a long table, not immediately reacting to the noise. He was surprised by the absence of the usual stench of sewage and sweat common in the human world. The Dh'oine had finally mastered the previously inaccessible art of hygiene.

When she did raise her head, Eredin saw a contempt he hadn't seen in her eyes in a long time.

"Young man, to show up at the psychiatry clinic like this is just the insolence. Who do you think you are, a Nazgul?"

The Dh'oine have learned hygiene, but rudeness and ignorance still run in their blood.

Eredin placed his palm on the hilt of his sword, hoping the gesture would bring the Dh'oine to reason. He had already changed his habits by not killing the insolent woman on the spot, but if she continued to test his patience, she would share the fate of her many kin.

"One more word, human, and it will be your last."

The scornful expression on his face was immediately replaced by the fear he was accustomed to. Dh'oine slammed her fist into the red circle, and a rhythmic howl shook the tower. The sound was worse than claws scraping on glass - Eredin had never imagined such ugly combinations of sounds existed.

Dh'oine has signed her death warrant. People think of mercy as a virtue, but in reality, it is often born of vanity and fear. The woman did not even try to dodge the sword that had struck her. Her postmortem grimace was forever imprinted on her face, a mixture of fear and surprise, while red blood slowly spread across the white floor.

Eredin strode down the long, unnatural white-lit corridor. He threw the first Dh'oine he encountered and tried to attack against the wall - judging by the way the bones cracked, the man was not made of metal.

In the little room, he saw a girl swaying methodically from side to side, who clutched her eyes at the sight of him and whispered desperately, as if in a fever:

"You're not real, you're not real..."

Dh'oine was wishful thinking. Eredin left the unfortunate prisoner of his fantasies, but he cut the guard in two as he tried to pierce his armor with a needle.

The howling continued, and gradually it began to make his head ache. Only the Dh'oine could have devised such an elaborate torture. Eredin hesitated before opening the door to the next room - knowing who awaited him behind that door, he removed his helmet. He wanted to see her face when she realized who was in front of her.

Zireael lay, lifeless and messy, on a snow-white bed, reminding Eredin of the old tale of the princess who fell asleep forever. An unnatural sleep, not interrupted even by a shrieking howl. There were ropes attached to Zireael's temples, and judging by the peaceful heaving of her chest, they were not painful.

The white, coarse robe made her look girlishly fragile. The long scar across her cheek had faded with time, but it still disfigured her face. It had been a short five years since they'd last met, but in that time she'd gone from a young girl to a young woman. The fledgling had fledged, though the human ugliness was still evident.

Eredin ordered the navigators to open the gate. Catching the swallow in the net was much easier than he had expected. When he pulled the ropes from Zireael's temples, the girl stirred and opened her huge green eyes, the beauty of which she owed to his kind.

"Do you remember me?"

She remembered him. The fear in her eyes said it better than words could. Something was mesmerizing... almost enchanting about that fear. The fear gave her face a refined expression, made it more elfish. The last time they'd met, all he'd seen on Zireael's face was typically human boldness, insolence, a desire to challenge.

"You..." Zireael exhaled, as if unable to tell where was dream and where was reality.

The look of wide-open eyes slid past him, spoiling the long-awaited moment of reunion. Eredin turned sharply, scratching Zireael's forehead with his metal glove, and saw the man who had disturbed them.

He wore a dapper leather cloak with floral patterns, and his eyes were hidden by dark mirrors embedded in his temples. The human warriors he'd seen before were scarred from head to toe - but this one's skin was shamefully smooth. A coward who'd never been in a real battle.

Dh'oine pointed his ridiculous instrument, a long iron pipe, at Eredin.

"Weapons on the floor," he had the nerve to order. "You have exactly one second. One."

Another fool in his path. This fool is destined for the same fate as many others.

Dh'oine clenched the tube tighter in his hand. The deafening pop made his ears pop and something that should have killed him ricocheted off the protective sphere that enveloped him and out the window. Eredin had to admit if it hadn't been for the shield, the Dh'oine would have hit him right between the eyes.

"Two," Eredin supported his game, drawing his sword to strike back.

Zireael's scream sank in the background of the mechanical howl.

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86809/568909

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP