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tears from his eyes . . . Thick smoky air diffused the lanternlight into a dim amber glow in the back' alley
tavern. He knew he shouldn't be there on his own, in the worst part of Kahalimar, and he didn't give a
damn ... He had his hands round Dominic's throat, and he was crying as he tried to murder his brother.
Elizabeth watched them struggle, and there was nothing in her face but an endless weary contempt.
Past and present rolled into a single kaleidoscopic mosaic that battered at Jordan's mind in
overwhelming detail. He swayed and shuddered under the assault, but still clung stub-bornly to his own
sense of identity. Years of pretending to be people other than himself had given his mind a strength and
resilience beyond the norm, and even as Viktor's memories strove to convert him into a duplicate of
themselves, Jordan was already fighting back. He had to. His mind, his soul, everything that made him
unique was in danger of being supplanted by the other man's memories. He clung fiercely to what was
his, and slowly, gradually, the pressure faded. He began to pick and choose among the endless stream of
information that flowed to him from Viktor, taking only what he needed. How to move, how to talk, how
to seem Viktor without actually being him. And still the memories came and went. Jordan moved among
them at his leisure, searching for anything that looked useful or interesting. He came across something
strange, and Viktor tried to pull back, to hide the memory from him. Jordan took control easily, and
looked closely at what Viktor hadn't wanted him to see.
Viktor lay on his back in bed, with Heather snuggled up against him. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes
idly following a long wavering crack in the plaster.
'Viktor ..." said Heather muzzily.
'Yeah?'
'Do you really think there's going to be a civil war?'
'Bound to be. Too many factions, and none of them willing to compromise. Best way, in the long run. I
wouldn't feel safe as long as my brothers or the Regent were still alive.'
'I can see that, Viktor. But if there is a civil war, thousands of people could die.'
'Probably. It doesn't matter. They're only peasants, after all. Breed like rabbits. Don't go all squeamish
on me now, Heather. I'm going to need your strength. I learnt my lesson during those long years in exile.
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Look out for yourself first, and everyone else second, if at all. I don't give a damn for the peasants or the
courtiers or anyone else in this stinking country. None of them lifted a finger to help me when I needed
help. To hell with them all.'
Jordan recoiled in horror. He'd thought he was prepared for almost anything, but the depth of contempt
that Viktor had for his subjects shocked Jordan profoundly. The Prince used that moment to pull free.
There was a soundless roar, and a blinding light filled Jordan's eyes. He lurched forward in his1 chair,
unable to deal with anything but the returning rush of sensations. His face twisted as a series of agonising
muscle cramps hit him. The pains slowly faded away, and he coughed harshly, his throat dry and raw. His
eyes ached, and he knuckled them as best he could with his shaking hands. Already much of what he'd
learnt was slipping away below the conscious level, but he clung grimly to what was important. He
looked coldly at Prince Viktor, sitting slumped in his chair. The Prince's face was deathly pale, and he
was barely responding to Heather and Roderik's attempts to wake him up. Jordan shuddered suddenly.
He didn't know why he'd been so shocked at what he'd found in Viktor's mind. There was no law that
said a King had to love his people. And compared to his brothers, Viktor was almost a saint. Perhaps it
was just that Jordan was disappointed in Viktor. He'd hoped for better in the man he was to portray.
I was right the first time, he thought grimly. I am playing a villain.
Roderik leaned over him, and asked something about how he was feeling. Jordan gestured vaguely,
trying to force words past his numb lips, and then Gawaine was there, pressing a glass of brandy into his
hand. Jordan sipped the stuff gratefully, and his scattered thoughts slowly began to settle. He looked up
and saw that Roderik and Argent were half leading and half carrying Viktor out of the room. The Prince's
face was slack and dazed. Roderik and Argent paused just long enough for Heather to pull Viktor's cowl
forward so that it hid his face, and then they hustled the Prince out into the corridor. Heather hurried after
them, swearing continuously under her breath. The guards pulled the door shut again, and Jordan was left
alone in the room with Sir Gawaine. He held out his empty glass, and Gawaine poured him some more
brandy. Jordan indicated for him to keep pouring, and didn't take his glass back till it was full to the brim.
'Have one yourself,' he said hoarsely. 'How's Viktor?' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]