"Bradley,.Marion.Zimmer.-.Darkover.-.Clingfire.1.-.Fall.Of.Neskaya.(.With.Deborah.J.Ross)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradley Marion Zimmer)

"You don't sound anything like-like the voice I heard."
The ball of light over Lady Bronwyn's hand shrank to a pinpoint. "Why, what do you mean?" she said, her voice echoing as if from a distance.
"Bells," he whispered, reaching vainly for the memory, for something to hold on to. "Silvery bells."
Silvery-silvery-sil-ver-ry . . .
The world slid sideways and went white. Coryn's jaw clamped shut, the muscles of his back and legs locked in spasm. Breath hissed between his teeth, then stopped. Pain lanced up his calves, his thighs, his arms. Fire exploded from his solar plexus. He fought for another breath.
Dimly, Coryn felt his body topple. Shadowy hands

reached out to catch him, to cushion his fall. Under his back, the ground felt prickly and cold. He heard a woman's voice, jangled bells, crying out commands.
"No, don't restrain him. Get my pack from camp- hurry!"
Footsteps receded, then approached. A hand, soft and warm, brushed his forehead, laced fingers with his. A familiar voice whispered through his thoughts.
Let me guide you through this. Threshold sickness can be frightening. But you are not alone, I am here to help you ... yes, that's right, breathe softly. I'm right here .. .
"Who's he?" came a new voice, like a sulky child's.
"Hush, now." Lady Bronwyn spoke again. "One of you men, take her back."
"I don't want to go back! You can't order me around!"
"Quiet!"
Coryn's heart skipped a beat. The next moment, he could hear nothing at all. His muscles, which had begun to soften at Bronwyn's mental touch, locked tight. Arms and legs jerked under the sudden force of the contractions. His spine arched, throwing back his head. For what seemed an eternity, he could neither hear nor see.
Coryn became sensible of his body once more, his limbs thick and sluggish as clay. His chest heaved, drawing breath into his lungs. The harsh white light of the witch-fire, for he had no other term for it, softened with yellow torchlight.
"No, it's not over," Lady Bronwyn's voice seemed to come from afar. She bent over him. He felt her breath sweet on his face. Something smooth and cold pressed against his lower lip. "Drink this. Quickly, before the next round."
"Whu-"
"Kirian. It will help the seizures."
Kirian! Rumail's vile potion!
"N-nuh-" Coryn threw his head from side to side.

"Hold still!" For an awful moment, Coryn's struggles halted, as if he were suddenly encased in ice. Hands, men's rough, strong hands, pinned his body to the ground. In his bones, he knew this had happened before-
From the corner of his blurred vision, Coryn caught sight of Rafe's face, grim with concern. It wavered, shifting form to another man's, now gray and terrifying.
A scream tore from Coryn's throat.
"Drink!"
Coryn lay helpless to resist as the neck of a glass vial passed between his teeth. Cool lemony fluid filled his mouth. His traitorous throat swallowed once, twice. Tears sprang to his eyes. He wanted to cough it up, but it was too late. Warmth spread through his stomach, outward to his limbs, melting tight muscles, easing his breath.
Coryn's arms and legs began to shake, little tremors laced with pain. Any moment, he feared, they would build into another bone-wrenching spasm, but after a minute they subsided. As the quivering left him, he sank into the earth in relief, deep and deeper ...

6
Huge and low on the horizon, the Bloody Sun cast slanting crimson rays over the walls of Castle Ambervale. Men stood at attention at the gates and along the battlements. Tents, picket lines, and food storage bins sprawled across the broad fields to the east, where once summer trading fairs were held. A squadron of spearmen drilled under the shouted orders of an officer, while other men walked sweating horses dry, cleaned weapons, and raked the ground smooth for tomorrow's armed practice. Smoke arose from the cooking pits. To the south, a village, still bustling with activity, hugged the river bank. A breeze brought the aroma of bread newly baked for the evening meal.
Rumail of Neskaya nudged his horse forward, though the weary animal needed no encouragement with home in sight. A shouted hail went up at his approach. At the threshold of the castle, two guards stepped to his side, greeting him with that deference born of fear to which he was long since accustomed. As he rode through the sally port, between the

newly reinforced gates, he glanced up at the twin banners of Ambervale and Linn, noticing the bright stitching, the freshly oiled hinges, evidence everywhere of discipline and readiness. With Verdanta secured bloodlessly by marriage, Damian could turn his attention to Acosta, maybe even the outlying provinces of Aldaran. And from that mountain stronghold, the hill kingdoms leading to the lowlands, Valeron and the Hastur lands. Yes, his brother would be pleased with his news.
In the courtyard, a gaggle of maidservants wearing white caps and aprons chattered as they swung their buckets to the well. Other servants carried baskets of green-and-gold summer marrows and baskets of steaming round-loaves and meat buns to the kitchen.
Rumail's lower back twinged as he swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to an impeccably-liveried servant. Years of service in the Towers had sapped his physical vitality, yet he would gladly pay that cost a thousand times over. Let ordinary men think him a sorcerer, for their superstitious terror was far better treatment than he'd received as an impoverished bastard. Even the respect accorded him as his brother's representative, voice of the King, paled by comparison to the heady sense of power born of his own abilities.
The coridom of Ambervale Castle welcomed Rumail with a deep bow, escorting him to his quarters himself, rather than delegating this task to an underling. Having bathed, shaved, and dined on roasted barnfowl with bramble-berry compote and soft white bread, Rumail presented himself to his brother.
Damian Deslucido, King of Ambervale and now Linn and tomorrow who knew what besides, sat in his high carved chair on a raised dais, talking easily with his coridom and a pair of men Rumail did not recognize, but guessed

must be lesser nobles, possibly from Linn by the cut of their vests and the embossed leather trim of their boots. Empty scabbards hung from their belts.
"Your Majesty," one of them said as Rumail approached, "the levies are too much. We have not enough men to bring in the harvest as it is. We still have not refilled our granaries from your-from the war."
"We will speak more of this later. Once true peace is achieved, full bellies will surely follow." Damian dismissed the man with a gesture. As the coridom escorted the two men from the presence chamber, Damian stepped down and embraced his brother.
Rumail was struck, as many times before, by how compelling and yet how uncomplicated Damian was. Not handsome, he radiated something deeper, something which drew men to him and fired them with his visions. Charisma or glamour came close to describing it, but neither were accurate, for then Rumail would have been able to defend against it with his laran. No, this was something different, so that whenever he came into his brother's presence, all resentment at his lesser status melted away as he gave himself willingly to Damian's cause.
And what a cause it was. Their father, the unlamented King Rakhal, had left Ambervale half in ruins, the people starving on lands overfarmed to pay for his gambling, his women, and his search for the Elixir of Eternal Life. Neighboring Linn had already annexed miles of the most productive lands between them.
Now Linn knelt at Damian's feet, as fanners worked their land without the threat of clingfire or any of the other deviltry which stalked the war-torn Hundred Kingdoms. All flourished in Damian's golden sun. Only a few malcontents grumbled at the armed vigilance necessary to maintain this peace.

"So, brother, what news from Verdanta? Was the old man reasonable?" Damian put one arm around Rumail's shoulders, not being bound by the etiquette which restricted casual physical contact among telepaths, and started down the hallway toward the private quarters.
"Verdanta will be yours on your own terms," Rumail replied, his words inflected with the honorifics due his lord. "And you were right-"
Rumail broke off as young Belisar came running to meet them, boots clattering on the stone floor between the strips of precious Ardcarran carpet. With his face flushed and his golden hair askew, Belisar looked younger than his sixteen years. His eyes shone bright and blue as starstones, sure to melt the heart of any maid, although Rumail never considered himself much of a judge of such things. His own liaisons at Neskaya and at Dalereuth, where he had trained, had been short-lived and unsatisfying. It was no one's fault, for like many telepaths, he found physical intimacy disappointing without a deeper sympathy, and no woman had ever stirred him in that way.