"Cecilia Dart-Thornton - The Bitterbynde 03 - The Battle of Evernight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dart-Thornton Cecilia)

oblivious of its beauties or horrors, blind to obstacles that tore at her. Reaching level ground, she rose
onto trembling legs and walked, an action her limbs seemed to remember by some instinct of their own.
The little dog was gone. The girl had lain a long time underground after the cave-in, at whiles licking
at water-droplets that oozed from the rock. Buried alive, she was presumed dead. The Hunt had been
abandoned because the hunters had not known who she was, believing her to be merely some foolish
spy, some unlucky wanderer or thief, now punished by death beneath the rock fall. Yet she had survived,
whether due to the Lady Nimriel's mysterious gift or some inherent strength, or something else,
unfathomable.
The ground had emptied from beneath her feet. She hurtled downward, to be brought up on a
spear-point of agony. Her bracelet had snagged on a dead twig. She released the catch and fell into a
thicket of Hedera paradoxis.
Hours passed.
Later, lying ivy-poisoned by the roadside, the shorn-haired waif in tattered masculine attire had been
discovered by a passing carter. He had stolen her Fa├кran cloak and delivered her into the hands of
Grethet.
Much had happened since then . . .
Now, as memories flooded back like sap rising in Spring, a strange euphoria blossomed within the
damsel lying in a semi-trance beneath the night-bound woods near Huntingtowers. The experience of
recall imbued her with power. She felt like a winged being looking down on the world from an impossible
height, while a light of glory crayonned her pinions in gold. So expanded was she in this virtual form that if
she held out her hand she could cup the rain. Clouds brushed her cheek with cold dew, and should she
raise her arms she could catch the sun like a golden ball. Mankind moved like beetles around her feet,
and nothing could touch her. She had endured it all and been borne through, shining. She was winning.
So far.
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Her shoulder hurt. It was being shaken in an iron claw. Her entire body quaked. She thrust off the
claw, uttering an inarticulate groan.
"Rohain! Mistress!" Hazel eyes in a rounded, dimpled face appeared, framed by bobbing yellow
curls with brown roots.
Sitting up, the dreamer took a swig from the water-bottle. Like any warrior, she rinsed her mouth
and spat, then wiped her lips on her bloodstained sleeve.
"Via, I told you not to call me that. And cut your fingernails." She rubbed her shoulder. "Are we
alive?"
"Yes, all three. You saved us."
"I would like to agree, but I have this ornament on my finger which is responsible for our current
state of health." Her hands wandered up to her face, lightly touching the forehead, the nose, the chin. She
examined a strand of dark hair. "Am I as I was? Am I ugly or beautiful? Boy or girl?"
Viviana and Caitri exchanged meaningful looks.
"Your experience at Huntingtowers has unsettled you, er . . . Tahquil," said Caitri. "Come, let us
help you to your feet. We must get away from here. We are still too close to that place."
As they stood up, the one they called Tahquil swayed, clutching at her heart. Leaning against a
linden tree, she closed her eyes and grimaced.
"Zooks, ma'am, what is amiss?" asked Viviana, full of concern.
"Ah, no, it cannot be. Alas, it has me again. This, then, is the price."
"What has you?"
"The Langothe. There's no salve for it." The sufferer gulped down her pain. "Let us go on." I must
endure the unendurable.
She wondered how long it would take to destroy her.
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It was the second of Duileagmis, the Leafmonth, viminal last month of Spring. In the woods, every