"Rawn, Melanie - Dragon Star 03 - Skybowl" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

She shied away from the specific pain that had called her mind back into its battered shell of a body. The physician calmly noted what had been done and gave assurances that it would heal. But Chayla could not acknowledge what the pain meant.
A cold breeze wrapped around her naked skin. She wished it was water, enough to wash away the filth, enough to float forever in silken cleanness. She remembered how in childhood at Whitecliff even the sight of the sea from her windows made her queasy. Now she wanted to plunge herself into endless water and have a Sunrunner's honest excuse to vomit.
She forced herself to sit up, push matted hair from her face, open her eyes. The fire had gone out, and she was alone. Morning seeped through the green weaving of trees at the mouth of the cave. She drew on her clothes, wrenched muscles protesting every movement. Her shirt and tunic and trousers weren't even torn. Why should they be? He weighed at least twice what she did, and was three times as strong.
Her clothes stank of him. Her skin felt of him. Her mouth tasted of him and her own blood. There was no part of her body that did not bear his imprint.
She didn't want to wash in an ocean of water, she wanted to drown in it.
Sliding along the wall to the entrance, she peered out at what little she could see of the world. A thin forest of evergreens, a road below, a great sentinel pine, a canyon wall beyond, western crags painted by dawnfire.
Had she expected the world to change? That the sun would hide in shared shame, the sky wrap itself in mourning gray, the rocks bleed in sympathy?
Was this what awaited Meiglan?
She drew back into the shadows as two of the Vellant'im strolled by. One of them was him.
"No reia, no diarmadhi, no faradhi," he said, ticking off the words on his fingers, and laughed as he finished with, "No brenac!"
Dully, she waited for the meaning to come to her. It took a long time. When it did, she bit her lip and shuddered.
Woman-child, he'd said. Virgin.
Oh, Goddess.
My father will kill youЧand my grandfather will tear apart what's left and feed it to the carrion crows.
She told herself she had enough Fire to kill him. To kill them all. She was a Sunrunner. Her parents were both powerful Sunrunners. Her uncle was the Lord of Goddess Keep himself. She could do it.
She searched for rage enough to lend her strength. All she found was numb weariness. The time for it had come and gone. Killing would not undo what had been done to her last night, again and again andЧ
No. I won't remember. I won't!
The physician remarked that once more her mind was choosing to abandon her fleshЧnot from pain this time, but
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from loathing. She curled against the rock wall and closed her eyes, willing her brain and body to separate.
It was very hard. There were so many bruises, so many memories in her flesh that moaned of their hurt, like feverish children crying for their mother. Her mind rejected them. Their whimperings slowly faded away. The last thing she thought before she thought nothing more was that perhaps, if she was very lucky, she would never have to listen to them again, never have to fit herself back inside her body again at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
rrince Tilal held a debate with himself all the way from High Kirat to the mouth of the Faolain: sneak up on the Vellant'im or march in as if he owned the place? (Well, his nephew Daniv did own the western bank of it.)
The victory at Swalekeep argued the direct approach. Surely word had spread; mere sight of Ossetia's dark green banner with its golden wheat sheaf ought to scare the enemy witless. He was well aware, however, that he owed that triumph not to superior numbers or his own skills as a commander, but to a ruby-eyed dragon token stolen from the enemy's ally, Prince Rinhoel.
Tilal was still weighing probabilities thirty measures from the sea. He must decide soon. Now. If only the sky would clear and allow Andrev to scout ahead for him. Riders searched as far forward as they dared. No one was sure where or whether the Vellant'im lingered along the river. Burned farms and unharvested fields offered nothing to live on, but Riverport might still be garrisoned and the enemy seemed able to supply themselves with food and drink out of thin air.
He worried the problem and his lower lip until both were raw. Slink in by night and slit throats? Surge over the coastal hills and slaughter them in open battle? Be bold or be sneaky? Challenge them or trick them?
But Tilal had seen too many of his people wounded and killed. As he wobbled between various plans, fighting them out in his mind and unable to accept even the most optimistic estimate of casualties, he learned something about war.
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When a commander's first concern became his army instead of victory, he was very likely to lose that army in defeat.
As it happened, the decision was taken from him. On the morning of the sixtieth day of Winter, the storm that had bellied up the river and provided cover for Saumer to enter Faolain Lowland drew its last wispy veils north. Andrev used the clear sunlight immediately, and within moments reported that a battle was already going on.
"There's a lot of fighting onshore, my lord. ButЧyou'll never believe thisЧPrince AmiePs flag is raised on two of the five ships in the bay!"
"AmielЧ?" Tilal swung around and stared southward as if he could see this marvel with his own eyes across the intervening measures. "Goddess help him! You're right, Andrev. I don't believe it!"
"The ships the Vellant'im still hold are going after the other two. They're heading out to sea at a good clip."
Tilal frowned. "Where do they think they're going? Oh, never mind. I know you don't know any more than I do. All right. As I understand it, his 'army' consists mainly of physicians. Young idiot! How in Hells did he take those ships?" Turning to Chaltyn, he said, "There's no time for anything pretty. Fifteen measures at a hard gallop, and then hack our way through them."
"Very good, my lord."
"No, not very good at all. But at least we may surprise them."
They did.
The fight was over by noon, with nothing elegant about it. Vellant'im gathered along the bay turned their backs to the sea and fought even as they were driven into the surf. Some of them died hip-deep in saltwater. But most of them did die. The beach was so soaked with blood that the sinuous tracery of driftwood and shells marking the wave line was obliterated for a full measure of its length.
Tilal learned three interesting things that afternoon when he and Amiel finally met over a belated meal along the rocky shore. First, Nyr was pregnant. Amiel announced this before anything else, and as if no one had ever accomplished such a thing before.
"Congratulations," Tilal said politely. "I understand your enthusiasm, but perhaps we can discuss your dynastic tri-
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umph after you've told me what in all Hells you thought you were doing by stealing those ships."
Amiel blinked. "Didn't I tell you?"
"No. What you've said thus far is, 'I'm glad to see you, my lord,' 'Thank you for your help, my lord,' 'I hope you weren't injured, my lord,' and 'My lady wife is expecting a child, my lord.' " Tilal grinned. "Pull up a rock and sit down. You can tell me the rest of it now that the really important news is out. Andrev, some wine to toast the next prince or princess of Gilad. Oh, your pardonЧAmiel, you don't know Lord^Andrev, my Sunrunner and squire. It was his sighting of your little seaside party that brought us here at speed."
"Lord Andry's son?" Amiel's hazel-brown eyes popped. He recovered himself in good order and nodded acknowledgment of Andrev's bow. "I've your skills to thank, then, for sparing my people more hurts. I'm in your debt."
"Not at all, your grace."