"Kate Elliott - Jaran 2 - An Earthly Crown" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elliott Kate)

AN EARTHLY CROWN
THE SWORD OF HEAVEN 01
(JARAN BOOK 02)
Kate Elliott
тАЬBarbaras hie ego sum, qui non intelligor illis."

тАФOvid

(Here I am a barbarian, because men understand me not.)

тАЬI can take any empty space and call it a bare stage. A man walks across this empty space whilst
someone else is watching him, and this is all that is needed for an act of theatre to be engaged."

тАФPeter Brook, The Empty Space Atheneum (New York, 1968)
PROLOGUE
"Nature that framed us of four elements, Warring within our breasts for regiment,
Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds: Our souls whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the world: And measure every wandering planet's
course, Still climbing after knowledge infinite, And always moving as the restless
spheres, Wills us to wear ourselves and never rest, Until we reach the ripest fruit of
all, That perfect bliss and sole felicity, The sweet fruition of an earthly crown." тАФ
Marlowe Tamburlaine The Great
The rider left the great sprawl of tents that marked the main camp of the nomad
army just as the sun set. Dusk washed his scarlet shirt gray, and with only the gibbous
moon to light him, he soon faded into the dark of night, the susurration of his horse's
passage through the high grass marking his progress. Near midnight, he came to
another, smaller camp, and here he changed horses and went on. By dawn, he was
within sight of the low range of hills where lay the farthest outposts of the khaja, the
settled people.
One hand's span after sunrise, he rode through a village. Fields spread out around
the huts. Green shoots wet with dew sparkled in the soft light of morning. The khaja
stopped in their tasks and stared at him, a lone jaran warrior armed with a saber and a
lance, passing through their midst as if their presence was beneath his notice. None
spoke, or moved against him.
A cluster of jaran tents stood in neat lines outside the leveled sod walls that had
once protected the village. A single rider emerged from the encampment and rode out
to meet him.
The traveler reined in his mount and waited, leaning forward over the horse's
neck to whisper in its ear as it fretted at the tight rein. Then, sitting back, he lifted a
hand. "Well met," he said as the young rider from the encampment pulled up beside
him. "I am Aleksi Soerensen. I've come from the main camp, with a message for the
Gathering of Elders. You're one of Grekov's riders, aren't you?"
"I'm Feodor Grekov. His sister's son. Soerensen?" Grekov hesitated, raising a
hand to brush a lock of blond hair off of his forehead. He pronounced the name
awkwardly.
"Yes," Aleksi agreed, politely but without a smile.
"You're the orphan that Bakhtiian's wife adopted," said Feodor. He examined
Aleksi with what appeared to be common curiosity. ' 'It's said you have a fine hand for
the saber."
Aleksi was disconcerted. He had not grown used to the respect, and the