"Fancher, Jane - Rings 2 - Ring Of Intrigue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fancher Jane S)

Hard to judge which would be more devastating to the
security and cohesion of the Rhomatum Web Syndicate of
Nodes: a general collapse, or the failure of only that newest
highly controversial link.
Thirty-three years ago, when Anheliaa first seriously con-
templated capping Khoratum, she had made certain prom-
ises to the other seventeen satellite nodes in the Syndicate
whose cooperation, and power, she'd needed for the ven-
ture. Considering the promises contained in those contracts,
the repercussions of a drop in available energy, and the
rights of the satellites to demand compensation, three prod-
igal nephews might well be the least of Anheliaa's cur-
rent concerns.
She might, in fact, welcome them home with open arms
as alternate targets for the Syndicate's fury. Particularly
Mikhyel dunMheric, who was her primary voice to that
august body.
He shifted uncomfortably, Deymorin' growing sexual ex-
citement penetrating his consciousness despite his specula-
tive exercises. He was happy for his brother, he truly was.
Deymorin was a robust fellow, libidinous to the point of
obsession, to his way of thinking. To have found a woman
whose appetite matched his own had only improved his
overall disposition.
But a brother who preferred a calm and celibate life
would far rather endure the pain of Nikki's healing shoul-
der, or Deymorin's aching leg, or the cold, or . . . anything.
Somewhere, Nikki was radiating concern for a horse that
was "foundering," a term he'd heard his brothers use and
never truly understood. Mikhyel opened himself willingly
to Nikki, and a satisfying complex of images and emotions
and thoughts flooded his mind.
And still his body, with an appalling lack of consideration
for his peace of mind, responded along with Deymorin's.
The cursed link was worse here, far more intense than it
had been at Armayel, where he'd been aware of
Deymorin's . . . activities . . . but only as a half-dream,
easily ignored.
He curled over, pressing his fists to his temples.
"Mikhyel dunMheric?"
The voice was harsh. Unfamiliar. And agreeably outside
his head. He looked up. Dropped his hands.
The voice belonged to a man who, by his demeanor and
the rather forceful-looking individuals at his back, was offi-
cial. It was a guard. Several guards, only a handful of whom
wore the Rhomatum constabulary's midnight blue. The oth-
ers were markedly not in uniform.
He drew a breath and stood up, drawing his cloak about
him as he did so, painfully, distractingly aware of
Deymorin.