"Jane S. Fancher - Dance of the Rings 3 - Ring of Destiny" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fancher Jane S)

recovered. He'd given in once, but had resisted that subse-
quent effect, that feeling of somnolent well-being that ar-
rived with the glittering rain like a post-orgasmic lethargy.
No, he hadn't fallen asleep, and damned if he hadn't
cheated those unnamed gods of the Ley and the Lightning
yet one more chance at his oft-compromised soul.
Even now, for all he had a tent somewhere in this sea
of tents that seemed doubled and even tripled in size since
his last time here, he refused to seek out that haven, re-
fused to surrender to the very real exhaustion that made
his eyes flicker in and out of focus and his knees turn to
liquid. He refused to surrender because even now he had
to wonder whether the glitter was gone or simply overpow-
ered by the light of dawn. .
Another part of his fractured thinking wondered if per-
haps his personal battle was long since moot. Perhaps, con-
sidering the flask, still full after so many hours and so many
throat-quenching drafts, the gods had won. Perhaps he was
dead after all, and death, for that compromised soul, was
to walk alone, among bodies dreaming the peaceful dreams
of the righteous, bone-deep aches in every joint, sharp
pains everywhere else, wounds that never healed. Never
healing, never dying . . .
With only the flask for company.
He took another swig.
He could liveor not livewith that. He'd made his
decisions in life, and he'd die with the consequences.
The precisely aligned field tents rippled, faded, and
fluxed back into focus before they disappeared altogether.
Caught in mid-stride by this new twist of his singular real-
ity, Ganfrion froze, one foot in the air. But his abused-
possibly-dead body betrayed him. Balance went, knees
gave, and he staggered. His boot encountered an unex-
pected lump. The lump produced a curse, and a glancing
blow caught Ganfrion's already uncertain knees.
His mercenary blood surged, his vision cleared, and
strength returned to his limbs. Battle-honed instincts held
him upright, wavering but readyeager, evenfor a fight.
A good, honest fight would be a welcome relief after the
recent ambiguity of his life.
And proof he wasn't alone in his post-leythium-rain hell.
But the lump ignored him, rolled over and bun-owed
deeper into its cocoon of blankets, returning to its former
corpse-like condition.
Cheated of his fight, Ganfrion responded with the only
sensible alternative. He slid down to sit cross-legged next
to the lump and offered it a drink. The lump rolled over,
produced a heavy-lidded eye that took in the flask, blinked
slowly, and a reluctant grin joined the eye above the
blanket.