"Raymond E. Feist - Conclave of Shadows 3 - Exile's Return" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

He knew his time was short as he sheltered under an overhang from the afternoon
sun. He had been three days on the trail and his water had been used up at dawn. He
was lightheaded and disoriented and had stumbled down the side of the ridge to a
shaded area to wait out the heat.
He knew that if he didn't find water by nightfall, he most likely would not awake
tomorrow morning. His lips were cracked and his nose and cheeks peeled from
sunburn. Lying on his back, he ignored the pain from his blistered shoulders as they
rested against the rocks. He was too tired to allow the pain to bother him; besides, the
pain let him know he still lived. He would wait until the sun was low in the west, then
work his way down to the flat land below. The landscape was bleak and unforgiving:
broken rocks and hardpan lay in every direction. He realized that the magician who
had transported him here had given him little chance for survival; this was a desert by
any measure, even if it lacked the flowing sands he associated with that name.
The few trees he had encountered were lifeless and dry, and even the underside
of rocks were without a hint of moisture. One of his teachers had told him years ago
that water could sometimes be found below the surface in the desert, but Kaspar was
certain it wouldn't be at this elevation. Whatever streams had graced this landscape
ages before, any water was now long vanished; if any remained, it would be in those
gullies that were his goal, down below the cracked surface towards which he
staggered. For a brief moment he paused to catch his breath, which now labored; no
matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn't seem to get enough air. He knew it was
another symptom of his plight.
Kaspar had never seen so bleak a place. The great sand ergs of the Jal-Pur of
northern Kesh had seemed exotic, a place of shifting forms, a veritable sea of sand.
He had been a boy with his father, and a lavish entourage of royal servants from the
Imperial Keshian court at his beck and call, amid a mobile village of colorful tents
and opulent pavilions. When his father hunted the legendary sand lizards of the Jal-
Pur, servants were always nearby with refreshing drinksтАФwater scented with herbs or
fruit extracts, cleverly kept cool in boxes packed with snow from the mountains. Each
night was a royal feast, with chilled ales and spiced wine.
Just thinking of those drinks caused Kaspar near-physical pain. He turned his
fevered thoughts to his current surroundings.
Here there were colors, but nothing remotely attractive to the eye, just harsh
ochre, dingy yellow, the red of rusted iron, and a tan muted with gray. Everything was
covered by dust, and nowhere was there a hint of green or blue indicating water,
though he had noticed a shimmer to the northwest, which might be a reflection of
water on the hot air.
He had only hunted once in the hot lands of Kesh, but he remembered everything
he had been told. The Keshians were descendants of the lion hunters who roamed the
grasslands around the great lake called the Overn Deep, and their traditions had
endured through the centuries. The old guide, Kulmaki, had counseled Kaspar, 'Watch
for birds at sundown, young lord, for they will fly to water.' For the last two days he
had scanned the horizon in vain; but not a bird had he seen.
As he lay exhausted and dehydrated he lapsed in and out of consciousness, his
mind alive with a mix of fever dreams, memories and illusions.
He recalled a day as a boy when his father had taken him hunting, the first time
he had been permitted to accompany the men. It had been a boar hunt, and Kaspar had
barely the strength to handle the heavy-tipped boar spear. He had ridden close to his
father as he took the first two boars, but then he had faced his own, he had hesitated,
and the pig had dodged the broad head of Kaspar's weapon. He had glanced over and