"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 3 - Crown of Shadows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

finally lifts her mouth above the surface of the waves and gasps for air, and not until she has drawn in two
or three deep breaths does the sense of panic release her. Shaking, she coughs up some water she has
swallowed, and her frozen body treads water without thought, grateful for the respite.

Above her the sailors are moving quickly. One has shed his heavy woolen jacket while another has
grabbed up a life ring. Will they come down here, after her? Rescue her, and force her to live again? That
is a concept even more terrifying than death, and she begins to swim away from them, her heart pounding
wildly in her chest. Which does she fear more?

And then she sees him, standing among them. So dark. So still. He is like the sea itself-like death
itself-and despite the distance between them she can feel the chill invasion of his thoughts in her head:
seeking, analyzing, weighing. Hungering. She watches as he puts a hand on the naked shoulder of her
would-be savior, and despite the distance between them she can hear his words as clearly as if she stood
on the deck beside him.

"She has chosen," the Hunter tells them, and there is power in his voice; they cannot disobey. "Let her

go."

The silver eyes are fixed on her: watching, waiting. He can sense the presence of Death about her, and it
fascinates him. Frightens him. For all his power, for all his centuries of wordly experience, this moment is
beyond him. For all the choices which his power makes available, this one option is forever closed to
him.

She finds new strength in that, and ceases paddling. The waves are gentle, and caress her face as she
sinks a few inches. She can taste salt on her lip, and a spot of blood where she bit herself in her panic.
Can he smell that? Does it awaken enough hunger in him that he regrets the promise he made so many
months ago, that if she chose to die rather than serve him he would honor her choice and let her go? The
complex interplay of cruelty and honor in him is something beyond her understanding. What kind of
demon clings to a simple promise when his only source of nourishment is sinking beneath the waves?

Suddenly resolved, she dives below the surface. The sea closes over her head, dark and insulating. Deep
down she swims, as far as she can manage, until her lungs are bursting with their need for air. And then
she breathes in deeply, welcoming the cool darkness into her body. Saltwater fills her lungs, and maybe
in another time, another place, there might have been pain. Not now. The spasms of her lungs are a
glorious song of freedom, and even as the darkness closes in about her, she thrills in the sensation of
dying.

No fear this time. So sorry, Hunter. No fear to feed you this time, only the bittersweet embrace of death.
Hardly an appetizer, for one like you. So sorry....

Most Holy Father,

/ write to you from the deck of God's Mercy, which sails westward with its companion ship toward the
port

of Faraday. In our struggles to return home to you we have now been at sea ten months as Prima
measures time, and not a week of that has been easy sailing. The Eastern Gate proved impassable, its
eastbound currents too swift and its guardian volcanos too active to permit us passage. Despite his many
misgivings, Captain Rozca led us south, into truly unknown waters, where even his limited experience