"David Gemmell - Druss 01 - Druss the Legend" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

'I know yours already,' whispered Rowena. 'You gave
yourself to the Drenai captain when he and his men passed through here on
patrol in the summer. You took him to the low meadow.'
'How did you find out?'
'I didn't. It was in your mind when you told me you
would share a secret with me.'
'I don't understand.'
'I can see what people are thinking. And I can
sometimes tell what is going to happen. That's my secret.'
'You have the Gift? I don't believe it! What am I
thinking now?'
'A white horse with a garland of red flowers.'
 'Oh, Ro! That's wonderful. Tell my fortune,' she
pleaded, holding out her hand.
'You won't tell anyone else?'
'I promised, didn't I?'
'Sometimes it doesn't work.'
Try anyway,' urged Mari, thrusting out her plump hand.
Rowena reached out, her slender fingers closing on Mari's palm, but suddenly
she shuddered and the colour faded from her face.
'What is it?'
Rowena began to tremble. 'I. . . I must find Druss.
Can't. . . talk . . .' Rising, she stumbled away, the washed clothes
forgotten.
'Ro! Rowena, come back!'
On the hillside above, a rider stared down at the
women by the river. Then he turned his horse and rode swiftly towards the
north.
*
Bress closed the door of the cabin and moved through
to his work room, where from a small box he took a lace glove. It was old and
yellowed, and several of the pearls which had once graced the wrist were now
missing. It was a small glove and Bress sat at his bench staring down at it,
his huge fingers stroking the remaining pearls.
'I am a lost man,' he said softly, closing his eyes
and picturing Arithae's sweet face. 'He despises me. Gods, I despise myself.'
Leaning back in his chair he gazed idly at the walls, and the many shelves
bearing strands of copper and brass, work tools, jars of dye, boxes of beads.
It was rare now for Bress to find the time to make jewellery; there was little
call for such luxuries here in the mountains. Now it was his skills as a
carpenter which were valued; he had become merely a maker of doors and tables,
chairs and beds.
Still nursing the glove, he moved back into the hearth
room.
'I think we were born under unlucky stars,' he told
the dead Arithae. 'Or perhaps Bardan's evil stained our lives. Druss is like
him, you know. I see it in the eyes, in the sudden rages. I don't know what to
do. I could never convince father. And I cannot reach Druss.'
His thoughts drifted back - memories, dark and
painful, flooding his mind. He saw Bardan on that last day, blood-covered, his