"Scott G. Gier - Genellan 02 - In the Shadow of the Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gier Scott G)

the stone pickers. Above her and below, the granite face was pockmarked
with rock shelves and caves, the warrens of hunters. Lower were the
smoothly finished caves of the guilders. And far below was the crashing
river. Pebbles would forever fall.

Ki returned to the brink and listened. The sparkling air, shot with
zephyr-driven fog, resounded with an excited riot of joyous screams, an
ultrasonic cacophony of exultation. Hunters soared on thermals, wheeling
and winging in the ecstasy of free flight. So festiveтАФso unusualтАФfor the
dour likes of her fellow cliff dwellers.

As uncharacteristic as her own sublime gaiety. That heightened
well-being blossomed into insurmountable joy; the sleek-furred huntress
detected the distinctive sonics, the clear emanations from her own issue, the
echoing pulses of her last living son returning home. His signal call, as
distinctive as any signature, reverberated closer, commingling with the
adolescent twitters of the girl-child. Ki hopped from the perimeter wall and
stood taller, pickax head held erect.

Notta, the daughter, arrived first.

"Brappa returns!" the girl screeched, her membranes fluttering. Notta
landed with ungainly youth, tottering on the wall. Alas, a female, yet
certainly Ki's favorite, for the matriarch would never have another, could
never have anotherтАФBraan, the sire, was dead. And, thank the gods, she
was too old.
 A second presence materialized, powerful and graceful, diaphanous
airfoils beating majestically. For a cruel instant Ki's mind played tricksтАФthe
great warrior Braan, her husband, had returned. Her husband, no, never
again to return; her life mate was dead, buried as he had died, in the
embrace of the long-legs hero, in the epic battle with the bear people. No, it
was not her husband in the mist; it was her brave and good son, Brappa,
sword-hand-of-Short-one-who-leads.

"Be silent, child!" Ki hissed sadly. "Inside at once!"

Notta dutifully obeyed, jumping to the terrace and hop-waddling to the
threshold, but no farther.

Brappa swooped onto the terrace wall with stolid grace. Tall and wide of
shoulder, wiry and strung with sinew, the young stalwart stowed
fur-covered membranes and bowed deeply. His fur, matted and redolent of
wet leather, reeked with the sour smell of honest sweat. The mother
commenced the time-honored ceremony.

"Welcome home, beloved son," Ki said, eyes on the ground.

Brappa, breathing deeply, bowed again, no less formally.

"Long life and great respect, Mother," the warrior replied, standing to his