"6 Faith of the fallen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodkind Terry)

With an obscure sense of apprehension, she wondered if the distant angry voices
drifting in to her meant she was again about to experience that transcendent
ending: death.
There was absolutely nothing she could do about it if she was.
While she didn't remember dying, she dimly recalled, at some later point, solemn
whispers saying that she had, saying that death had taken her, but that he had
pressed his mouth over hers and filled her stilled lungs with his breath, his
life, and in so doing had rekindled hers. She had had no idea who it was that
spoke of such an inconceivable feat, or who "he" was.
That first night, when she had perceived the distant, disembodied voices as
little more than a vague notion, she had grasped that there were people around
her who didn't believe, even though she was again living, that she would remain
alive through the rest of the night. But now she knew she had; she had remained
alive many more nights, perhaps in answer to desperate prayers and earnest oaths
whispered over her that first night.
But if she didn't remember the dying, she remembered the pain before passing
into that great oblivion. The pain, she never forgot. She remembered fighting
alone and savagely against all those men, men baring their teeth like a pack of
wild hounds with a hare. She remembered the rain of brutal blows driving her to
the ground, heavy boots slamming into her once she was there, and the sharp snap
of bones. She remembered the blood, so much blood, on their fists, on their
boots. She remembered the searing terror of having no breath to gasp at the
agony, no breath to cry out against the crushing weight of hurt.
Sometime after-whether hours or days, she didn't know-when she was lying under
clean sheets in an unfamiliar bed and had looked up into his gray eyes, she knew
that, for some, the world reserved pain worse than she had suffered.
She didn't know his name. The profound anguish so apparent in his eyes told her
beyond doubt that she should have. More than her own name, more than life
itself, she knew she should have known his name, but she didn't. Nothing had
ever shamed her more.
Thereafter, whenever her own eyes were closed, she saw his, saw not only the
helpless suffering in them but also the light of such fierce hope as could only
be kindled by righteous love. Somewhere, even in the worst of the darkness
blanketing her mind, she refused to let the light in his eyes be extinguished by
her failure to will herself to live.
At some point, she remembered his name. Most of the time, she remembered it.
Sometimes, she didn't. Sometimes, when pain smothered her, she forgot even her
own name.
Now, as Kahlan heard men growling his name, she knew it, she knew him. With
tenacious resolution she clung to that name-Richard-and to her memory of hint,
of who he was, of everything he meant to her.
Even later, when people had feared she would yet die, she knew she would live.
She had to, for Richard, her husband. For the child she carried in her womb. His
child. Their child.
The sounds of angry men calling Richard by name at last tugged Kahlan's eyes
open. She squinted against the agony that had been tempered, if not banished,
while in the cocoon of sleep. She was greeted by a blush of amber light filling
the small room around her. Since the light wasn't bright, she reasoned that
there must be a covering over a window muting the sunlight, or maybe it was
dusk. Whenever she woke, as now, she not only had no sense of time, but no sense