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

reproached herself for not thinking of it before she had tried to put weight on
it. The herbs, she knew, were making her thinking fuzzy. Fearing to make another
careless movement, and since she couldn't sit up, she focused her effort on
forcing clarity into her mind.
She cautiously reached up with her right hand and wiped her fingers across the
bloom of sweat on her brow, sweat sown by the flash of pain. Her right shoulder
socket hurt, but it worked well enough. She was pleased by that triumph, at
least. She touched her puffy eyes, understanding then why it had hurt to look
toward the door. Gingerly, her fingers explored a foreign landscape of swollen
flesh. Her imagination colored it a ghastly black-and-blue. When her fingers
brushed cuts on her cheek, hot embers seemed to sear raw, exposed nerves.
She needed no mirror to know she was a terrible sight. She knew, too, how bad it
was whenever she looked up into Richard's eyes. She wished she could look good
for him if for no other reason than to lift the suffering from his eyes. Reading
her thoughts, he would say, "I'm fine. Stop worrying about me and put your mind
to getting better."
With a bittersweet longing, Kahlan recalled lying with Richard, their limbs
tangled in delicious exhaustion, his skin hot against hers, his big hand resting
on her belly as they caught their breath. It was agony wanting to hold him in
her arms again and being unable to do so. She reminded herself that it was only
a matter of some time and some healing. They were together and that was what
mattered. His mere presence was a restorative.
She heard Richard, beyond the blanket over the door, speaking in a tightly
controlled voice, stressing his words as if each had cost him a fortune. "We
just need some time . . ."
The men's voices were heated and insistent as they all began talking at once.
"It's not because we want to-you should know that, Richard, you know us ....
What if it brings trouble here? . . . We've heard about the fighting. You said
yourself she's from the Midlands. We can't allow . . . we won't . . ."
Kahlan listened, expecting the sound of his sword being drawn. Richard had
nearly infinite patience, but little tolerance. Cara, his bodyguard, their
friend, was no doubt out there, too; Cara had neither patience nor tolerance.
Instead of drawing his sword, Richard said, "I'm not asking anyone to give Me
anything I want only to be left alone in a peaceful place where I can care for
her. I wanted to be close to Hartland in case she needed something." He paused.
"Please . . . just until she has a chance to get better."
Kahlan wanted to scream at him: No! Don't you dare beg them, Richard! They have
no right to make you beg. They've no right! They could never understand the
sacrifices you've made.
But she could do little more than whisper his name in sorrow.
"Don't test us .... We'll burn you out if we have to! You can't fight us all-we
have right on our side."
The men ranted and swore dark oaths. She expected, now, at last, to hear the
sound of his sword being drawn. Instead, in a calm voice, Richard answered the
men in words Kahlan couldn't quite make out. A dreadful quiet settled in.
"It's not because we like doing this, Richard," someone finally said in a
sheepish voice. "We've no choice. We've got to consider our own families and
everyone else."
Another man spoke out with righteous indignation. "Besides, you seem to have
gotten all high-and-mighty of a sudden, with your fancy clothes and sword, not