"Terry Goodkind - Sword of Truth 1 - Wizard's First Rule" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodkind Terry)

as he ran through the forest, jumping fallen trees and small rocky streams.
Brush snatched at his pant legs. Dappled swatches of sunlight teased him -to
look up but denied him the view he needed. His breath was fast, ragged, sweat
ran cold against his face, and he could feel his heart pounding as he ran
carelessly down the hillside. At last he stumbled out of the trees onto the
path, almost falling.

Searching the sky, he spotted the thing, far away and too small for him to
tell what it was, but he thought it had wings. He squinted against the blue
brightness of the sky, shielded his eyes with his hand, trying to see for sure
if there were wings moving. It slipped behind a hill and was gone. He hadn't
even been able to tell if it really was red.

Winded, Richard slumped down on a granite boulder at the side of the trail,
absently snapping off dead twigs from a sapling beside him while he stared
down at Trunt Lake below. Maybe he should go tell Michael what had happened,
tell him about the vine and the red thing in the sky. He knew Michael would
laugh at the last part. He had laughed at the same stories himself.
No, Michael would only be angry with him for being up near the boundary, and
for going against his orders to stay out of the search for the murderer. He
knew his brother cared about him or he wouldn't always be nagging him. Now
that he was grown, he could laugh off his brother's constant instructions,
though he still had to endure the looks of displeasure.

Richard snapped off another twig and in frustration threw it at a flat rock.
He decided he shouldn't feel singled out. After all, Michael was always
telling everyone what to do, even their father.

He pushed aside his harsh judgments of his brother; today was a big day for
Michael. Today he was accepting the position of First Councilor. He would be
in charge of everything now, not just the town of Hartland anymore, but all
the towns and villages of Westland, even the country people. Responsible for
everything and everyone. Michael deserved Richard's support, he needed it;
Michael had lost a father, too.

That afternoon there was to be a ceremony and big celebration at Michael's
house. Important people were going to be there, come from the farthest reaches
of Westland. Richard was supposed to be there, too., At least there would be
plenty of good food. He realized he was famished:

While he sat and thought, he scanned the opposite side of Trunt Lake, far
below. From this height the clear water revealed alternating patches of rocky
bottom and green weed around the deep holes. At the edge of the water, Hawkers
Trail knitted in and out of the trees, in some places open to view, in some
places hidden. Richard had been on that part of the trail many times. In the
spring it was wet and soggy down by the lake, but this late in the year it
would be dry. In areas farther north and south, as the trail wound its way
through the high Ven Forests, it passed uncomfortably close to the boundary.
Because of that, most travelers avoided it, choosing instead the trails of the
Hartland Woods. Richard was a woods guide, and led travelers safely through