"Terry Goodkind - Sword of Truth 3 - Blood of the Fold" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodkind Terry)

TERRY GOODKIND
THE SWORD OF TRUTH BOOK 3
BLOOD OF THE FOLD

To Ann Hansen, the light in the darkness


Many thanks, as ever, to my editor, James Frenkel, for the adept way he keeps
raising the bar; to my British editor, Caroline Oakiey, and the good people at
Orion for their devotion to excellence; to James Minz for the great line; to
Linda Quinlon and the sales and marketing staff for their passion and triumphs;
to Kevin Murphy for the award-winning cover art; to Jeri for her forbearance;
and to Richard and Kahlan, who never fail to keep me inspired.


BLOOD OF THE FOLD


CHAPTER 1


At the exact same instant, the six women suddenly awoke, the lingering sound of
their screams echoing around the cramped officer's cabin. In the darkness,
Sister Ulicia could hear the others gasping to catch their breath. She
swallowed, trying to slow her own panting, and immediately winced at the raw
pain in her throat. She could feel wetness on her eyelids, but her lips were so
dry she had to lick them, for fear they would crack and bleed.
Someone was banging on the door. She was aware of his shouts only as a dull
drone in her head. She didn't bother trying to focus on the words or their
meaning; the man was inconsequential.
Lifting a trembling hand toward the center of the coal black quarters, she
released a flow of her Han, the essence of life and spirit, directing a point of
heat into the oil lamp she knew to be hanging on the low beam. Its wick
obediently sprang to flame, releasing a sinuous line of soot that traced the
lamp's slow, to-and-fro sway as the ship rolled in the sea.
The other women, all of them naked as she was, were sitting up as well, their
eyes fixed on the feeble, yellow glow, as if seeking from it salvation, or
perhaps reassurance that they were still alive and there was light to be seen. A
tear rolled down Ulicia's cheek, too, at the sight of the flame. The blackness
had been suffocating, like a great weight of damp, black earth shoveled over
her.
Her bedding was sodden and cold with sweat, but even without the sweat,
everything was always wet in the salt air, to say nothing of the spray that
sporadically drenched the deck and trickled into everything below. She couldn't
remember what H was like to feel dry clothes or bedding against her. She hated
this ship, its interminable damp, its foul smells, and the constant rolling and
pitching that turned ┬╗er stomach. At least she was alive to hate the ship.
Gingerly, she swallowed back the taste of bile.
Ulicia wiped her fingers at the warm wetness over her eyes and held out her
hand; her fingertips glistened with blood. As if emboldened by her example, some