"Terry Goodkind - Sword of Truth 4 - Temple of the Winds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodkind Terry)

of the Midlands; Confessors chose the Mother Confessor. To Confessors, age was
of secondary consideration.
Though she was chosen to preserve the freedoms and rights of the people of the
Midlands, people rarely saw it in those terms. To most, a ruler was a ruler.
Some were good, some were bad. As the ruler of rulers, the Mother Confessor
encouraged the good, and suppressed the bad. If a ruler proved bad enough, it
was within her power to eliminate them. That was the ultimate purpose of a
Mother Confessor. To most people, though, such far removed matters of
governance simply seemed the squabbling of rulers.
In the sudden silence that filled Petitioners' Hall, Kahlan paused to
acknowledge the gathered visitors.
A young woman standing against the far wall watched as all those around her
fell to one knee. She glanced in Kahlan's direction, back to those kneeling,
and then followed suit.
Kahlan's brow tightened.
In the Midlands, the length of a woman's hair denoted her power and standing.
Matters of power, no matter how trivial they might seem on the surface, were
taken seriously in the Midlands. Not even a queen's hair was allowed to be as
long as a Confessor's, and no Confessor's hair was as long as that of the
Mother Confessor.
This woman had a thick mass of brown hair close to the length of Kahlan's.
Kahlan knew nearly every person of high rank in the Midlands; it was her duty,
and she took it seriously. A woman with hair that long was obviously a person
of high standing, but Kahlan didn't recognize her. There was likely to be no
man or woman in the entire city, other than Kahlan, who would outrank the
woman-if she was in fact from the Midlands.
"Rise, my children," Kahlan said in formal response to the tops of the
waiting, bowed heads.
Dresses and coats rustled as everyone began coming to their feet, most keeping
their eyes to the floor, out of respect, or needless fear. The woman rose to
her feet, twisting a simply made kerchief in her fingers, watching those
around her. She turned her brown eyes to the floor, as most of the others
were.
"Cara," Kahlan whispered, "could that woman there, with the long hair, be from
D'Hara?"
Cara had been watching her, too; she had learned some of the customs of the
Midlands. Though Cara's long blond hair was about the length of Kahlan's, she
was D'Haran. They didn't live by the same customs.
"Her nose is too 'cute' to be D'Haran."
"I'm serious. Do you think she could be D'Haran?"
Cara studied the woman a moment longer. "I doubt it. D'Haran women don't wear
flower-print dresses, nor are the dresses they do wear of that cut. But
clothes can be changed to fit the occasion, or to fit in with local people."
The dress didn't really fit the local dress of Aydindril, but it might not be
so out of place in other, more remote, areas of the Midlands. Kahlan nodded
and turned to a waiting captain, motioning him over.
He leaned his head close as she spoke in a low tone. "There is a woman with
long brown hair standing against the wall in the back, over my left shoulder.
Do you see who I'm talking about?"
"The pretty one, in the blue kirtle?"