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

Confessor from one man."
Kahlan felt the familiar, yet distant anguish of their deaths. Distant,
because it seemed so long ago, though it had been hardly a year. For months,
in the beginning, she had felt as if she should be dead along with her sister
Confessors, and that she had somehow betrayed them by escaping all the traps
laid for her. Now, she was the last.
With a flick of her wrist, Cara snapped her Agiel into her fist. "Even a man,
like Lord Rahl, born with the gift? Even a wizard?"
"Even a wizard, and even if, unlike Richard, he knows how to use his power. I
not only know how to use mine, I am very experienced at it. I long ago lost
count of the number ..."
As Kahlan's words trailed off, Cara considered her Agiel, rolling it in her
fingers. "I guess there is even less than 'little' danger-with me there."
When they reached the richly carpeted and paneled corridor they were seeking,
it was thick with soldiers and bristling with steel from swords, axes, and
pikes. The man was being held in a small, elegant reading room close to the
rather simple one Richard liked to use for meeting with officers and for
studying the journal he had found in the Wizard's Keep. The soldiers hadn't
wanted to risk an escape attempt and had simply stuffed the man in the room
nearest to the spot they found him, pinning him down until it could be decided
what was to be done.
Kahlan gently took the elbow of a soldier to urge him back out of the way. The
muscles of his bare arm felt as hard as iron. His pike, pointed toward the
closed door, could hardly have been more steady had it been embedded in
granite. There had to be fifty pikes likewise aimed at the silent door. More
men, gripping swords or axes, hunkered beneath the pike points.
The guard turned as Kahlan tugged on his arm. "Let me through, soldier."
The man gave way. Others glanced back and began moving aside. Cara shouldered
her way ahead of Kahlan, pushing men out of the way. They did so reluctantly,
not out of disrespect, but out of concern for the danger that waited beyond
the door. Even as they moved aside, they kept their weapons pointed toward the
thick oak door.
Inside, the window-less, dimly lit room smelled of leather and sweat. A lanky
man squatted on the edge of an embroidered footstool. He seemed too spare,
should he make the wrong move, to permit all the steel aimed at him to find a
virgin patch to penetrate. His young eyes dithered among the steel and grim
glares until he caught sight of Kahlan's approaching white dress. His tongue
darted out to wet his lips as he looked up expectantly.
When the burly soldiers in leather and chain mail behind him saw Kahlan and
Cara forcing their way into the room, one of them landed the side of his boot
on the small of the young man's back, pitching him forward.
"Kneel, you filthy cur."
The young man, dressed in an outsized soldier's uniform that looked to have
been scrounged together from dissimilar sources, peered up at Kahlan, then
over his shoulder at the man who had kicked him. He ducked his head of
disheveled dark hair and shielded it with a gangly arm, expecting a blow.
"That's enough," Kahlan said in a quietly authoritative tone. "Cara and I wish
to speak with him. All of you, wait outside, please."
The soldiers balked, reluctant to lift a weapon from the young man cowering on
the floor.