"Gray, Julia - Guardian 03 - The Crystal Desert" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gray Julia)

Terrel had already seen how devoted the brother and sister were. He envied them their closeness.
'I've been thinking,' he said. 'Is it possible Kala doesn't speak because something's wrong with her throat? Would you like me to see if-'
'No,' Mlicki stated, shaking his head. 'She's not ill. It's just who she is. Just as this is who I am.' He gestured towards his strange eye. 'Healing can't change that.'
'But you were born like that,' Terrel said. He did not think he could 'heal' such an affliction, and he felt that Mlicki would not even be willing to let him try. 'Kala used to talk when she was little, didn't she?'
'Yes. All the time.' Mlicki smiled for a moment at the memory. 'But that . . .' His face resumed its habitually solemn expression. 'It's who she is,' he repeated. 'The only one who can change that is her. She's happy as she is.'
Terrel nodded, accepting the decision with some relief.
'Thank you for the offer, though,' Mlicki added. 'Most people don't think she's worth bothering with.'
'Well, that's certainly not true. Besides, I like her.'
Mlicki smiled with genuine pleasure.
'She reminds me of someone I know,' Terrel added, wishing with all his heart that that someone would visit him soon - no matter what shape she chose to adopt.
Chapter Two
'Are you going to be in there all day?'
Terrel and Mlicki both recognized the impatient voice that called from outside the canopy - and they both felt some misgivings about facing its owner. However, there was nothing more they could do for Vilheyuna, and they would have to leave his tent sooner or later.
'What does he want?' Mlicki wondered aloud.
'Maybe he needs some advice,' Terrel suggested quietly.
His companion half smiled at this patently absurd notion, but he too had realized that Zahir still had enough respect for the shaman to prevent him from entering the tent uninvited.
'I doubt that.'
'Let's go and find out.'
They pulled the flap aside, and stepped out into the open. The air was clear and cold, but the sun's glare was blinding after the relative gloom of the tent. Terrel could feel its power on his face, promising the warmth that would soon come with the beginnings of spring -and also promising the scorching heat that made the desert summers potentially lethal. When their eyes had adjusted to the sudden brightness, they saw Zahir staring at them intently. He was flanked, as always, by his self-styled 'captains', three other boys on the verge of manhood.
'Well?' he demanded.
'There's no change,' Mlicki reported.
'I need him awake. Soon!' Zahir's shaven head and prominent ears, one of which was decorated with a thick gold ring, gave him a belligerent look, and in this instance appearances were not deceptive. He was the youngest son of Algardi, the most revered of all the Toma's elders, and he wore his eminence like a crown. In fact, one of his many nicknames was 'the prince' - although no one would have been foolish enough to use it in his father's presence. The Toma were a democratic community, and the tribe's elders would never have countenanced any claim to 'royal' status.
'I'm doing all I can,' Mlicki said nervously.
'And what is that, exactly?'
'What do you mean?'
'What are you actually doing}' Zahir clarified. 'Besides wringing your hands and whining,' he added sarcastically.
'I ... I ... attend . . .' Mlicki stammered.
'Vilheyuna must wake in the next few days,' Zahir said, looking at the shaman's assistant in disgust.
Terrel could have told him that that was not going to happen, but he saw no point in doing so. Unlike most of the rest of his clan, Zahir could be arrogant and aloof, and did not bother to conceal his disdain for outsiders. He obviously considered Terrel an intruder, and regarded his presence with some suspicion. Terrel's demonstration of healing skills had done little to change this situation. If anything, it had made Zahir even more wary.
'What about you, Ghost?' he said now, turning to face Terrel directly. 'Isn't your magic up to this?'
Terrel was aware of the name he had been given when he'd first joined the nomads, and knew the reason for it. He had the palest skin that any of the Toma had ever seen. However, Zahir was the only one who ever used the name to his face.
'This is beyond my healing,' he replied, wondering why their interrogator's need for the shaman was so urgent.
'Then you'd better think of something else. We can't wait for ever,' Zahir said, echoing Mlicki's earlier statement.
What's changed? Terrel wondered. After all this time . . .
'Your kappara-tan will still go ahead, whether Vilheyuna is awake or not,' Mlicki said, evidently divining the reason for their visitor's impatience.
'I know that!' Zahir snapped. 'That's not the point. Without a proper shaman-' He broke off abruptly, and glared at Mlicki with utter contempt. 'What's the point in trying to explain it to you? You have no clan. You might as well join the unclean.'
Terrel sensed the cruel barb strike home, but he knew better than to try to defend his companion. That would only make Zahir even more spiteful. Nevertheless, he decided to divert his attention if he could.
'What's a kappara-tan?' he asked. In spite of all Terrel's efforts, there were some words in the desert language that he could not understand. For a start, the nomads distinguished between eight different degrees of thirst, culminating in 'ak-saydath' - a vehement thirst - which was also a synonym for passionate love. He had not come across 'kappara-tan' before, and the sense he had got from Mlicki's thoughts when the boy used it had not been specific.
'Trust a foreigner to ask that,' Zahir responded scornfully.
'It's when-' Mlicki began, then fell silent as Zahir glanced at him again.
'It's something neither of you will ever know,' Zahir told them, and his three allies grinned. 'But you'll soon see what it is for someone to become a man. To be chosen.'
Terrel had it now. The kappara-tan was a rite of passage, a ceremony that marked the change from boy to man. Zahir would be sixteen years old in a few days' time, and he obviously felt that the ritual marking this occasion would not be complete without a shaman present to oversee the event. It was another indication of how the elder's son viewed his own importance.
Terrel was about to ask another question when something attracted Zahir's notice.
'What's that?' he demanded, pointing to the four circles printed on the back of Terrel's left hand.
'A tattoo,' he replied, taken aback by the sudden change of subject, but glad that he, and not Mlicki, now appeared to be the focus of their inquisitor's attention.
'Only women have tattoos,' Zahir stated.
And lunatics, Terrel thought. The tattoo had been applied at Havenmoon, permanently marking him as an inmate of the madhouse.
'Not where I come from,' he replied evenly.
'And where's that?'
'An island called Vadanis,' Terrel said, aware that Zahir already knew the answer to his question.