"Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody 5 - Elegy for a Lost Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haydon Elizabeth)

invisible in the intensity of his concentration. Grunthor could see the
realization spreading, first over his face, then through his body, like a
stain. "It worked," the king said finally. "The Lightcatcher worked-or at
least the healing aspect of it, the red section."
"One might believe that the orange section worked as well," muttered
the giant Bolg. "Started the fire that blew the damned thing up."
A clank of metal sounded in the hallway, followed by the noise of
footsteps hurrying away.
"It worked," Achmed repeated. "You fail to see the significance now,
Grunthor, but I can assure you, if we can rebuild it, make it function
completely, we are setting in place a defense for both Ylorc and the Child
that is unparalleled." He strode to the door, disregarding the Sergeant's
rolling eyes, and carefully opened it. He retrieved the metal calipers lying
on the stone floor, then closed the door again.
"Before anything else, I want to see the Earthchild," he said.
As they traveled the rough-hewn tunnel that led from the chest at the foot
of Achmed's bed to the chamber in which the Earthchild slept, Achmed
could still smell a hint of the smoke of the battle fought to save her four
years ago. To any other nose it would have been indiscernible, but along
with his skin-web of nerve endings and surface veins, Achmed's sinus
cavities and throat were exceptionally sensitive. This strange anatomical
system, bequeathed to him by his Dhracian mother and his unknown Bolg
father, was both blessing and bane; it gave him early warning of hazards
others might miss, and a memory of things others had long forgotten.
Even Grunthor. He cast a glance at the Sergeant-Major as they
descended, noting the blank expression on his friend's face in the cold
light of their lantern formed from glowing crystals that had been found in
the depths of the mountains. Grunthor was in a state of watchful
autonomy, listening to the song of the Earth that only he could hear.
Whatever the Earth was singing had him guarded, concentrating, but he
was not feeling the same dread that Achmed felt every time he came down
to this place.
Each time he descended into the fractured remains of the Loritorium,
the sepulcher deep within the mountains where the Earthchild slept, the
Bolg king was assailed with frightening memories of the battle they had
fought near there. The F'dor had corrupted a root of one of the World
Trees, using it to slither through the Earth's crust, past the guard towers
and bulwarks he and Grunthor had painstakingly assembled, into the very
heart of the mountain range to the hidden chamber in which she had
slumbered for centuries.
They had had no warning at all, except for the nightmares of the Child.
And the Child could not speak, could not tell them what was coming.
Achmed quickened his pace as they neared the opening to the chamber.
He ran to the rough-hewn entranceway and climbed quickly over the
barricade of rock and loose stone that was the last bulwark before the
broken Loritorium. He held his breath as he crested the gravelly hill.
In the distance he could see her there, still slumbering. Achmed exhaled
slowly, then nodded to Grunthor, who followed him down the slippery
rockpile and over to the altar of Living Stone on which she slept. They
peered down at the Earthchild, their eyes searching for any change, any