"Robin Hobb - Assassin 1 - Assassin' s Apprentice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hobb Robin)

"He's gone. The pup's gone, and a damn shame, for he was good blood. His line
was nearly as long as yours. But I'd rather waste a hound than a man." When I
did not move, he added, almost kindly, "Let go of longing after him. It hurts
less, that way."
But I did not, and I could hear in his voice that he hadn't really expected
me to. He sighed, and moved slowly as he readied himself for bed. He didn't
speak to me again, just extinguished the lamp and settled himself on his bed.
But he did not sleep, and it was still hours short of morning when he rose and
lifted me from the floor and placed me in the warm place his body had left in


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the blankets. He went out again and did not return for some hours.
As for me, I was heartsick and feverish for days. Burrich, I believe, let it
be known that I had some childish ailment, and so I was left in peace. It was
days before I was allowed out again, and then it was not on my own.
Afterward, Burrich took pains to see that I was given no chance to bond with
any beast. I am sure he thought he'd succeeded, and to some extent he did, in
that I did not form an exclusive bond with any hound or horse. I know he meant
well. But I did not feel protected by him, but confined. He was the warden that
ensured my isolation with fanatical fervor. Utter loneliness was planted in me
then, and sent its deep roots down into me.



CHAPTER THREE
Covenant

THE ORIGINAL SOURCE OF the Skill will probably remain forever shrouded in
mystery. Certainly a penchant far it runs remarkably strong within the royal
family, and yet it is not solely confined to the King's household. There does
seem to be some truth to the folk saying, "When the sea blood flows with the
blood of the plains, the Skill will blossom." It is interesting to note that the
Outislanders seem to have no predilection for the Skill, nor the folk descended
solely from the original inhabitants of the Six Duchies.

Is it the nature of the world that all things seek a rhythm, and in that
rhythm a sort of peace? Certainly it has always seemed so to me. All events, no
matter how earthshaking or bizarre, are diluted within moments of their
occurrence by the continuance of the necessary routines of day-to-day living.
Men walking a battlefield to search for wounded among the dead will still stop
to cough, to blow their noses, still lift their eyes to watch a V of geese in
flight. I have seen farmers continue their plowing and planting, heedless of
armies clashing but a few miles away.
So it proved for me. I look back on myself and wonder. Separated from my
mother, dragged off to a new city and clime, abandoned by my father to the care
of his man, and then bereft of my puppy companion, I still rose from my bed one
day and resumed a small boy's life. For me, that meant rising when Burrich awoke