"Katherine Kurtz - Knights Templar 01 - Temple and the Stone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

the fragile, wasted shell of her physical body, but the shimmering angel-form of the virginal soul softly
overlaying that body. Joining the two was a silvery cord as finely spun as spider silk.

A faint flutter of relief briefly suffused him, for he knew that as long as that link remained unbroken, there
was reason to hope for the little girl's recovery. But even as he allowed himself to hope, he became
conscious of a chill descending suddenly upon the room, not at all related to the rain and storm outside.

All the lights in the room guttered and shrank as a shade of moving darkness seemed to permeate the
room. Cold as Arctic winter, a darker core of it billowed toward the little Maid. Even as her spiritual
aspect recoiled, flickering faintly brighter, the shadow-entity struck out at the fragile silver lifeline linking
body and soul.

Horrified, Arnault tried to interpose himself in spirit, but to no avail. An icy buffet dashed him aside even
as the little Maid's lifeline snapped. Though her soul broke free in a flash of silvery light, the shadow
swooped to engulf it. Defensive instincts flaring, Arnault surged between them in spirit, deflecting an
almost overwhelming wave of sheer malice as he called on the Light to aid him. But this time his
intervention was enough, if only barely.

Arrested in mid-flight, the shadow briefly turned on him, furious to be kept at bay. At the same time, the
roof beams of the house seemed to melt away, simultaneously opening the way to the vault of the
heavens.

Fast as summer lightning, the little Maid's child-spirit soared upward. Living stars dropped out of the sky
to meet her, surrounding her with a host of bright companions to guide her safely on her homeward flight.

The shadow again attempted to follow, but again Arnault surged upward in spirit to block and restrain it.
The shadow at last wrenched free with a violent twist, but too late to pursue its quarry. Flinging a parting
blast of hatred in Arnault's direction, it disappeared into the night. The violence of its departure snapped
Arnault back into his body with a dizzying spin of images that left him gasping for breath, heart pounding,
momentarily too giddy to move.

Groggily, hardly able to see, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, catching his balance against the wall
of turf, momentarily uncertain whether he possibly could have been dreaming. In the same moment, he
felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, as Brian de Jay asked, "What's the matter? You look as pale as
death-as if you'd just seen a ghost."

Before Arnault could frame any kind of response beyond a blank blink, a sudden doleful cry went up
from the next room. Shaking himself loose, Arnault rushed to the doorway-and halted on the threshold in
time to see Freu Ingabritt drawing breath for another wail. Beside her, Bishop Narve had tenderly
gathered the little princess to his breast, his lined face contorted in a soundless grimace of grief. Around
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them, the little princess's other ladies-in-waiting were clinging to one another and weeping, their shoulders
shaking with muffled sobs.

As Jay murmured something unintelligible at Arnault's shoulder, the farmwife came mournfully toward
them and the others crowding close behind, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of her ample apron and the