"Mercedes Lackey - Last Herald Mage 3 - Magic's Price" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

Own, Jisa's mother Shavri. So Jisa and Taver would not bond until Shavri was dead.
Not an event anyone cared to rush.
None of them, not Randale, Shavri nor Vanyel, were ready for even the Heraldic Circle to know
why she hadn't been Chosen. Jisa knew - Vanyel had told her - but she seldom said anything about it,
and Van didn't push her. The child had more than enough to cope with as it was.
Being an Empath and living in the household of your dying parent -
It was one thing to know that someone you loved was going to die; to share Randale's pain as
Jisa did must be as bad as any torture Van could think of.
Small wonder she came to Vanyel and cried on his shoulder. The greater wonder was that she
didn't do so more often.
He insinuated a tiny thread of thought into her mind as he stroked her tangled, sable-brown hair.
Not to comfort; there was no comfort in this situation. Just something to let her know she wasn't alone. :I
know, sweetling. I know. I'd give my sight to take this from you.:
She turned her red-eyed, tear-smudged face toward his. :Sometimes I think I can't bear it
anymore; I'll kill something or go mad. Except that there's nothing to kill, and going mad wouldn't
change anything.:
He smoothed the hair away from her face with both hands, cupped her chin in one hand, and met
her hazel eyes with his own. :You are much too practical for me, sweetling. I doubt that either of
those considerations would hold me for a second in your place.: He pretended to think for a
moment. :I believe, on the whole, I'd choose to go mad. Killing something is so very messy if you
want it to be satisfying. And how would I get the blood out of my Whites?:
She giggled a little, diverted. He smiled back at her, and blotted the tears from her eyes and
cheeks with a handkerchief he pulled from the cuff of one sleeve. :You'll manage as you always do,
dearest. By taking things one day at a time, and coming to me or Trev when you can't bear it all
on your own shoulders.:
She sniffled, and rubbed her nose with her knuckle. He pulled her hand away with a
mock-disapproving frown and handed her his handkerchief. :Stop that, little girl. I've told you a
hundred times not go out without a handkerchief. What will people think, to see the King's
daughter wiping her nose on her sleeve?:
:That she's a barbarian, I suppose,: Jisa replied, taking it with a sigh.
:I swear, I'll have your women sew scratchy silver braid on all your sleeves to keep you
from misusing them.: He frowned again, and she smiled.
:Now wouldn't that be a pretty picture? Sewing silver braid on my clothing would be like
putting lace on a horseblanket.: Jisa dressed plainly, as soberly as a priestly novice, except when
coerced into something more elaborate by her mother. Take now; she was in an ordinary brown tunic
and full homespun breeches that would not have been out-of-place on one of the Holderkin beyond the
Karsite Border.
:Jisa, Jisa,: he sighed, and shook his head. Her eyes lit, and her pretty, triangular face became
prettier with the mischief behind them. There were times he suspected her of dressing so plainly just to
annoy him a little. :Any other girl your age in your position would have a closet full of fine clothing.
My mother's maids dress better than you do!:
Mindspeech with Jisa was easier than talking aloud; she'd been a Mindspeaker since she was six
and use of Mindspeech was literally second-nature to her. On the other hand, that made it very difficult to
keep things from her. . . .
:Then no one will ever guess you are my father, will they?: she replied impudently. :Perhaps
you should be grateful to me, Father-Peacock.:
He tugged a lock of hair. :Mind your manners, girl. I get more than sufficient back-chat
from Yfandes; I don't need it from you. Feeling any better?:
She rubbed her right eye with the back of her hand, ignoring the handkerchief she held in it. :A
bit,: she admitted.