"Marco,.John.-.Tyrants.And.Kings.3.-.Saints.Of.The.Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marco John)

him, desperate but afraid to touch him. "But you can find out in Nar
City."

"All right," agreed Alazrian. "I'll look when I get there. Now rest.
Please, you're getting weaker."

"I am weaker. Weaker by the moment." Calida's face betrayed the
painful battle going on inside her. She was perspiring now, and the
scar on her forehead flushed ruby red. "I want to touch you," she
said. "I want you to look into my heart. Do that for me, so you never
forget how much you mean to me. But do not heal me, you hear?"

Alazrian didn't know how to respond. His touch could bring her
back to life, and if he felt her love for him he might not be able to
resist the urge to heal.

Lady Calida put out her hand. It was frail and bony, a crone's hand.

Alazrian couldn't speak. He could barely breathe. Her fingers
twitched as she reached out. Their eyes locked, and there was so
much strength in her stare that Alazrian's conviction faltered. Slowly
he took up her hand, cradling it in his palm. At once the power
seized him. The magic bathed him in its warmth, and for the
strangest moment he was Calida. Her heart and mind were his, like
a book open for reading. Lady Calida was the purest thing he had
ever experienced, and her love for him was boundless; it rocked
him like a baby. But he went deeper still, closing his eyes and not
moving, finding things he had never expected to find. He felt Elrad
Leth's rage and a fist flying out to strike her, and then he felt
forgiveness of a kind only saints possess.

Then, suddenly, there was a shift in the feelings. Anticipating
something great, Alazrian held fast to his mother's hand. He
opened his eyes and saw that she had closed her own, thinking of
something special, something she desperately wanted to convey.
In the mirror of his mind Alazrian saw a young woman who was his
mother, beautiful and not much older than Alazrian himself. She
was with a man, also young, with shocking white hair and a gentle
face. A Triin.

Jakiras.

Alazrian locked on the image of his father. His mother's love for
this stranger poured into him, and he felt profoundly sorry for her,
that she had not stayed with the stranger from Lucel-Lor, and that
her father had given her to Elrad Leth.

Then the image of the young lovers vanished, and in its place
came an anguished yearning for death. Alazrian swayed, sickened
by his mother's pain. But he didn't release her hand. He held it, lost