"L. E. Modesitt - The Forever Hero 2 -The Silent Warrior" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

I think it is fair to say that I understand you a little, and have helped you in the ways
that Merrel and I can. The book represents, in its own way, my only lasting gift of a material
nature. Jane, of course, is another gift, but it is rather unlikely you will cross paths.

You are trying to light a light in darkness, and may this help. Other than this note,
which for my own selfish reasons I cannot resist, there is no connection between the Foundation
and us, nor would His Grace wish it otherwise. The Foundation is yours, and you are the
Foundation. While it is modest by Imperial standards, it need not remain so, and used properly may
provide you the lever you need to reclaim your heritage, and Martin's.

You have a long future, or, as the ancients put it, "many miles to go before you sleep."
My rest will come soon, sooner than I had thought.

To that I am reconciled, my lieutenant, and with you go my thoughts, my memories, and what
we have shared, and might have shared.

Farewell.

CJ


The scent of the note, like the clean scent of her, burned through him with the words as
he stood staring, his eyes looking through the narrow window at the courtyard garden he did not
see, his left hand clutching the note, his right the envelope.

Sooner than she thought?

OER Foundation?

Miles to go before you sleep?

Reconciled to what?

The questions swirled through his thoughts like the fringes of a landspout, ripping at his
composure, tearing at his guts, until the tightness in his stomach matched the stabbing behind his
unfocused eyes.

Darkness, the darkness of youth, and the touch of lips under his, with the cool warmth of
New Colora outside the louvered windows of ajunior officer's room. Darkness, and the cooling
silence of rest after fire. Darkness, after the first time he had ever whistled his song of Old
Earth for anyone.

Darkness . . . darkness . . . always the darkness.

A flash of light across the rain damped gloom of the courtyard outside finally broke
through the ebbing flow of his memories, and he looked up from the chair he found himself sitting
in.

1534. That was what the readout on the screen indicated. Three hours . . . more than three
standard hours he had wrestled with the past, a past he had not even known meant so much until he