"L. E. Modesitt - Timedivers -Timegods - 02 - Timediver's Daw" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

"Yes."
"Do you really believe that?"
"Daughter, I know that Eastron is dying, and all the villagers and all the gentry will blame it on the witches. Because
of the Duke our faces are too well known. So I will face the Empress with him, come what may, and you will survive."
"Mother!"
There is no answer, for the older witch has vanished.
The younger woman looked around the retreat, then continued placing her few things in the pack, which will be all
that she can carry on her instant yet long journey.

It seems so simple. It is not. It could have begun here as well:
"Witch! Witch!"
Thud! Crack!
One rock, then another, struck the whitewashed wall.
Their target, a stocky boy-child with strawberry blond hair, a dazed expression, and shoulders already overbroad,
looked down from the low wall where he balanced. Looked down at the whitewashed surface where the rocks had
struck near his feet, then back at the gathered handful of women, crippled veterans, and the priest.
". . . like his mother ..."
". . . dead . . . thank Veriyt . . . !"
Crack! Whmmmpt!
"Suffer not a witch, nor a witch's child ..."
The boy looked from one face to another, back and forth, as if seeking reassurance.
Crack!
One of the rocks struck his shoulder, hard enough to stagger him.
"Witch! Witch! Witch!" The chant began in earnest, echoing between the walls, drowning out the occasional low
rumble of dry cloud thunder. Thunder that promised nothing but clouds that delivered no rain, no respite.
"Witch! Witch! Witch . . . !"
Crack!
Suddenly, the boy's dazed expression vanished as his face screwed up, as if he were about to cry. In a single motion,
he tightened his lips and jumped down on the far side of the wall, away from the crowd, and began to run.
Pad, pad, pad, pad. . . ! The alleyway remained silent for an instant, the villagers momentarily silenced.
"Witch! Witch! Witch . . . !" The chant took on an even more frantic note.
Some of the veterans dragged themselves over the wall and hobbled or ran, knives in the hands of those who still had
hands, after the fleeing child. Others turned back into the main street and dashed around toward the other end of the
alley into which the child had fled.
"Witch! Witch! Witch . . . !"
Thud! Thud, thuuddd, thhuuuddd ...
The heavy roll of the priests' drums supplemented the chant.
From huts and houses, from the vintners and the villas, the pursuers gathered, pounding down street and alley, tearing
through house and hovel.
"There he is!"
". . . witch-child . . . !"
"SUFFER NOT A WITCH TO LIVE, NOR A WITCH'S CHILD!" boomed the amplified voice of the priest.
The boy, backed into a narrow niche between two walls behind the produce market, held a rock in each hand,
waiting.
Crack! The first rock from a villager slapped against the wall.
Crack! Thud! Crack! Thud!
 The past experience of the rock throwers showed as stone after stone bounced against and around the boy.
He threw one stone back. It missed. He threw the other.
"Devil! Witch-child!"
Overhead, the dry thunder rumbled, and the dry clouds churned.