"Melanie Rawn - Exiles 2 - The Mage Born Traitor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rawn Melanie)

Cailet stubbornly preferred her Ostinhold bedroomтАФ which no longer existed, except in
memory: bleached pine bedframe and clothes closet, cool stone floor, faded blue curtains
woven long ago by some Ostin husband or son, windows overlooking the courtyard's
cheerful chaos. At Ryka Court, the sight of Council LakeтАФso much water out in the
openтАФmade her nervous.

She knew what Sarra would say with a smile and a shake of her head: " Waster !" Well, she
was. Bred an Ambrai in Ambraishir she might be, but she'd been born and raised in The
Waste. No matter that she hated the place. It was the only home she knew.

How good it would be to return there. To sit in her old room, snuggled into the sagging old
armchair, reading an adventure novel; to climb up the watchtower and gaze out on miles of
Saints-forsaken wilderness beyond the security of Ostinhold. To saddle her horse and ride out
completely alone. She liked being by herself. She'd been solitary as a child, partly through
choice and partly because she was a practically Nameless orphan and such things had been
very important back in the days of identity disks and Bloods and Tiers. Her new position as
Mage Captal guaranteed that she continued to be set apart. But the solitude she craved was
not to be found at Ryka Court. She could be anyplaceтАФeating dinner in a tavern, shopping,
sitting on a park bench, strolling the windy shorelineтАФand people would recognize and
approach her. Most were respectful, wishing only to express admiration and gratitude. Some
wanted something from her: patronage of their Web's products, her influence to settle some
difficulty, a word to Sarra on their behalf. A fewтАФand these she treasuredтАФventured the
hope that a Mage might visit their homes to meet a young
cousin/daughter/niece/grandson/friend who showed signs of being Mageborn.

But all of them, no matter how they tried to hide it (and some didn't bother), were shocked to
find her so young.

They'd just have to get used to it, she told herself. And if they didn'tтАФwell, time was a sure
cure for youth. Eventually she might attain as many years as she felt weighing her down
now. She couldn't remember ever having felt so tired. There was something vaguely amusing
about that. Not yet nineteen, and she felt older than Gorynel Desse was when he died.

Crossing to the gigantic bed (she'd tried without success to have a smaller one substituted for
this silk-hung monstrosity), she lay down and kicked off her boots. Several deep breaths later,
while staring at the coffered ceiling (also gilded, with birds lurking amid polished timbers),
she began consciously untensing from the toes up. No one had taught her the techniqueтАФno
one now living, anyway. Like everything else she had absorbed from three dead Mage
Guardians and a beloved Ladder Rat, it worked perfectly.
Except on the stubborn knots in her shoulders that had been there since word came that on
St. Chevasto's Day a certain cottage in Sheve Dark had burned to the ground. A little
message from her eldest sister Glenin, of course; just a little reminder that the Malerrisi could
still reach out from the castle in Seinshir. These last days of the old year, worry had taken up
residence in Cailet's body and mind; waking, dreaming, in company or in solitudeтАФthough
the Mage Captal was rarely permitted to be by herself.

She'd needed Falundir's cottage, damn it. When Collan had suggested a sojourn there, peace
had stolen gently over her spirit. She hadn't even chafed at the winter storms that made
taking ship from Ryka impossible; the cottage had been there forever, it would wait for her.
Word had been sent to Sleginhold to have the place made ready; probably that was how