"01 - Sword Dancer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

surprised me even more.
The hilt was silver, chased by skilled hands into twisted knotwork and bizarre,
fluid shapes. Staring at those shapes, I tried to make them out; tried to make
sense of the design. But it all melted together into a single twisted line that
tangled the eyes and turned them inward upon themselves.
I blinked, squinting a little, and put my hand on the hilt to slide the blade
free of the sheath--
--and felt the cold, burning tingle run across my palms to settle into my
wrists.
I let go of the hilt at once.
Moon's grunt, eloquent in its simplicity, was one of smug satisfaction.
I scowled at him, then at the sword. And this time when I put my hand on the
hilt, I did it quickly, gritting my teeth. I jerked the blade from the sheath.
My right hand, curled around the stiver hilt, spasmed. Almost convulsively, it
closed more tightly on the hilt. I thought for a moment my flesh had fused
itself to the metal, was made one with the twisting shapes, but almost
immediately my skin leaped back. As my fingers unlocked and jerked away from the
hilt, I felt the old, cold breath of death put a finger on my soul.
Tap. Tap. Nail against soul. Tiger, are you there!
Hoolies, yes! I was there. And intended to remain there, alive and well,
regardless of that touch; that imperious, questioning tone.
But almost at once I let go of the hilt altogether, and the sword--now
free--fell across my lap.
Cold, cold blade, searing the flesh of my thighs.
I pushed it out of my lap to the rug at once. I wanted to scramble away from it
entirely, leaping up to put even more room between the sword and my flesh--
And then I thought about how stupid it would be--am I not a sword-dancer, who
deals with death every time I enter the circlet--and didn't. I just sat there,
defying the unexpected response of my own body and glaring down at the sword, I
felt the coldness of its flesh as if it still touched mine. Ignored it, when I
could.
A Northern sword. And the North is a place of snow and ice.
The first shock had worn off. My skin, acclimated to the nearness of the alien
metal, no longer shrank upon my bones. I took a deep breath to settle the
galloping in my guts, then took a closer look at the sword. But I didn't touch
it.
The blade was a pale, pearly salmon-pink with a tinge of blued steel--except it
didn't look much like steel. Iridescent runes spilled down from the gnarled
crosspiece. Runes I couldn't read.
I resorted to my profession in order to restore my equilibrium. I jerked a dark
brown hair from my head and dragged it across the edge. The hair separated
without a snag. The edge of the odd-colored blade was at least as sharp as
Singlestroke's plain blued-steel, which didn't please me much.
I gave myself no time for consideration. Gritting my teeth, I plucked the sword
off the rug and slid it back into its scabbard with numb, tingling hands--and
felt the coldness melt away.
For a moment, I just stared at the sword. Sheathed, it was a sword. Just--a
sword.
After a moment. I looked at Moon. "How good is she?"
The question surprised him a little; it surprised me a lot. Her skill might have