"Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 3 - Sword Maker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

his edge
when he pisses liquor in the morning.
But Del said none of those things.
I wiped amnit from my mouth with the back of a hand. Glared at her
blearily
across the guttering fire. "Not my fault," I told her. "Do you think I
wanted to
cut you?" I coughed, spat, drew in breath too deep for the half-healed
wound. It
brought me up short, sweating, until I could breathe again, so
carefully,
meticulously measuring in- and exhalations. "Hoolies, bascha--"
But I broke it off, confused, because she wasn't there.
Behind me, the stud dug holes. And he, like me, was alone.
I released all my breath at once, ignoring the clutch of protest from
my ribs.
The exhalation was accompanied by a string of oaths as violent as I
could make
them in an attempt to overcome the uprush of black despair far worse
than any
I'd ever known.
I dropped the bota and rose, turning my back on the cairn. Went to the
stud, so
restless, checking rope and knots. He snorted, rubbed a hard head
against me,
ignored my grunt of pain, seeking release much as I did. The darkness
painted
him black; by day he is bay: small, compact, strong, born to the
Southron
desert.
"I know," I said, "I know. We shouldn't even be here." He nibbled at a
cloak
brooch: garnet set in gold. I pushed his head away to keep curious
teeth from
wandering to my face. "We should go home, old son. Just head south and
go home.
Forget all about the cold and the wind and the snow. Forget all about
those
hounds."
One day he would forget; horses don't think like men. They don't
remember much,
except what they've been taught. Back home again in the South, in the
desert
called the Punja, he would recall only the grit of sand beneath his
hooves and
the beating heat of the day. He'd forget the cold and the wind and the
snow.
He'd forget the hounds. He'd even forget Del.
Hoolies, I wish I could. Her and the look on her face as I'd thrust
home the