"Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 6 - Sword-sworn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

"Tiger-"
In the distance, the stud neighed ringingly. I blessed him for his timing, though he wouldn't
have much luck finding the mare he wanted. "Get the 'sword,' Del."
She held her ground. "If I win this dance, will you stop?"
"If you win this dance, I'll just have to practice harder."
"Then you still mean to go back to the South."
"I told you that. Yes." I studied her. "What, did you think I meant to live out my life here on
this benighted island?" Which had nonetheless,. saved our lives in more ways than one.
"I don't know." Her tone was a mixture of frustration, annoyance, and helplessness. "I have
no inkling as to what you will or will not do, Tiger. You're not predictable any more."
Any more. Which implied that once I had been.
I bared my teeth at her. "Well, good. Then I'm not boring." Once again I waved my stick.
"The sooner we get to it, the sooner we'll know."
Her expression suggested she already knew. Or thought she did.
"Not predictable," I reminded her. "Your own words, too."
Del turned on her heel and stalked over to the tree limbs I'd groomed into smooth shafts.
There was no point, no edge, no crosspiece, no grip, no proper pommel. They were not swords.
They were sticks. But whichever one she chose would do.
"Hurry up," I said. "We're burning daylight, bascha."

The world, through glass, is magnified. Small made large. Unseen made visible. Dreams,
bound by ungovernable temperaments and unpredictabilities, may do the same, altering one's
vision. One's comprehension. The known made unknowable.
Grains of sand, slightly displaced. Gently jostled one against another. Gathered. Tumbled.
Herded.
I blink. The world draws back. Large is made small; immense becomes insignificant. And I
see what moves the sand.
Not water. Not wind.
Blood.
 First, they rape her. Then slash open her throat. Twice, possibly thrice. The bones of her
spine, left naked to the day in the ruin of her flesh, gleam whitely in the sun.
Blood flows. Gathers sand. Makes mud of malnourished dust. Is transformed by the sun
into nothingness.
Even blood, in the desert, cannot withstand the ceaseless heat.
It will take longer for the body, for flesh and bone are not so easily consumed. But the
desert will win. Its victories are boundless.
They might have left her alive, to die of thirst. It was their mercy to kill her swiftly. Their
laughter was her dirge. Their jest was to leave a sword within reach, but she lacked the
strength to use it against herself.
As the sun sucks her dry, withering flesh on bone, she turns her head upon the sand and
looks at me out of eyes I recognize.
"Take up the sword," she says.
I jerk, gasping out of sleep into trembling wakefulness, tasting sand in my mouth. Salt. And
blood.
"It's time," she says.
Her breath, her death, is mine.
"Find me," she says, "and take up the sword."
Del felt me spasm into actual wakefulness. She turned toward me and sleepily inquired,
"What is it?"
I offered no answer. I couldn't.