"Russell, Sean - Initiate Brother 2 - Gatherer Of Clouds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Sean)

wound its way among the uninhabited residences, wrenching at
shutters and filling the streets with the echoes of the cityТs former
lifeЧbefore the plague had swept the north. Rhojo-ma was a city
half full of vibrant northerners and half full of the ghosts of the
plague dead; only a decade gone, they walked in living memory
still.

In the late afternoon the Nagana came out of the north to haunt the
city with the voices of its past, and the people in the streets hurried
on their way, attempting to ignore the sounds. No family had been
untouched by the plague and the whispering of ghosts spoke to
everyone.

By the curb of a lesser avenue, on the low wall of a bridge that
arced over the canal, sat a Neophyte Botahist monk. Apparently
oblivious to the life of the city, he chantedЧa low, barely melodic
sound that mingled with the wind echoing down an empty stone
stairwell and off a nearby wall.

If he was unaware of the city around him, it could be said that the
city, or at least those who walked its streets, were barely more
aware of him. Their only acknowledgment, the reflex action of a
sign to Botahara as they passed, but few turned their gaze to look
for the source of the chant. A monk sitting by his alms cup was as
common a sight as a river man at his oar.

A coin rattled dully into the monkТs leather cup and he gave a quick
double bow, not interrupting his chant or looking up to see who his
benefactor might be.

Without warning the already cool air turned colder and the wind
died to a calm. The whispering of ghosts fell

to a hush. It seemed only the chanting of the young monk moved
the air, and the pedestrians hesitated as though theyТd suddenly
forgotten the purpose of their outings.

There was a long moment of this eerie stillness, and then a deep
roll of thunder shook the walls of Rhojo-ma, seeming for all the
world to have originated in the depths of the earth, so substantial
did it feel.

The air took on form and turned to white as hail palted down in a
sudden torrent. The staccato of ice stones drumming on tile
drowned out all other sounds, but in moments it reduced its volume
to a mere drizzle, then turned to rain.

At the first crash of thunder the residents of Rhojo-ma hurried to
cover, leaving the monk alone on his wall, still chanting, apparently
oblivious to the pelting hail despite the thinness of his robe.