"Alan F. Troop - Dragon DelaSangre" - читать интересную книгу автора (Troop Alan F)

Chapter 1
^┬╗


Since Mother's lonely demise on an and isle beyond the Gulfstream, Father and I have lived alone. He
sleeps most of the time now. The years have caught him in their grip and, during those brief times when
he's awake, he's become quite fond of repeating that death lurks beyond each labored breath he takes.

I never detect any sorrow in those declarations. Father has lived long enough to savor whatever he
wished. When death comes, he'll surely embrace it.

Dignity is all I wish for him. He's always admired those who fought for the joy they found in life. "And
I've always regretted the necessity of their deaths," Father's often said. "Even in defeat, the brave
ones surrendered only their bodies. "

But no matter how calm Father's death, no matter how well received its arrivalтАФI fear the loneliness that
will follow. "Don't despair," he reassures me. "There are still others. One day you will find a woman
of the blood, just as I found your mother."

But each year passes without such fortune. Father can doze and dream his memories. I can only wish for
my future.

Ours is a large house, made from coral stone. It sits on an islandтАФa small spit of sand stuck between
Miami's Biscayne Bay and the great blue wideness of the Atlantic Ocean. As much as I love the salt smell
and ocean song that fills the air each day, I dread the thought of a lonely future spent roaming the cool
stone corridors, from empty room to empty room.

We've owned this island, Caya DelaSangre, or Blood Key, since Philip II, the king of Spain, granted it
to my family in exchange for gold, services rendered and the promise of Don Henri DelaSangra to never
return to any portion of Europe. When first deeded to our family in 1589, the island measured eleven
acres long and five acres wide. But over the years, wind, tide and storm have eroded our homestead, just
as our family has diminished under the weight of time. My inheritance has worn away to no more than
nine acres of dry land. Truth is, I wouldn't trade them for ninety anywhere else. My mother gave birth to
me here. I grew up in the house Don Henri himself built.

Without a bride of my own, without children, I admit it's an empty kingdom to rule. Still, I pity those
poor souls on the mainland who move every few years, from house to house, without any connection to
their land, without any sense of their history or their responsibility to it.

The other night Father awoke and grew nostalgic. "Remember when you were a boy," Father wheezed
and coughed, "how you loved to play soldier?"

I nodded.

"You'd go out on the veranda, climb on its coral parapet and point to the seaтАФshouting that
pirates were coming to attack. Then you'd run, seeking pretend enemies, circling the house until
you finally stopped by one of the gun ports cut into the coral andтАж"
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