"Elizabeth Vaughan - Chronicles Of The Warlands 02 - Warsworn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vaughan Elizabeth)

'bragnect' which meant 'killer of foals'. Now that I knew what the word meant, I was much more
careful about how I used it.

And just like proud parents are wont to do, they talk about horses. Constantly. Obsessively.
They'd discuss the details of ears and mane and gaits until I wanted to scream. They had
seventeen words for a male horse and could talk for hours about saddles. They loved to modify
saddles with hooks and protrusions and supports, and talk out the advantages and
disadvantages. Their world is very dependent on their animals and it was fascinating for about
the first day. After that, I tired quickly of horses and horse talk.

And that was another thing. All this talk was out in the open where everyone could hear. They
had no sense of modesty or privacy that I could see. I'd had one rider come up and start to
discuss the state of his bowels without a qualm, in the middle of a moving mass of warriors. You
couldn't really talk to anyone without being overheard.

Ahead of us there was a shout. I peered around Prest's shoulders to see one warrior launch
himself at another, carrying him to the ground. The horses shied and shifted a bit, but everyone
just kept moving as the two rolled on the ground, fighting. Their horses had moved off, to eat
grass as their human riders resolved their differences.

Which was another thing. These people had such fiery tempers and they had no hesitation of
attacking for any slight. It was only the exchange of a token that allowed safety for the speaker
of offensive words. In Xy, challenge was made clear, with a chance to prepare. Not with these
people.

So here I was, Warprize to the Warlord of the Plains, acclaimed before my people and his,
praised and admired for my willingness to journey to a new and strange place, to be a bridge
between his people and mine. What would they think, to find out that I was sick to my stomach,
hungry, exhausted, dirty, alone and certain that the Warlord had lost interest in me?

I heaved a sigh, and tried to tell myself that I was being a soft city woman. That I had no right
to complain over minor problems like this. That I was being foolish.

My stomach rolled over, and I focused my eyes off to the side, on the trees in the distance, and
tried very hard not to cry.

Joden was broader than Prest, but not so tall. Once I was behind him, I propped my chin on his
shoulder and looked ahead, which would help settle my stomach. Eventually.

"You look unwell, Warprize. Are you pregnant?"

Goddess, was every Firelander going to ask me that? "No," I spoke, my tongue sharper than I
intended. "I am fine, Joden."

He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "No, something troubles you, Warprize."
Joden's deep voice seemed to resonate through his chest and right into my bones.

I sighed. This was the man who had helped me before, by explaining the meaning of my title.
Perhaps he could help me again. "Joden, words spoken to a Singer are private, right?"