"Michelle West - Echoes" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

He lifted a brow in surprise and turned away in the same instant to hide the expression, although in truth it
was not genuine. In all things, he was as he had been trained to be.
What was a lie after all, when it was not offered to a brother? "IтАж was not awareтАж that I had spoken
out loud." That was truth. He did not attempt to lie to the Serra Teresa in any way that she could
hearтАФfor she had his gift, and his curse. They were marked by their ability to hear all things that a voice
could carryтАФto manipulate their own in such a way that it might beguile or force obedience.

"It is night," the Serra Teresa said softly. She raised her face to the moon's; the moon was waning slowly.
A crescent of darkness grew across the perfect brightness of her face. "At night, we are forgiven our
transgressions against strength." She bowed.

"I am not forgiven mine?" he replied gravely. He liked her bow because it was so unnatural a movement
for a Serra, and yet it became her perfectly.

"KallandrasтАФ"

"Your gift is strong," he told her; he did not look at her again. There were things that he did not wish to
share with anyone.

But that had not always been the case.

He heard it because he could not longer prevent himself from hearing it; it was too loud.

Arkady.

His hands trembling a moment in the air, he reached for the only comfort he allowed himself, had ever
allowed himself. He pulled, from a battered case, the lute that had been the gift of the Master of Senniel

CollegeтАФan act of faith on her part. And perhaps on his, to accept it. He spoke the lute's name into the
still, cold air.

Salla.

But the darkness returned only Arkady.

It was over. It was over. He was gone.

His knees threatened to fail him, and with the grace that had seen him through decades, he acknowledged
and accepted his own weakness. He sat, knees bent, the bowl of a lute in his lap, his hands, his shaking
hands, palm up, as if he were begging for something that he could not even name.

Not beneath the Lady's face.

But beneath the Lord's, he had, so many years ago that if memory were weakтАФit was not, and it was
not kindтАФhe might have forgotten it. He sat in the streets of the Tor Leonne's poorest quarter. His father
and mother were deadтАФor he assumed they were dead. He had escaped the slaughter of his family
simply because he had been too far from home when it had happened. But he knew why it had
happened. Because, across the distance that meant life for him, and death for them, he had heard their
screams; they carried words, when words were allowed them.