"Michelle West - Winter Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

the front of the group. Kayla set Tess down and separated them, grabbing an elbow
in either hand. She didn't need to speak; her expression said everything.
Bells caught light and made of sound a musical cacophony, which was not in fact
dissimilar to the sound it evoked from the children, whose quarrels fell away in the
wake of shared wonder.
Well, almost all of the quarrels at any rate; there was still some scuffling for
position, with its attendant shoving and hissed accusation. Given everything, this
was almost angelic behavior; it wouldn't be good enough for the old aunts, but it
was good enough for Kayla. Two years ago, she would have asked for moreтАФand
gotten it, tooтАФbut two years ago, behavior had seemed so much more important
than it was now.
These children were the children of winter, and the winter was harsh; she knew
that if half of them lived to be eight, the village would count itself lucky; if half of
those lived to be fifteen, it would count itself more than that.
The Herald, an older woman with broad hips and an easy smile, watched the
children from the safe distance of her Companion's back; her Companion, on the
other hand, had no difficulty wandering among the many outstretchedтАФand
upstretchedтАФhands. The second Companion seemed to have a more obvious sense
of personal dignityтАФor at least a healthy caution when it came to children; it was
hard to say which. Her rider was a handful of years older than Kayla, if at all, but
his face was smooth and unblemished by either time or war, and he seemed both
grave and dignified in a way that reminded her of her dead. Riverend was a harsh,
Northern town; the dead were many.
"Youngling," the older Herald barked, her voice loud but not unfriendly.
Mitchell leaped up about six feet, straining to look much older than his handful of
years. "Yes, ma'am!"
The young man who rode at her side laughed. "Ma'am, is it?" His glance belied
the gravity of his expression; Kayla liked the sound of his voice.
 "Obviously I don't look as young as I'd like to think I do. Ah well, time is cruel."
Her smile showed no disappointment at that cruelty as she looked down at
Mitchell. "You know the people of the village by name?"
He nodded.
"Good. I'm wondering where Kayla Grayson lives." Mitchell lifted a hand and
pointed toward the large hold.
"Will she be down at the mines, or up at the hold?" He frowned. "Neither."
Kayla said nothing.
But she felt it: a change in the older woman's mood and intent; there were
currents in it now that were deeper than they should have been. She snuck a glance
at the man, and listened carefully. There, too, she felt a determination that was out
of place. It put her on her guard.
"Why are you looking for Kayla?" she asked.
"We've heard a bit about her, and weтАФwell, I at leastтАФthought it would be nice
to meet her on our way through Riverend. We don't often get much call to travel
this way."
"What have you heard?"
"Well, for one, that she's Magda Merton's daughter, the last of four, and the one
most like her mother."
Kayla hesitated a moment, and hid that hesitation in the action of lifting a child to
the wide, wide nostrils of a very patient Companion. She had the grace to wince
and pull back when the child's first act was to attempt to shove his whole hand up