The Skull Throne. Peter Brett V.
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Название: The Skull Throne
Автор: Peter Brett V.
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Героическая фантастика
isbn: 9780007425709
isbn:
‘Ent got a notion,’ Renna said. ‘Wastin’ time should be spent lookin’.’
Leesha nodded, knowing when she was beaten. ‘Please don’t tell Thamos,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell him in time, honest word. But not now, with half the Krasian army just a few miles off.’
Renna snorted. ‘Ent stupid. How’d a Gatherer like you get pregnant, anyway? Even a dumb Tanner knows to pull out.’
Leesha dropped her eyes, unable to keep contact with Renna’s intense gaze. ‘Asked myself that same question.’ She shrugged. ‘History’s full of folk whose parents knew better.’
‘Din’t ask about history,’ Renna said. ‘Asked why the smartest woman in the Hollow’s got wood for brains. No one ever tell you how babes are made?’
Leesha bared her teeth at that. The woman had a point, but she’d no right to judge. ‘If you won’t tell me your secrets, I’ve no reason to trust you with mine.’ She swept a hand out at the valley. ‘Go. Pretend to look for Arlen till we’re out of sight, then go and meet him. I won’t stop you.’
Renna smiled. ‘As if you could.’ She blurred and was gone.
Why did I let her get to me? Leesha wondered, but her fingers slipped to her belly, and she knew full well.
Because she was right.
Leesha had been drunk on couzi the first time she’d kissed Ahmann. She hadn’t planned to stick him that first afternoon, but neither had she resisted when he moved to take her. She’d foolishly assumed he wouldn’t spend in her before marriage, but Krasians considered it a sin for a man to waste his seed. She’d felt him increase his pace, beginning to grunt, and could have pulled away. But a part of her had wanted it, too. To feel a man pulse and jerk within her, and corespawn the risk. It was a thrill she’d ridden to her own crescendo.
She’d meant to brew pomm tea that night, but instead found herself kidnapped by Inevera’s Watchers, ending the night battling a mind demon by the Damajah’s side. Leesha took a double dose the next day, and every time they had lain together since, but as her mentor Bruna said, ‘Sometimes a strong child finds a way, no matter what you do.’
Inevera eyed Thamos, the greenland princeling, as he stood before Ashan. He was a big man, tall and muscular but not without a share of grace. He moved like a warrior.
‘I expect you’ll want your men to search the valley,’ he said.
Ashan nodded. ‘And you, yours.’
Thamos gave a nod in return. ‘A hundred men each?’
‘Five hundred,’ Ashan said, ‘with the truce of Domin Sharum upon them.’ Inevera saw the princeling’s jaw tighten. Five hundred men was nothing to the Krasians, the tiniest fraction of the Deliverer’s army. But it was more men than Thamos wished to spare.
Still, the princeling had little choice but to agree, and he gave his assent. ‘How do I know your warriors will keep the peace? The last thing we need is for this valley to turn into a war zone.’
‘My warriors will keep their veils up, even in the day,’ Ashan said. ‘They would not dare disobey. It’s your men I worry over. I would hate to see them hurt in a misunderstanding.’
The princeling showed his teeth at that. ‘I think there’d be hurt enough to go around. How is hiding their faces supposed to guarantee peace? A man with his face hidden fears no reprisal.’
Ashan shook his head. ‘It’s a wonder you savages have survived the night so long. Men remember the faces of those who have wronged them, and those enmities are hard to put aside. We wear veils in the night, so that all may fight as brothers, their blood feuds forgotten. If your men cover their faces, there will be no further blood spilled in this Everam-cursed valley.’
‘Fine,’ the princeling said. ‘Done.’ He gave a short, shallow bow, the barest respect to a man who was a dozen times his better, and turned, striding away. The other greenlanders followed.
‘The Northerners will pay for their disrespect,’ Jayan said.
‘Perhaps,’ Inevera said, ‘but not today. We must return to Everam’s Bounty, and quickly.’
333 AR Autumn
Jardir woke at sunset, his mind thick with fog. He was lying in a Northern bed – one giant pillow instead of many. The bedcloth was rough, nothing like the silk to which he had become accustomed. The room was circular, with warded glass windows all around. A tower of some sort. Untamed land spread into the twilight, but he recognized none of it.
Where in Ala am I?
Pain lanced through him as he stirred, but pain was an old companion, embraced and forgotten. He pulled himself into a sitting position, rigid legs scraping against each other. He pulled the blanket aside. Plaster casts running thigh-to-foot. His toes, swollen in red, purple, and yellow, peeked from the far ends, close, yet utterly out of reach. He flexed them experimentally, ignoring the pain, and was satisfied with the slight twitch that rewarded him.
It harkened back to the broken arm he’d suffered as a child, and the helplessness of his weeks of healing.
He reached immediately to the nightstand for the crown. Even in day, there was magic enough stored within to heal a few broken bones, especially ones already set.
His hands met empty air. Jardir turned and stared a long moment before the situation registered. It had been years since he had let himself be out of arm’s reach of his crown and spear, but both were missing.
Memories came back to him in a rush. The fight atop the mountain with the Par’chin. How the son of Jeph had collapsed into smoke as Jardir struck, only to solidify an instant later, grabbing the spear shaft with inhuman strength and twisting it from his grasp.
And then the Par’chin turned and threw it from the cliff as if it were nothing more than a gnawed melon rind.
Jardir licked cracked lips. His mouth was dry and his bladder full, but both needs had been provided for. The water at his bedside was sweet, and with some effort he managed use of the chamber pot his searching fingers found on the floor just underneath the bed.
His chest was bound tightly, ribs grinding as he shifted. Over the bandages he was clad in a thin robe – tan, he noted. The Par’chin’s idea of a joke, perhaps.
There was no door, simply a stair leading up into the room – as good as prison bars in his current state. There were no other exits, nor did the СКАЧАТЬ