A Game of Thrones: The Story Continues Books 1-4: A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

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СКАЧАТЬ Duur studied Drogo, her face still and dead. “The wound has festered.”

      “This is your work, maegi,” Qotho said. Haggo laid his fist across Mirri’s cheek with a meaty smack that drove her to the ground. Then he kicked her where she lay.

      “Stop it!” Dany screamed.

      Qotho pulled Haggo away, saying, “Kicks are too merciful for a maegi. Take her outside. We will stake her to the earth, to be the mount of every passing man. And when they are done with her, the dogs will use her as well. Weasels will tear out her entrails and carrion crows feast upon her eyes. The flies off the river shall lay their eggs in her womb and drink pus from the ruins of her breasts …” He dug iron-hard fingers into the soft, wobbly flesh under the godswife’s arm and hauled her to her feet.

      “No,” Dany said. “I will not have her harmed.”

      Qotho’s lips skinned back from his crooked brown teeth in a terrible mockery of a smile. “No? You say to me no? Better you should pray that we do not stake you out beside your maegi. You did this, as much as the other.”

      Ser Jorah stepped between them, loosening his longsword in its scabbard. “Rein in your tongue, bloodrider. The princess is still your khaleesi.”

      “Only while the blood-of-my-blood still lives,” Qotho told the knight. “When he dies, she is nothing.”

      Dany felt a tightness inside her. “Before I was khaleesi, I was the blood of the dragon. Ser Jorah, summon my khas.”

      “No,” said Qotho. “We will go. For now … Khaleesi.” Haggo followed him from the tent, scowling.

      “That one means you no good, Princess,” Mormont said. “The Dothraki say a man and his bloodriders share one life, and Qotho sees it ending. A dead man is beyond fear.”

      “No one has died,” Dany said. “Ser Jorah, I may have need of your blade. Best go don your armor.” She was more frightened than she dared admit, even to herself.

      The knight bowed. “As you say.” He strode from the tent.

      Dany turned back to Mirri Maz Duur. The woman’s eyes were wary. “So you have saved me once more.”

      “And now you must save him,” Dany said. “Please …”

      “You do not ask a slave,” Mirri replied sharply, “you tell her.” She went to Drogo burning on his mat, and gazed long at his wound. “Ask or tell, it makes no matter. He is beyond a healer’s skills.” The khal’s eyes were closed. She opened one with her fingers. “He has been dulling the hurt with milk of the poppy.”

      “Yes,” Dany admitted.

      “I made him a poultice of firepod and sting-me-not and bound it in a lambskin.”

      “It burned, he said. He tore it off. The herbwomen made him a new one, wet and soothing.”

      “It burned, yes. There is great healing magic in fire, even your hairless men know that.”

      “Make him another poultice,” Dany begged. “This time I will make certain he wears it.”

      “The time for that is past, my lady,” Mirri said. “All I can do now is ease the dark road before him, so he might ride painless to the night lands. He will be gone by morning.”

      Her words were a knife through Dany’s breast. What had she ever done to make the gods so cruel? She had finally found a safe place, had finally tasted love and hope. She was finally going home. And now to lose it all … “No,” she pleaded. “Save him, and I will free you, I swear it. You must know a way … some magic, some …”

      Mirri Maz Duur sat back on her heels and studied Daenerys through eyes as black as night. “There is a spell.” Her voice was quiet, scarcely more than a whisper. “But it is hard, lady, and dark. Some would say that death is cleaner. I learned the way in Asshai, and paid dear for the lesson. My teacher was a bloodmage from the Shadow Lands.”

      Dany went cold all over. “Then you truly are a maegi …”

      “Am I?” Mirri Maz Duur smiled. “Only a maegi can save your rider now, Silver Lady.”

      “Is there no other way?”

      “No other.”

      Khal Drogo gave a shuddering gasp.

      “Do it,” Dany blurted. She must not be afraid; she was the blood of the dragon. “Save him.”

      “There is a price,” the godswife warned her.

      “You’ll have gold, horses, whatever you like.”

      “It is not a matter of gold or horses. This is bloodmagic, lady. Only death may pay for life.”

      “Death?” Dany wrapped her arms around herself protectively, rocked back and forth on her heels. “My death?” She told herself she would die for him, if she must. She was the blood of the dragon, she would not be afraid. Her brother Rhaegar had died for the woman he loved.

      “No,” Mirri Maz Duur promised. “Not your death, Khaleesi.”

      Dany trembled with relief. “Do it.”

      The maegi nodded solemnly. “As you speak, so it shall be done. Call your servants.”

      Khal Drogo writhed feebly as Rakharo and Quaro lowered him into the bath. “No,” he muttered, “no. Must ride.” Once in the water, all the strength seemed to leak out of him.

      “Bring his horse,” Mirri Maz Duur commanded, and so it was done. Jhogo led the great red stallion into the tent. When the animal caught the scent of death, he screamed and reared, rolling his eyes. It took three men to subdue him.

      “What do you mean to do?” Dany asked her.

      “We need the blood,” Mirri answered. “That is the way.”

      Jhogo edged back, his hand on his arakh. He was a youth of sixteen years, whip-thin, fearless, quick to laugh, with the faint shadow of his first mustachio on his upper lip. He fell to his knees before her. “Khaleesi,” he pleaded, “you must not do this thing. Let me kill this maegi.”

      “Kill her and you kill your khal,” Dany said.

      “This is bloodmagic,” he said. “It is forbidden.”

      “I am khaleesi, and I say it is not forbidden. In Vaes Dothrak, Khal Drogo slew a stallion and I ate his heart, to give our son strength and courage. This is the same. The same.”

      The stallion kicked and reared as Rakharo, Quaro, and Aggo pulled him close to the tub where the khal floated like one already dead, pus and blood seeping from his wound to stain the bathwaters. Mirri Maz Duur chanted words in a tongue that Dany did not know, and a knife appeared in her hand. Dany never saw where it came from. It looked old; hammered red bronze, leaf-shaped, its blade covered with ancient glyphs. The maegi drew it across the stallion’s throat, under the noble head, and СКАЧАТЬ