"Anne Bishop - Black Jewels 00 - The Invisible Ring" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bishop Anne)

he needed to lean on that support to stay on his feet. He wasn't sure his
legs would get him to the Coach before they buckled.
"I don't know where the others are," he finally pointed out.
"This way," the escort growled. As they walked toward the man's partner, who
had been guarding the other slaves, Jared glanced over his shoulder and saw
a messenger boy hand a slip of paper to Grizelle just before she reached the
ticket station. The boy ran off immediately, not even waiting for the usual
coin. Feeling a warning prickle between his shoulder blades, Jared stopped
and watched her read the message. So still. So silent. So gray. Nothing
about her seemed different, so he didn't understand why he instinctively
opened his first inner barrier and sent out a delicate Red psychic tendril.
Even if her inner barriers hadn't been stronger than his, the tendril was
too delicate to probe even surface thoughts, which meant there was less
chance of it being noticed. But it would be able take a sip of her emotions
and give him some warning about her temper. He wasn't prepared for the blast
of fear that raced back through the tendril and crashed into him. Something
had happened. Something had changed. The fear hadn't been there during the
ride here. He was sure of that. Hell's fire, he'd touched her, sat beside
her. Even she couldn't have hidden feelings that strong while there had been
physical contact between them. The message, then. The mes . . .
As he watched Grizelle tuck her hands into the sleeves of her robe and walk
into the ticket station, his waning endurance finally gave out. The world
became fuzzy and slow. So hard to walk, despite the hand on his arm leading
him. Words began smearing again, mashing together and stretching out until
they became a language of nightmarish shapes. Bodies appeared in front of
him, out of nowhere. Someone tugged on his arm. He stopped walking. The
smells of blood-bright fear and sickly brown sweat oozed around the word
shapes. Water.
Why did that have to be the one word that still made sense?
"She'll be taking . . . west-going Coaches?"
He thought that was one of the guards speaking, but couldn't be sure since
the voice kept fading in and out.
"Bound to ... Territory's west . . . Tamanara Mountains."
"That's what . . . figured . . . brought the rest . . . here."
Except they were walking again, endlessly walking, while the escorts swore
under their breath and their blade-sharp anger cut into him. Where were his
inner barriers? Where . . . Someone pulled at his arms.
"Ssiiitt."
His legs folded under him.
A gray voice. The word "water."
A cup at his mouth. Water trickling past his lips. He held it for a moment,
savoring the wetness, before he swallowed. Then he tried to grab the cup and
gulp, but hands pulled it away from him.
"Sslloowlly."
He obeyed. It was so important to obey, so important that this female voice
that wasn't gray didn't take away the water. Finally enough.
Ballsansass. That was important, too, although he couldn't remember why.
He slid sideways. The water had melted his bones. He hadn't known water
could do that. Whiskey could, if you drank enough of it, but water? Who
would have guessed? Then he was melting and sliding, melting and sliding,