"Briggs, Patricia - Sianim 3 - When Demons Walk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Briggs Patricia)

His blond hair, the same shade as her own, was caught back by a red ribbon from her mother’s
favorite gown. His chainmail shirt, which he had not taken off, was the best of its kind, as befitted the
captain of the King’s Own Guards. Over the metal links he wore a wine-colored velvet surcoat, one arm
torn where a sword had parted the cloth. Beneath the tear, she could see the stained edge of a bandage.

“Thank you, my dear, though I didn’t expect to see you. I thought the sorcerer had you tied up with
his work.”

Shamera grinned. “Maur released me from my apprentice duties today at the king’s request as
Mother is needed soothing and terrifying the ladies of the court into behaving.”

Her father laughed and shook his head. “If anyone can keep those hens in line it’s Talia. Nothing is
worse during a siege than a bunch of helpless ladies twittering and—”

His words were interrupted by the call of a battle horn. Her father’s face paled, and his mouth turned
grim.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and said hoarsely, “You find someplace—one of the tunnels the
children play in—someplace safe and you go there now! Do you understand?”

Terrified by the fear in her father’s face. Shamera nodded. “What’s wrong?”

“Do as I ask,” he snapped, drawing on his boots and reaching for his weapons. “You go hide until I
come for you.”

He never came.

* * *

gently, sham wrapped the oilcloth around the footstool and set it aside. The next bundle she
unwrapped was considerably larger—a small, crudely made chest. She lifted the lid and revealed its
contents. She set aside a faded scarlet ribbon, miscellaneous bits of jewelry, a palm-sized ball of glass the


Old Man had used to keep his hands limber, and a pillow embroidered neatly with stars and moon—her
last attempt at needlework.

Under the pillow was another wooden box. This she took in her lap and unworked the magic that
kept the lid closed. Inside were several items that she’d found while thieving. They weren’t hers or the
Old Man’s, but like the flute they were better stored well out of the reach of fools: a gold and porcelain
bowl that would gradually poison any who ate from it, a worn silver bracelet that kept the wearer from
sleeping, and several like items. She started to put the flute with them, then stopped.

The Old Man had nothing left from before—nothing but the flute she held in her hand. The farm
would have to wait until she had the money, but the flute she would give to him now. She returned it to
her hidden pocket. As she did so, she felt the surge of magic that preceded the return of the tide.

She forced herself to set the seal on the larger chest carefully, but once that was done she rewrapped
the oilcloth with haste and left the grotto at a dead run. Slipping and sliding she sped through the tunnels