"Rawn, Melanie - Dragon Star 2 - Dragon Token" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

Tallain looked up, his face all innocence. "It's only twenty measures. And who could resist pouncing on an army that's fighting itself?"

"With lots of noise and fuss," Riyan added, starting to grin.

"While the rest of our people drive them right into the rocks."

"That's rather sneaky."

"I knew you'd like it. Now, as for the argument that starts it alt—you'll disagree with me about tactics, and—"

He stopped abruptly, with the distinct impression that Riyan was no longer listening. As indeed he was not; the dark eyes had glazed over, losing all their bronze and golden glintings. Even with the clearing morning sun full on his dark Fironese skin, he had gone ash-pale. Tallain gestured away an approaching soldier who might have disturbed the Sunrunning.

All at once Riyan cried out. "No—Goddess, no!"

Tallain sprang to his feet, the map forgotten on the sand, and grabbed his friend to keep him upright. Riyan gasped for air, sense returning to his eyes.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

He shook his head and clutched Tallain's forearms, unable to speak. Rage, fear, grief—Tallain marked the passage of each across the stricken face.

"Rohan," he gasped, "it's Rohan. He's dead."

Tallain wrenched away and took two steps—all that his knees would permit—across the bright sand. The glare hurt his eyes. He fixed his gaze on the faraway russet stones and dull green trees that marked the Cu-naxan border. The image blurred, and he blinked, and it blurred again.

Finally he swung around. "Riyan, we have a great deal of work to do." He felt his lips curve in a thin, cold smile. "And we will do it very thoroughly."

"Tallain—"

"Very thoroughly," he repeated, and Riyan understood.

The ritual that observed the passing of a High Prince also served to commemorate all others who had died since he was proclaimed. Tradition held that their spirits—peasant or mighty lord, enemy or beloved friend— were privileged to gather at his pyre and greet him on the wind that scattered his ashes across the sky.

This was the last vestige of a barbarian past when every princedom's ritual included the slaughter of as many people as the High Prince had seen years of rule. It was not thought seemly that his death should be a solitary one. It was yet another tradition that Lady Merisel was credited with abolishing.

Curiously enough, lore had always held that a Lord or Lady of Goddess Keep died alone.

Roelstra's death had come late in 704, thirty-nine winters after his accession. The wind that had carried his ashes skyward was crowded indeed—and much of it had been his doing. Plague had come during his rule, and he had held back the dranath that cured it until certain of his enemies were dead. The war that he started, and that ended with his death beneath a dome of starfire, had claimed hundreds upon hundreds more lives.

Rohan, with seven fewer years as High Prince, would receive smaller but gentler welcome on the wind. The spirits of those dead during his rule would not come demanding to know why.

But this time a High Prince's death did not mark the end of a war. Rather, there was the knowledge that those recently dead in that war, and drawn to Stronghold as Rohan's body slowly burned, would not be the last to die this year, or the next. Theirs were the spirits who would wait for Pol.

With the steadying of the light as it slid across the continent, Sunrunners staggered back from the news that Stronghold was in flames and the High Prince was dead. And many wondered just how long those ghosts would have to wait before gathering on the wind summoned to honor the next High Prince.

At Fessada, where the Ussh River broke in twain, an angry young woman stood in a chamber watching her husband inspect the mourning gray laid out on their bed. Arnisaya had been born at Gilad Seahold, and was a Princess of Fessenden through marriage to its ruler's younger son. Edirne was occupied in choosing among four tunics, all equally fine. She could almost hear the silent debate as he decided which would best become him while indicating grief for the High Prince. Not too much grief, of course, but what was proper for a prince. As he flicked invisible specks of dust from the clothing, Arni-saya's fingers clenched around a large glass bowl.

Edirne glanced at her disinterestedly. "It wouldn't kill me, only shatter."

"Dragon's teeth would shatter against that stone skull of yours!" She seized the bowl in both hands and crashed it deliberately to the floor. Shards flew in all directions like spatters of orange paint.