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

He paused, watching her delicate, scarred fingers toy with the ruby-eyed token. "Actually, it's not such a bad idea—once Tilal and Ostvel are taken care of. Kostas is dead and his army is commanded by Saumer and Rihani. There wouldn't be much credit in defeating two boys my own age, even if they are princes, but—" Chiana stiffened. "I won't have you risk yourself!" "Mother—-"

"No! Absolutely not! And if you mention it again, I'll forbid you even to ride the outskirts of the battle against Tilal and Ostvel!"

Rinhoel looked rebellious, then shrugged. "As you wish. But once I'm High Prince, not even you will stop me from doing as I wish."

"Once you're High Prince, there'll be no danger of your being killed in a war. That's the one good thing Rohan did in his life. He gave the princes and athr'im a taste for peace. Once the Vellant'im have what they want—and we have what we want—there will be peace again."

He laughed down at her. "Oh, Mother, how can you believe that?" "You just think about power for a time, my son!" she

snapped. "A High Prince who's constantly at war is a High Prince who's not being obeyed."

That Rinhoel had never considered this before was clear in his eyes. At last he nodded. "As you wish," he repeated.

"Good." Placing the dragon token on a table beside her, she shook out her skirts and rose. "We'll have to talk to your father and work out what he'll say at the ritual tonight."

"Thank the Goddess neither of us has to speak. I'm going to have enough trouble not laughing."

*

Pol finally located Sioned, but only because he recognized the man riding protectively at her side. Though Meath had covered his graying head with the hood of his cloak, no one else had his height or breadth of shoulder. Pol ached a little at the Sunrunner's weary slump, memory supplying him with a picture of a vigorous man in the prime of his life who had taught him everything from basic swordsmanship to fine control of a Fire-conjuring. Now Meath seemed old.

But Sioned was straight-spined and elegant as ever in the saddle. Pol had been prepared to find her as hunched and weary as Meath. He had also expected to see the familiar shining cascade of her hair. The short curls were a shock. His gaze had passed right by her at first—just as hers did now, green eyes filmed with dullness that made a lie of her outward composure. For all the recognition she gave him, he might have been one of the swirling wind-carved stones that rose to either side of the trail through the Court of the Storm God.

Meath saw him and shook his head. Pol hesitated. He understood the warning, but he had not spoken to his mother since the remains of his army had met up with those who had escaped Stronghold. He'd only glimpsed her last night, and only after he'd called Fire to honor Rohan's memory, and even then he'd been unsure of the

hooded woman's identity until the emerald ring flashed when she covered her face and turned away.

Meath's look again cautioned him against approaching Sioned. He rode forward anyway; he'd found no comfort in the ritual, still less in his own words, and only a little in his reunion with Meiglan and his daughters. He knew it would be even worse for Sioned. Perhaps they could find ease for their grief together.

"Mother?" No reply, no reaction, nothing. "Mama," he whispered, and heard a plea in his voice that belonged to the child who had called her that.

It was only when Meath spoke her name that she glanced around. Her gaze found Pol without curiosity and almost without knowledge of who he was. She wore the polite social mask he'd seen a thousand times, the face behind which she hid boredom or anger or impatience. Her eyes were lightless and her voice was impersonal as she said, "Yes?"

"I thought—I thought we might ride together for a little ways."

Her answer was gently courteous. "There's hardly room for it through the Spindle Forest. Perhaps later?" Her attention returned to the trail ahead.

"Mama—"

Respectful but insistent, Meath said, "Please, Pol. Not now."

Pol nodded helplessly. As he waited for Maarken and Kazander, who rode at the rear of the line, he told himself that she was still in shock—well, wasn't he?

Visian, Kazander's brother-by-marriage, was speaking animatedly to the young korrus, whose black eyes were alight with feral glee. Maarken had developed an apprehensive expression; Pol rode up in time to hear him say, "I'm not your commander, my lord, so you can do as you like. But I doubt even your Isulk'im are ready for another fight."

Kazander snorted. "Against that pitiable handful of barbarians who sit horses like kittens squatting to piss?" He caught sight of Pol and bowed, one hand over his heart. "Mighty prince, I beg you. Allow your humble

and unworthy servant to gift you with the heads of your enemies. Few as they are, it will make a start. Before the winter becomes the spring, I swear to slice necks until my sword blunts on their backbones, and—"