"Kate Elliott - Crown of Stars 3 - The Burning Stone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elliott Kate)

their own female slaves or any man they considered sheath instead of sword—
with such indignity that he winced to recall it now. And they had done worse, far
far worse, and laughed as they did it; it had been sport to them, to make a man
into a woman in truth, an act they considered the second worst insult that could
be given to a man. Ai, God! It had not been insult but pain and infection that had
almost caused him to die.
But that was all over now. He had run before they took away his tongue,
which truly mattered more to him than the other.
Water eddied along the bank. A hawk's piercing cry made him start. He
had rested long enough. Cautiously he eased free of the brush, forded the
stream, and fell into the steady lope that he used to cover ground. He was so
tired. But west lay the land out of which he had walked in pride so many years
ago that he had lost count: five or seven or nine. He meant to return there, or
die. He would not remain a Quman slave any longer.
Dusk came. The waxing moon gave him enough light to see by as he
walked on, a shadow among shadows on the colorless plain. Stars wheeled
above, and he kept to a westerly course by keeping the pole star to his right.
Very late, a spark of light wavering on the gloomy landscape caught his
attention. He cursed under his breath. Had the war-band caught and passed him,
and did they now wait as a spider waits for the fly to land? But that was not
proud Bulkezu's way. Bulkezu was honorable in the way of his people—if that
could be called honor—but he was also like a bull when it came to problems: he
had no subtlety at all. Strength and prowess had always served him well enough.
No, this was someone—or something—else.
He circled in, creeping, until in the gray predawn light he saw the hulking
shapes of standing stones at the height of a rise, alone out here on the plain as
though a giant had once stridden by and placed them there carelessly, a trifle
now forgotten. His own people called such stone circles "crowns," and this fire
shone from within the crown. He knew then it was no Quman campsite—they
were far too superstitious to venture into such a haunted place.
He crept closer on his hands and knees. Grass pricked his hands. The moon
set as the first faint wash of light spread along the eastern horizon. The fire
blazed higher and yet higher until his eyes stung from its glare. When he came
to the nearest stone, he hid behind its bulk and peeked around.
That harsh glare was no campfire.
Within the ring of stones stood a smaller upright stone, no taller or thicker
than a man. And it burned.
Stone could not burn.
Reflexively, he touched the wooden Circle of Unity he still wore. He would
have prayed, but the Quman had taken his faith together with so much else.
A woman crouched beside . She had the well-rounded curves of a creature
that eats as much as it wants, and the sleek power of a predator, muscular and
quick. Her hair had the same color as the height of flame that cast a net of fire
into the empty air. Her skin, too, wore a golden-bronze gilding, a sheen of flame,
and she wore necklaces that glittered and sparked under the light of that
unearthly fire.
Witchfire.
She swayed, rocking from heel to heel as she chanted in a low voice.
The stone flared so brightly that his eyes teared, but he could not look
away. He saw through as through a gateway, saw another country, heard it, a