"Raymond E. Feist - Empire Saga 1 - Daughter Of The Empire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

embedded in the soil, worn smooth by ages of exposure to the elements; the shatra bird of the Acoma
was once carved deeply on its surface, but now the crest was barely visible. This was the family's natami,
the sacred rock that embodied the spirit of the Acoma. Should the day come when the Acoma were
forced to flee these lands, this one most revered possession would be carried away and all who bore the
name would die protecting it. For should the natami fall into the hands of any other, the family would be
no more. Mara glanced at the far hedge. The three natami taken by Acoma ancestors were interred
under a slab, inverted so their carved crests would never see sunlight again. Mara's forebears had
obliterated three families in the Game of the Council. Now her own stood in peril of joining them.

Next to the stone a hole had been dug, the damp soil piled to one side. Mara placed the cushion with
her father's sword and her brother's robe within. With bare hands she pushed the earth back into the
hole, patting it down, unmindful as she soiled her white robe.

Then she sat back on her heels, caught by the sudden compulsion to laugh. A strange, detached
giddiness washed over her and she felt alarm. Despite this being the appointed place, tears and pain so
long held in check seemed unwilling to come.

She took a breath and stifled the laughter. Her mind flashed images and she felt hot flushes rush up her
breasts, throat, and cheeks. The ceremony must continue, despite her strange feelings.

Beside the pool rested a small vial, a faintly smoking brazier, a tiny dagger, and a clean white gown.
Mara lifted the vial and removed the stopper. She poured fragrant oils upon the pool, sending momentary
shimmers of fractured light across its surface. Softly she said, 'Rest, my father. Rest, my brother. Come
to your home soil and sleep with our ancestors.'

She laid the vial aside and with a jerk ripped open the bodice of her robe. Despite the heat, chill
bumps roughened her small breasts as the breeze struck suddenly exposed, damp skin. She reached up
and again ripped her gown, as ancient traditions were followed. With the second tear she cried out, a
halfhearted sound, little better than a whimper. Tradition demanded the show of loss before her
ancestors.

Again she tore her robe, ripping it from her left shoulder so it hung half to her waist. But the shout that
followed held more anger at her loss than sorrow. With her left hand she reached up and tore her gown
from her right shoulder. This time her sob was full-throated as pain erupted from the pit of her stomach.

Traditions whose origins were lost in time at last triggered a release. AH the torment she had held in
check came forth, rushing up from her groin through her stomach and chest to issue from her mouth as a
scream. The sound of a wounded animal rang in the glade as Mara gave full vent to her anger, revulsion,
torment and loss.

Shrieking with sorrow, nearly blinded with tears, she plunged her hand into the almost extinguished
brazier. Ignoring the pain of the few hot cinders there, she smeared the ashes across her breasts and
down her exposed stomach. This symbolized that her heart was ashes, and again sobs racked her body
as her mind sought final release from the horror left by the murder of her father, brother, and hundreds of
loyal warriors. Her left hand shot out and grabbed dirt from beside the natami. She smeared the damp
soil in her hair and struck her head with her fist. She was one with Acoma soil, and to that soil she would
return, as would the spirits of the slain.

Now she struck her thigh with her fist, chanting the words of mourning, almost unintelligible through
her crying. Rocking back and forth upon her knees, she wailed in sorrow.