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

Then she seized the tiny metal dagger, a family heirloom of immense value, used only for this
ceremony over the ages. She drew the blade from its sheath and cut herself across the left arm, the hot
pain a counterpoint to the sick ache in her chest.

She held the small wound over the pool, letting drops of blood fall to mix with the water, as tradition
dictated. Again she tore at her robe, ripping all but a few tatters from her body. Naked but for a
loincloth, she cast the rags away with a strangled cry. Pulling her hair, forcing pain to cleanse her grief,
she chanted ancient words, calling her ancestors to witness her bereavement. Then she threw herself
across the fresh soil over the place of interment and rested her head upon the family natami.

With the ceremony now complete, Mara's grief flowed like the water streaming from the pool,
carrying her tears and blood to the river, thence to the distant sea. As mourning eased away pain, the
ceremony would eventually cleanse her, but now was the moment of private grief when tears and
weeping brought no shame. And Mara descended into grief as wave after wave of sorrow issued from
the deepest reservoir within her soul.

A sound intruded, a rustling of leaves as if someone moved through the tree branches above her.
Caught up in grief, Mara barely noticed, even when a dark figure dropped to land next to her. Before she
could open her eyes, powerful fingers yanked on her hair. Mara's head snapped back. Jolted by a
terrible current of fear, she struggled, half glimpsing a man in black robes behind her. Then a blow to the
face stunned her. Her hair was released and a cord was passed over her head. Instinctively she grabbed
at it. Her fingers tangled in the loop that should have killed her in seconds, but as the man tightened the
garrotte, her palm prevented the knot in the centre from crushing her windpipe. Still she couldn't breathe.
Her attempt to shout for aid was stifled. She tried to roll away, but her assailant jerked upon the cord
and held her firmly in check. A wrestler's kick learned from her brother earned her a mocking half-laugh,
half-grunt. Despite her skill, Mara was no match for the assassin.

The cord tightened, cutting painfully into her hand and neck. Mara gasped for breath, but none came
and her lungs burned. Struggling like a fish on a gill line, she felt the man haul her upright. Only her
awkward grip on the cord kept her neck from breaking. Mara's ears sang from the pounding of her own
blood within. She clawed helplessly with her free hand. Her fingers tangled in cloth. She yanked, but was
too weak to overbalance the man. Through a roar like surf, she heard the man's laboured breathing as he
lifted her off the ground. Then, defeated by lack of air, her spirit fell downwards into darkness.
 2


Evaluations


Mara felt wetness upon her face.

Through the confusion of returning senses, she realized Papewaio was gently cradling her head in the
crook of his arm as he moistened her face with a damp rag. Mara opened her mouth to speak, but her
throat constricted. She coughed, then swallowed hard against the ache of injured neck-muscles. She
blinked, and struggled to organize her thoughts; but she knew only that her neck and throat hurt terribly
and the sky above looked splendid beyond belief, its blue-green depths appearing to fade into the infinite.
Then she moved her right hand; pain shot across her palm, jolting her to full memory.

Almost inaudibly she said, 'The assassin?'