"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 2 - When True Night Falls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

took down a woolen blanket from a masthook and wrapped
it about his shoulders, shivering.

Drenched in Domina's light, the deck glittered with
ocean spray. Overhead the sails stirred slightly, responding
to a shifting breeze. For a moment Damien just stared out
across the sea, breathing deeply. Waves black as ink
rippled across the water, peaceful and predictable. He tried
to Work his Sight, and - as usual - failed. There was no
earth-fae on the ocean's surface for him to tap into.

We could be on Earth now, he thought. For all this lack
of power . . . would we even know the difference? But the
comparison was flawed and he knew it. On Earth they
would be speeding across the water, abetted by the kind of
technology that this planet would never support. Blind
technology, mysterious power. Here on Erna it would have
doomed them long before they left port, when the doubts
and fears of the passengers first seeped into the
waterproofed hull and began their disruptive influence.
Long before they set sail the fae would have worked its
first subtle distortions, affecting the friction of various
parts, the microfine clearance of others. On Earth that kind
of psychic debris had no power. Here, it would have
doomed them before they even left port.

Wrapping the blanket closer about his shoulders, he
headed toward the prow of the ship. He had no doubt that
the Hunter was there, just as he had no doubt that the man
was trying - yet again - to find some hint of earth-fae
beneath the ink-black waves. The channel between them
had become so strong that at times it was almost like
telepathy. And though the Hunter had assured him that it
would subside again in time - that it was their isolation
from the earth-currents which made any hint of power seem
a thousand times more powerful - Damien nursed a private
nightmare in which the man's malignance clung to him with
parasitic vigor for the rest of his life.

I volunteered for it, he reminded himself.

Not that there was any real choice.
 Tarrant stood at the prow of the ship, a proud and
elegant figurehead. Even after five midmonths of travel he
looked as clean and as freshly pressed as he had on the
night they set out from Faraday. Which was no small thing
in a realm without earth-fae, Damien reflected. How many
precious bits of power had the Hunter budgeted himself for
maintaining that fastidious image? As he came to the prow
he saw that Tarrant had drawn his sword, and one hand