"Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 06 - Challenge Met" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ingrid Charles)

apprehension run through him. He was a copy of Storm, but a pure copy
undulled by time or cynicism, hair the color of winter wheat and blue eyes
with an electric intensity in them, a copy that rang truer than its original
because life had not yet defeated Rawlins. But the boy had never been the
same since the military action on Bythia that had entangled his life with
Storm's and with the Walker Colin's. Rawlins had served as the
commander's aide-de-camp and as for the Walker saint, it was said that
Colin had blessed the boy, cursed the boy, and even raised him from the
dead.

"Sergeant," Rawlins said softly. "I'd like to volunteer for detail."

Though he had misgivings, there was no way Lassaday could gainsay
the lieutenant. He gave a short, abrupt nod. "That's it, then. Who is going
with me and th' lieutenant?" He was not surprised to have to turn them
away in droves, if only because there was a maudlin curiosity to see the
legendary Jack Storm.



Amber was the first to see them crossing the riot lines, on foot, in full
battle armor, Malthen sunlight glinting off the Flexalinks. They had not
been able to bring the transports through the still pressing crowds of
Walkers and other protesters. She stood up even as Pepys came into the
lounge. "They're here," she said gently.

Jack had been sitting in repose, eyes closed, faint lines smoothed upon
his brow. Years of cold sleep suspension had kept him much younger than
his chronological age. His sandy hair was a little higher off his forehead than
it had been, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes a little deeper, and the
grooves about his mouth sharper than she remembered, but his was a body
still well in its prime. He looked up as a clink sounded from Pepys' hands,
and his waking gaze fell on the shackles his emperor held.

He said nothing, but Amber's heart twisted as the lines in his face
deepened as his sovereign approached.




Chapter 2
«^»
Amber walked the palace hallway, ignoring the gaunt shadow her body
threw upon the walls. She hugged herself against a chill that was born not of
temperature but of spirit, an iciness the black silks she wore could not keep
out. The sight at the port had stayed with her, no matter how hard she tried
to pace it off: the wall of Thraks reared in opposition to a wall of human
flesh, people crushing forward inexorably, demanding that their saint be
returned to them. White-lipped, Pepys had greeted Baadluster, his Minister
of War, and the honor guard had surrounded them, swallowing them