"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 01 - The Black Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

working kestra'chern in the camp had as much training as Amberdrake, and when the Kaled'a'in had
moved to Urtho's Tower and the question of what his job should be had come up, he had felt no
hesitation. He made, at best, an ordinary Healer, and to operate under the constraints of a Healer would
have made him feel as if he worked with half his fingers gone. It was best to do what he was truly good
at.
Breakfast was unusually quiet; Amberdrake's companions were tired and subdued. Like the rest of
the army; after all, the kestra'chern were by no means immune to what had happened at Stelvi Pass. Even
if none of them had friends or acquaintances there, the fighters themselves would, inevitably, bring their
troubles to the anonymous comfort of those whose business was pleasure and support.
No one seemed in any mood for conversation on a personal level; no one looked at Amberdrake
with the desperate eyes of someone who had taken on more pain than he or she could handle, nor asked
Amberdrake for advice in affairs of their own hearts. At first, he simply ate his breakfast, keeping the
conversation light, intending to leave with a quiet greeting for everyone.
One of the junior kestra'chern inquired about Corani, and was met with a brief, sharp glance from
Amberdrake. This served as an impetus for several other kestra'chern at the table to start talking about
the news from Stelvi Pass, Laisfaar, and the Tower, each adding their own slices of information. They
had likely as not gleaned it from their clients as much as from camp gossip. As long as no one revealed
the identities of the clients, many of them thought, putting the pieces of the puzzle together in the
confidence of other kestra'chern was something of a challenge to all concerned. It was done all the time,
and Amberdrake knew it, and although it was a source of some of the kestra'cherns' hidden power, he
didn't entirely approve of this free sharing of basically private knowledge. Still, the war made its own
rules, and they fought the war itself, and not the army of the enemy. Perhaps this technical transgression
of kestra'chern protocol could yield valuable insights. So he told himself.
Regardless of Amberdrake's private mullings about the talk, it went on unabated, and he found
himself offering up the occasional "It may well be" and "From what I know, unlikely" comments, which
helped lay in more pieces of the puzzle. When he felt it was time to go, he directed the discussion back
toward client care and techniques, then slipped out unobtrusively.
When he reached the Black Gryphon's tent, Skan was awake, and evidently in a much better mood
this morning, as he looked Amberdrake up and down in mock amazement. "Tchah, the kestra'chern has
lost his commission? All your fine plumage is gone, strutting-bird!"
"Heh, dressing to match the job."
"It seems likely you turned in here mistakenly on the way to the horse-stalls, then," Skandranon
replied smoothly. Yes, he was definitely feeling better. Yesterday he would have growled.
"Has anyone looked at your wings?" Amberdrake asked.
"Not since you did," Skan told him. His pronunciation was much improved from yesterday, too. He
hissed his sibilants only a little, hardly enough to notice. "All who have come have said it was best left to
the expert."
"They're probably right, but lacking an expert, I'll have to do," Amberdrake said absently, running
his hand just above the surface of the splinted and bandaged right wing. He extended his awareness
down into the wing itself, into the muscle, tendon, and bone. "You're doing all right, though. Bear with me
for a minute, here, I need to probe some more."
He shifted from simple awareness into true Healing with a deft twist of his mind. Carefully, for if he
sped the Healing of the bones too much, they would not Heal properly but would remain weak, as the
bones of a very old person might be after setting. He sent energy to the torn muscle, to the tiny arteries
and veins that had been savaged, and then, delicately, to the bones.
Finally he pulled his awareness away and came back to himself, shaking his head a little to clear it of
the shared pain. "I'd leave the bandages on for now," he continued. "It's going to take another couple of
days of work to mend those wings, and a couple of weeks to strengthen them enough that you can use
them. Having them bandaged like that keeps them from being strained. I hope you have feathers saved
from your last molts; we're going to have to imp a lot of broken secondaries and primaries. That's one