"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 01 - The Black Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes) Ah. Interesting, the same wing that merc mage Conn Levas is attached to. Amberdrake
prodded the coals in the ever-burning brazier, then set a copper kettle of water on it. "And then...?" "I flew patrols. The back patrols—the ones fledglings fly in relays." Her voice broke at that. The duty she described was humiliating for an adult gryphon, usually reserved for punishment because of its length and uneventfulness, and for training fledglings in procedure. "It gave me—time away from the camp. Time to fly. Can fly the circuit faster than anyone else." Amberdrake dropped herb-packed cloth pouches into the kettle, and spoke gently. "Faster than any other gryphon; that is wonderful in itself. How much faster, Zhaneel?" "A third faster. I fly the circuit alone." Amberdrake raised an eyebrow in surprise and appreciation. "I was at fifth-cloud height," she continued. Half again higher than other gryphons fly on patrol— even more interesting. "And I found makaar. There were three, leaving our territory. They had to be stopped somehow, they must have been spying. But I can't Mindspeak well—I couldn't call for help. So I dove on them and fought them. It didn't matter if I died stopping them." Amberdrake's thoughts ran quickly, despite the practiced, impassive expression on his face. She means that. She means that if she died trying, that was better than living. It's plain why she said she wasn't brave. She was suicidal. And she wanted her death to mean something. He took a deep breath and smoothed back his hair. "Zhaneel, I've known many warriors, many shaman and priests and High Mages. So many of them have felt inadequate, and I've spoken to them as I am doing to you, dear sky-lady. When warriors feel afraid they lack something, it is only because they are forgetful. They have forgotten how capable they truly are." He settled down on the bed beside her and caressed her brow as she listened. "If you were anyone besides Zhaneel—lovely, powerful, sleek Zhaneel—you would have gone for help, or flown away frightened, or attacked the makaar and failed. You succeeded wholly because of who and what you are, and by the power of your mind as well as your body. That is no small thing, given that some gryphons I know have no more brains than an ox." Urtho's own hand. Do you know how rare that is?" She shook her head, humanlike, indicating she didn't. "It's very rare, Zhaneel, very unusual. It shows that you are exceptionally good, dear one, and not a freak. Not misborn. And far from worthless." "Doesn't matter," she croaked. "Everyone thinks I am." "Everyone didn't stop three makaar, and everyone didn't get this token." He shook his head, certain that he had her attention now. "Sometimes 'everyone' can be wrong, too. Didn't 'everyone' say that Stelvi Pass was impregnable?" Her ear-tufts rose just a little, and she bobbed her beak once in cautious agreement. He considered her; her build, her very look. "You are different, Zhaneel, just as I am different from my own people. And when I came here, I felt a little like you do—no, a lot like you do. I was scorned simply because of who I was, and what I do. The Healers wouldn't accept me because I was kestra'chern. The kestra'chern were wary of me because I could Heal. Yet as I saw them dance away from me, I studied the moves of their dance." Amberdrake smiled again as Zhaneel relaxed some more and gazed at him, an enraptured raptor listening to a storyteller. "They would look at me and I was a mirror. They could see parts of themselves in me, layers and shards of their own lives they'd tucked away in their sleeves. When I spoke, the Healers knew I had that kestra'chern insight and they felt threatened. And the other kestra'chern distrusted my station and Healing abilities. Yet through it all, there I was. Still myself, Zhaneel, just as you are still you. Those who push you down fear you. They are jealous of you. And you are stronger than you know." Zhaneel fidgeted, uneasy under his care-filled eyes. "Not strong, sir." He shook his head, and chuckled again. "Nah, sky-lady. Please don't call me 'sir,' I am only Amberdrake—a friend. Ah." He moved gracefully to the tea kettle and poured two cups, one large, one small, as he spoke. "If you were not strong, I would never have met you, Zhaneel. You would have been dead and forgotten, not honored by the Mage of Silence himself. And not noticed by the Black |
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