"Ann Maxwell - Fire Dancer 3 - Dancer's Illusion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maxwell Ann)

had died beneath the hot lash of an unstable sun, sending the young Bre’n and his even
younger Senyas fire dancer fleeing for their lives. They had survived, and they had
managed to find two others who had survived. One was Ilfn, a woman of Kirtn’s race.
The other was her storm dancer, a blind boy called Lheket. Rheba had sworn to find more
survivors, to comb the galaxy until she had found enough Bre’ns and Senyasi to ensure
that neither race became extinct.

But first she had light-years to go and promises to keep. She had to deliver each one of
the people on the ship to his, her, orhir home. The first such delivery—to a planet called
Daemen—had nearly killed both her and Kirtn. Since then there had been several other
planets, none dangerous. But each number the computer spat out could be another
Daemen.

“You may be ready,” Rheba sighed, “but I’m not sure I am.”

She licked her lips, then whistled a phrase in the intricate, poetic Bre’n language—
Instantly the computer displayed a number in the air just above her head.

Kirtn whistled in lyric relief. That was the most civilized planet in the Yhelle Equality.
Certainly there could be no difficulty there. Besides, the Yhelle illusionists on board had
more than earned their chance to go home. Without them, Kirtn certainly would have
died on Daemen, and Rheba, too.

On the other hand, they would miss the illusionists. It was piquant not knowing who or
what would appear in the crowded corridors of theDevalon .

Fssa keened softly into Rheba’s ear. He, too, would miss the illusionists. When they
were practicing their trade, they had a fey energy about them that could appeal only to a
Fssireeme—or another illusionist.

“I know, snake,” Rheba said, stroking him with a fingertip. She sent currents of energy
through her hair to console the Fssireeme. “But it wouldn’t be fair to ask them to wait just
because we like their company.”

Fssa subsided. With a final soft sound he vanished into her seething gold hair.

Rheba stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of the people crowding the control room.
“Where are they?”

Kirtn, taller than anyone else, spotted the illusionists. “By the hall.”

“Are they happy?”

“With an illusionist, who can tell?” he said dryly. Then he relented and lifted Rheba so
that she could see.

“They don’t look happy,” she said.

Kirtn whistled a phrase from the “Autumn Song,” one of Deva’s most famous poems,
variations on the theme of parting.