"Fiona McIntosh - The Quickening - 01 - Myrren's Gift" - читать интересную книгу автора (McIntosh Fiona)

his own heir to continue the Thirsk tradition or would a new family vie for the right to lead the army?

Thirsks had led the Legion through two centuries now. It was an extraordinary history for one family that
bred sons with warrior capabilities, tempered with intelligence.

The dying man’s bearers were nearing the tent that he knew would be his final resting place. Once he
was laid down he would have to concentrate on his King for as long as his heart held out. He wanted
time to think about his beautiful wife. Helyna. of whom so much lived on in their son. Not her looks,
mind. Those exquisite features belonged to their daughter alone. Fergys grimaced, not from pain so much
as grief. His daughter was so young…too young to lose both parents.
How would his family manage? Money was no problem. They were the wealthiest of all the nobility,
perhaps barring the Donals of Felrawthy. He would have to rely on Magnus. Knew he could. What his
family needed now was time. Time to grow into their new lives. Peace must be achieved with Briavel until
the young Thirsk was ready to lead into battle. That peaceful time would have to be bought and he hoped
his life would suffice as raw currency.

They laid him down. The King had insisted he be settled in the royal tent. Physicians hurried to Thirsk’s
side. He ignored their probing, knowing it would ultimately be followed by a shaking of heads and grave
glances. Fergys closed his eyes to the sudden frenetic activity and returned to his ponderings.

The old hate. It all seemed so pointless now. Valor of Briavel was a good King. He had a daughter. Little
chance now of a son. Valor had shown no inclination to remarry after the death of his wife; it was
rumored that theirs had been a love gifted from Shar. And he was probably too old now. at seventy, to
bother himself with trying to sire a male heir. He too needed peace for Briavel’s Princess to grow up and
grow into her role. The wars had been a tradition in a sense. Their forefathers had fought each other
when they were little more than feuding families. Initially it had been a case of maintaining the balance of
power between two small factions suspicious of one another. But when the two strongest families
established their own realms, and kingdoms were born, the battles were fought to increase power, gain
more land, greater authority. Over the centuries, neither managed to claim domination over the region and
so their animosity degenerated into squabbles over trading rights or merchant routes—any petty excuse,
in fact, until by the time Magnus and Valor had inherited their crowns, neither was sure exactly why the
two realms hated one another so intently.

Fergys shook his head. If truth be known, he rather admired Valor, and lamented the fact that the two
Kings could not be neighbors in spirit as well as location. United in friendship and mutual respect, the
region would be rich beyond dreams and near-invincible to any enemy. Now he would never see that
dream come to fruition. He sighed.

“Talk to me,” his King beseeched. voice leaden with guilt.

“Send the physics away. Magnus. We all know it’s done.”

The King bowed his head in sad acceptance and gave the order.

All except his friend had now been banished by Thirsk. No emotional farewells would he tolerate from
his captains. He could bear neither their sympathy nor their despair. They had filed out in silence, stunned
by the notion that their General might not even see this day’s sun fully risen.

Thirsk asked for the tent flap to be left open so he could see across the moors to the smoke from the
distant fires of the Briavellian camp, where soon the sounds of dying men and beasts would be heard