"Juliet E. McKenna - Einarinn 4 - The Warrior's Bond" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKenna Juliet E)

shave. I needed to know what Temar hoped to achieve on this visit, I decided,
and some clue as to Velindre's business would be useful. Concluding that it
wouldn't hurt to remind her of my standing with D'Olbriot, I dressed in the
elegant attire my new status entitled me to claim from Toremal's finest
tailors at Messire's expense. The price to me was wearing a mossy green that I
didn't particularly care for. A knock on my door came as I was buttoning my
shirt. It was the Steward of the Shrine with a query about how long we were
staying and just how many rooms were required, so I took up my more prosaic
duties once more.
The Shrine of Ostrin, Bremilayne,
9th of For-Summer in the Third Year of
Tadriol the Provident, Evening
T
JL e
emar lay down on the bed and hid his head beneath a down-filled pillow.
Clamping it tight over his ears shut out the noises of the guest house: a man
passing his door with a shouted query, someone else's demands for fresh
towels, the rough bumping of heavy burdens dragged up the wooden stairs. But
he couldn't banish the memories assailing him, the agony of the injured mage,
the frantic prayers of his companions that Dastennin calm the sea, that
Larasion quell the winds, that Saedrin spare them. The foul and desperate
curses of the sailors echoed in his memory, the groans of ship's timbers
stressed beyond endurance, the wicked crack of snapping rope and the scream of
someone lashed by the vicious ends. After all they had been through, after all
they had endured, he and his companions had nearly drowned, so close to shore,
within very sight of safety, all their hopes and those of the colony they had
left behind sunk beneath Dastennin's malice to feed the scavenging crabs.
Time passed unnoticed until loud disagreement from the room above forced
itself into Temar's misery. He emerged red-faced from beneath the pillow,
tears and dirt smeared on his face. One shrewish voice rose indignant,
prompting a harsh response that rang through the floorboards.
Temar couldn't make out the meaning. How was he ever going to make good his
bold boasts to Guinalle when it took all his concentration just to comprehend
what people were saying? Albarn, Brive, all the others, they'd turned back
from this insane attempt to revisit the world they had lost and no one had
thought the worse of them. Why couldn't he have done the same?
Because his rank denied him that freedom: Temar could almost hear Guinalle's
terse reply, for all that she was half a world away. Because he had a duty to
his people and the only way he could fulfil his obligations was to risk the
ocean crossing and all that he might find in this strangely changed Tormalin.
For whatever reason, by whatever means, Saedrin had entrusted those people to
his care, and if he failed - Temar shivered. He would have no words to excuse
his failure when he came to knock on the door to the Otherworld and seek
admittance from the god who held the keys. And what would Guinalle think of
him hiding his head like a child afraid of Eldritch-men creeping out of the
shadows?
Temar went numbly about the business of a much needed wash, oblivious to the
luxuries of the room. Raising a blade to his face was beyond him, he realised,
finding his hands shaking so badly that he spilled soapy foam all over the
marble washstand. Scowling fiercely, he forced himself to concentrate on