"Christopher Stasheff - Warlock 13 - Warlock's Last Ride" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stasheff Christopher)
train a course of events that would prevent her own people from their continual attempts to tyrannize the
other peoples of Midgard.
Then, done with the task he had come to do, he had called down his starship, and she had stood
rigid, knowing she would be deserted again—but Magnus had taken her aboard, given her a new life
when her old one had collapsed, taken her to strange and amazing worlds where people labored in need
as great as her own. They had fought off wild beasts and wilder people, guarded one another's backs,
labored to save the weak and the oppressed, come to know each other's needs in battle, then in daily life
—and never once had he put out a hand to try to touch her or uttered a honeyed word to try to coax her
into his bed.
It was almost an insult, really, except that she knew now he had known it would violate the fragile
bridge of trust growing between them—that, and that he didn't really seem to have much interest in her
as a woman, or in any kind of intimacy, for that matter. Now, though, the trust had grown, become solid
in spite of her tantrums and insults, and she found herself wishing now and again that he would put out a
hand to her—but when she caught herself thinking that, she was aghast. She'd had enough of that sort of
thing with the one young man who had used her and spurned her! The friendship she had with Magnus
was far better than that!
Though perhaps it could be even richer…
This was not the time to think of it, though, with Magnus so sunken in gloom, so afraid he might
not reach home in time—so she sat and read, or cleaned and oiled her leathers, then sharpened her
file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20d...%20Stasheff%20-%20Warlock%2013%20-%20Warlock's%20Last%20Ride.txt
blades, or read, fetching a cup of tea for him when she brewed one for herself, accepted the cups he
absentmindedly brought her in return, chivied him gently into eating, and didn't let him see how
frightened she became when he lost his appetite.
In fact, she did all that a good travelling companion should, all that a battle-mate could, and
gradually, little by little, he began to talk, first a phrase or two, then in sentences, and finally in long
rambling monologues about his childhood, his early travels, his parents, his brothers and sister—but he
always cut short when he realized he was beginning to talk about that last adventure, about the woman
who had hurt him, about the reasons he had left home.
"I couldn't be my father's son, you see." He stared straight into her eyes then, as he rarely did
anymore. "I couldn't be an extension of him. I had to be myself, my own man, and I could never be that
at home unless I turned against him, fought against him—so I left instead."
And Alea listened and nodded, eyes glowing, drinking up all the information about Magnus the
boy, Magnus the wounded lover setting off on his travels, Magnus the son and brother—Magnus the
person, the human being, as she had yearned to know him for three years and never had.
In return, when he asked her what it had been like growing up as the tallest girl in a Midgard
village, one far too tall in every way, she couldn't very well refuse to answer, no matter how sharp the
hurts the memories brought—but telling him, she discovered that the pain had dimmed, that she could
cope with it now, that she could look at her memories and treasure the good ones and resolve the bad
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