"Michelle West - Echoes" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

He smiled. "If it was night. It… wasn't when I fell asleep."

"What do you think of this place?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen enough of it yet."

Light changed its fall across Arkady's hair as he shrugged. "Did you hear what he said last night? Maybe
three of us would survive?"

Kallandras smiled. "I don't believe it. It's a test. It must be a test. If we work together—if we stand
together—"

"It was you who spoke up." Arkady's smile broadened.

"Guilty."

"Well, if he didn't have you killed in your sleep, he couldn't have been offended." Arkady held out a hand;
Kallandras took it. For a moment longer than necessary, their palms rested together.
The weapons were blades, of a sort, with guards unlike any that Kallandras had seen—they traveled
from hilt halfway up the length of the blade on opposite sides, and were sharpened into points at their
peak. Heavy and small compared to the graceful length of steel that Southern clansmen carried for all of
then-adult life, they were straight, where swords curved. They were also deadly.

The first thing the Kovaschaü did, in the labyrinth, was to learn their weapons' use. In ones and twos
they were taken first to a large, spare room, second to a small room, third to a room with a ceiling that
was only barely taller than the tallest of their number. In each of these rooms, they were asked to test the
use of their blades. The old man often came to watch them, or perhaps just to watch Kallandras; there
were many old men who seemed to come from, and return to, the shadows during the long hours spent
practicing nothing more than slicing air. They were allowed, in the end, to spar properly; it was a disaster.

"Kallatin," the man who had come to instruct them said. "You will never learn to wield your weapon if
you do not practice."

Kallandras nodded. "I am not your equal, Master."

"That is not my name."

Kallandras bowed his head. "I am not your equal. I cannot use this weapon without causing injury, either
to myself or another."

"And would you train with false weapons, the way the clansmen do?"

"I was born to a clan, a poor clan. I see no shame in it. Yes."

"Arkady?" The man turned to the boy that he had chosen to partner Kallandras.

For a moment there was long, thin silence; Arkady did not look at Kallandras, did not look at the master.
Instead, his gaze fell to the poorly lit shape of his feet, and lingered there in doubt for what seemed a long
time. At last, he said, "Yes."