"Terry Goodkind. Faith of the Fallen (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

threatening voices.

14

"It's not by our choice, Richard... We have our own families to
think about... Wives and Children

Wanting to know what was going on, Kahlan tried to push herself up
onto her left elbow. Somehow, her arm didn't work the way she had expected
it to. Like a bolt of lightning, pain blasted up the marrow of her bone
and exploded through her shoulder.

Gasping against the racking agony of attempted movement, she
dropped back before she had managed to lift her shoulder an inch off the
bed. Her panting twisted the daggers piercing her sides. She had to will
herself to slow her breathing in order to get the stabbing pain under
control. As the worst of the torment in her arm and the stitches in her
ribs eased, she finally let out a soft moan.

With calculated calm, she gazed down the length of her left arm.
The arm was spitted. As soon as she saw it, she remembered that of course
it was. She reproached herself for not thinking of it before she had tried
to put weight on it. The herbs, she knew, were making her thinking fuzzy.
Fearing to make another careless movement, and since she couldn't sit up,
she focused her effort on forcing clarity into her mind.

She cautiously reached up with her right hand and wiped her
fingers across the bloom of sweat on her brow, sweat sown by the flash of
pain. Her right shoulder socket hurt, but it worked well enough. She was
pleased by that triumph, at least. She touched her puffy eyes,
understanding then why it had hurt to look toward the door. Gingerly, her
fingers explored a foreign landscape of swollen flesh. Her imagination
colored it a ghastly black-and-blue. When her fingers brushed cuts on her
cheek, hot embers seemed to sear raw, exposed nerves.

She needed no mirror to know she was a terrible sight. She knew,
too, how bad it was whenever she looked up into Richard's eyes. She wished
she could look good for him if for no other reason than to lift the
suffering from his eyes. Reading her thoughts, he would say, "I'm fine.
Stop worrying about me and put your mind to getting better."

With a bittersweet longing, Kahlan recalled lying with Richard,
their limbs tangled in delicious exhaustion, his skin hot against hers,
his big hand resting on her belly as they caught their breath. It was
agony wanting to hold him in her arms again and being unable to do so. She
reminded herself that it was only a matter of some time and some healing.
They were together and that was what mattered. His mere presence was a
restorative.

She heard Richard, beyond the blanket over the door, speaking in a