[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
deathbed promise, growing more
bitter as each winter passed without incident.
But now could this be a sign?
Confused, Kast dismissed these thoughts as he reached the kitchens and pushed
through into the heated room. He needed the girl alive. Perhaps answers would
come from her lips, answers he had been seeking for a decade since the death
of his teacher. He would get his answers!
As he carried the girl into the warmth of the ship s galley, Kast spotted
Gimli, the cook, bent over a bubbling pot, his old cheeks ruddy from the
coals, his brown hair sticking straight up from the sweat and steam. Gimli
glanced at Kast as he entered, his eyebrows rising as he spied Kast s burden.
Whatcha got there?
Kast kicked aside two stools and laid the girl across an ironwood table. I
need dry blankets, and a cloth soaked in hot water. He checked to ensure she
still breathed. Her chest rose and fell steadily. Relieved, he went and
hurriedly gathered blankets from a neighboring cabin.
As he reentered the kitchen area, Gimli was pulling a scrap of cloth from a
pot of boiling water. He juggled it over to where Kast was draping the child s
Page 103
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
small form in heavy, coarse blankets.
Kast took the steaming cloth. Ignoring its burning heat, he wiped down the
girl s face and upper body.
The girl moaned under his touch, her lips moving as if she were speaking, but
nothing intelligible came out.
As the cook looked on, Kast finished his ministrations, wrapped the girl from
the neck down in blankets, and gently positioned a down-filled pillow under
her head.
Who is she? Gimli asked.
Kast had no answer and stayed silent. He pulled a stool beside the table and
sat on it. He wanted to make sure he was the first to speak to her when she
awoke.
The cook shrugged at Kast s silence and turned back to his duties, armed again
with his ladle.
WIT CH STORM
Alone, Kast s fingers wandered to the green locks of the child s hair drying
on the table s planks. Gimli had failed to ask the right question. He
shouldn t have asked who the child was but what
.
Kast did know that.
He whispered to the blanket-wrapped figure, naming her heritage: mer ai. He
touched her soft cheek.
Here lay myth given flesh. Dragonriders, he said in a hushed breath.
The ancient slave masters of the Bloodriders.
Sy-wen swam in murky dreams.
She pictured men whose mouths were filled with row after row of shark s teeth&
She fled from a dragon, torn and bloody& She dodged a seabird that clawed at
her eyes. She kicked and paddled to escape these horrows. She must flee!
Then her father suddenly came and picked her up in his strong arms, pulling
her from the horrors in the sea. He kissed her and carried her to safety. She
smiled up at him and found she could finally rest. He would help her. Darkness
then swallowed her away not the cold blackness of death, but the warm embrace
of true sleep.
She slept deeply, but over time an urgency slowly grew in her heart. She was
forgetting something. No, not something someone. She moaned as she struggled
against the whispers of slumber in her ear. Who had she forgotten? Then a new
voice filled her ears, drowning all else away. A harsh voice, coarse and
spoken with a thick tongue.
That girl spread out on the table like that looks a mite more appetizing than
the cook s stew, Kast.
How about letting my brother and me have a taste of her?
As the darkness shattered into shards around her, Sy-wen s eyes opened. She
found herself in a narrow room that reeked of salted fish and burning coals.
Around her, empty tables were strewn with dirty bowls, cracked spoons, and
half-eaten crusts of bread.
Where was she?
WIT C H JTORM
As jagged pieces of memory tumbled into place, Sy-wen shrank back from the
three men staring down at her. She remembered Conch, captured and bleeding.
She remembered the tangling net that had pulled her from the sea and
recognized two of the men here as the bearded pair who had caught her. Their
leering faces were hard, but not as hard as the third man s. His features made
the others seem like mere babes. Yet the severity in his face was not born of
harsh cruelty, like the other two, but was more like rock hardened by the
beating of a winter s surf. His features shone with a proud nobility won
through time and deeds rather than birth and circumstance. His black hair was
swept back from his face and revealed a red-and-black tattoo of a hawk
emblazoned on his cheek and throat.
Page 104
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
She knew this man, too. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of a tattooed wing
upon his throat, and the panic in her heart subsided slightly. He had saved
her. He would protect her.
One of the bearded men spoke up. Looks like the lass likes my voice. I come
a calling, and she wakes right up.
Leave us, the tattooed man said in a low voice. He did not even turn toward
them.
The galley is a common room, Bloodrider. We have as much right to be here as
you.
The tattooed man tilted his neck to face the speaker. You ve had your dinner,
Hort. Clear on out.
And I suppose you could make us both, the other answered, menace thick in
his throat. His companion stood at his shoulder, supporting the man s threat.
Sy-wen ignored the growing tension. Her eyes were still fixed upon the man s
tattoo. She could not look away. She stared at the crown of feathers atop the
hawk s head, the sharp points of its clawed talons.
With the stranger s neck bent like this, it seemed the hawk s red eyes blazed
directly at her, digging deep inside her.
As she stared, she suddenly found her heart beating faster. It became
difficult to breathe. Unable to stop herself, she wormed an arm free of the
wrappings around her and reached out to touch the tattoo.
She had a need.
Her fingers brushed a wing that stretched across the man s throat. At her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl exclamation.htw.pl
deathbed promise, growing more
bitter as each winter passed without incident.
But now could this be a sign?
Confused, Kast dismissed these thoughts as he reached the kitchens and pushed
through into the heated room. He needed the girl alive. Perhaps answers would
come from her lips, answers he had been seeking for a decade since the death
of his teacher. He would get his answers!
As he carried the girl into the warmth of the ship s galley, Kast spotted
Gimli, the cook, bent over a bubbling pot, his old cheeks ruddy from the
coals, his brown hair sticking straight up from the sweat and steam. Gimli
glanced at Kast as he entered, his eyebrows rising as he spied Kast s burden.
Whatcha got there?
Kast kicked aside two stools and laid the girl across an ironwood table. I
need dry blankets, and a cloth soaked in hot water. He checked to ensure she
still breathed. Her chest rose and fell steadily. Relieved, he went and
hurriedly gathered blankets from a neighboring cabin.
As he reentered the kitchen area, Gimli was pulling a scrap of cloth from a
pot of boiling water. He juggled it over to where Kast was draping the child s
Page 103
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
small form in heavy, coarse blankets.
Kast took the steaming cloth. Ignoring its burning heat, he wiped down the
girl s face and upper body.
The girl moaned under his touch, her lips moving as if she were speaking, but
nothing intelligible came out.
As the cook looked on, Kast finished his ministrations, wrapped the girl from
the neck down in blankets, and gently positioned a down-filled pillow under
her head.
Who is she? Gimli asked.
Kast had no answer and stayed silent. He pulled a stool beside the table and
sat on it. He wanted to make sure he was the first to speak to her when she
awoke.
The cook shrugged at Kast s silence and turned back to his duties, armed again
with his ladle.
WIT CH STORM
Alone, Kast s fingers wandered to the green locks of the child s hair drying
on the table s planks. Gimli had failed to ask the right question. He
shouldn t have asked who the child was but what
.
Kast did know that.
He whispered to the blanket-wrapped figure, naming her heritage: mer ai. He
touched her soft cheek.
Here lay myth given flesh. Dragonriders, he said in a hushed breath.
The ancient slave masters of the Bloodriders.
Sy-wen swam in murky dreams.
She pictured men whose mouths were filled with row after row of shark s teeth&
She fled from a dragon, torn and bloody& She dodged a seabird that clawed at
her eyes. She kicked and paddled to escape these horrows. She must flee!
Then her father suddenly came and picked her up in his strong arms, pulling
her from the horrors in the sea. He kissed her and carried her to safety. She
smiled up at him and found she could finally rest. He would help her. Darkness
then swallowed her away not the cold blackness of death, but the warm embrace
of true sleep.
She slept deeply, but over time an urgency slowly grew in her heart. She was
forgetting something. No, not something someone. She moaned as she struggled
against the whispers of slumber in her ear. Who had she forgotten? Then a new
voice filled her ears, drowning all else away. A harsh voice, coarse and
spoken with a thick tongue.
That girl spread out on the table like that looks a mite more appetizing than
the cook s stew, Kast.
How about letting my brother and me have a taste of her?
As the darkness shattered into shards around her, Sy-wen s eyes opened. She
found herself in a narrow room that reeked of salted fish and burning coals.
Around her, empty tables were strewn with dirty bowls, cracked spoons, and
half-eaten crusts of bread.
Where was she?
WIT C H JTORM
As jagged pieces of memory tumbled into place, Sy-wen shrank back from the
three men staring down at her. She remembered Conch, captured and bleeding.
She remembered the tangling net that had pulled her from the sea and
recognized two of the men here as the bearded pair who had caught her. Their
leering faces were hard, but not as hard as the third man s. His features made
the others seem like mere babes. Yet the severity in his face was not born of
harsh cruelty, like the other two, but was more like rock hardened by the
beating of a winter s surf. His features shone with a proud nobility won
through time and deeds rather than birth and circumstance. His black hair was
swept back from his face and revealed a red-and-black tattoo of a hawk
emblazoned on his cheek and throat.
Page 104
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
She knew this man, too. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of a tattooed wing
upon his throat, and the panic in her heart subsided slightly. He had saved
her. He would protect her.
One of the bearded men spoke up. Looks like the lass likes my voice. I come
a calling, and she wakes right up.
Leave us, the tattooed man said in a low voice. He did not even turn toward
them.
The galley is a common room, Bloodrider. We have as much right to be here as
you.
The tattooed man tilted his neck to face the speaker. You ve had your dinner,
Hort. Clear on out.
And I suppose you could make us both, the other answered, menace thick in
his throat. His companion stood at his shoulder, supporting the man s threat.
Sy-wen ignored the growing tension. Her eyes were still fixed upon the man s
tattoo. She could not look away. She stared at the crown of feathers atop the
hawk s head, the sharp points of its clawed talons.
With the stranger s neck bent like this, it seemed the hawk s red eyes blazed
directly at her, digging deep inside her.
As she stared, she suddenly found her heart beating faster. It became
difficult to breathe. Unable to stop herself, she wormed an arm free of the
wrappings around her and reached out to touch the tattoo.
She had a need.
Her fingers brushed a wing that stretched across the man s throat. At her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]