Читать книгу Child of the Phoenix - Barbara Erskine - Страница 101

In his lonely hermit’s cell Einion sat staring deep into the flames, feeling the ice-cold draughts playing across his shoulders and down his spine. The pain in his bones distracted him from his meditation and he could think of nothing now but the cold wind which howled across the island and whipped the strait into white-topped breakers.

Leaning forward he reached for a log to throw on to the fire. He had seen the messenger in the flames that morning; seen him hand the letter to Rhonwen and he had smiled, reassured. Rhonwen would understand the urgency. She would see that Eleyne came back. Only a few more days and she would come; only a few more days …

He frowned. Suddenly, it hurt to breathe. The hut was full of smoke. The sound of the wind had risen to a scream. He stared at the fire, his hand pressed against his chest, trying to see. He was struggling to rise to his feet when the pain hit him: a grip like an iron bar across his heart, crushing him, blinding him with agony. He heard himself cry out loud, expelling his last breath as his lungs ceased to function; the deep blackness was enfolding him, numbing his mind as one last certainty flashed through it. Eleyne was not going to come after all. He would not, as he had always known in his heart he would not, see her again. Rhonwen had betrayed her gods. She had thrown the letter on the fire – he saw her do it in one flash of blinding clarity – and because of her Eleyne must face the future without his warnings.

As the blackness became total and the howl of the wind filled his ears, he staggered a few steps into the darkness and pitched full-length across the fire.