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Kushiel's Avatar

Kushiel's Avatar

Titel: Kushiel's Avatar Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Jacqueline Carey
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oars, more patient than any boy his age had a right to be. In the prow, Joscelin tore strips of fabric from the hem of his shirt, binding his raw hands.
    Swish, dip, pull; swish, dip, pull.
    He did well, did Imriel de la Courcel. He husbanded his strength, rowing at an even pace for longer than I would have reckoned. But the skiff was ideal for carrying two men, no more, and it was heavy work.
    I cannot say how long he lasted, before his strength gave out. Between the two of us, I reckon we covered two hours.
    Joscelin took over.
    Less than an hour to go, by Nemuel’s account; but we had not travelled so swiftly. Joscelin resumed his seat, and set to steadily, hauling on the oars. “Left,” I murmured as his right arm outdrew its mate, “Left!” He gritted his teeth and adjusted, pulling ever harder. The improvised bandages around his hands darkened with blood. I thought about Kapporeth and wondered if we would reach it in time, and what would happen if we did. Who was I to seek the Name of God? Make of the self a vessel where there is no self, Eleazar had said, in perfect love. Love, I had known; but what is perfection? My lord Delaunay I had loved with a grateful heart, and Hyacinthe with youthful joy and adult sorrow. I had loved Joscelin and loved him still, with a depth and passion that words could not compass. Elua help me, I had loved Melisande Shahrizai, and there was a part of me which ever would.
    And in all of these, there was myself , bound inextricably into the coils of love-by gratitude, by friendship, by guilt, by passion, by the fatal flaw of Kushiel’s Dart. How could one put such a thing as the self aside? I knew only one path, the path I had found in the darkest hours in Daršanga. I did not think it led to the Name of God, and in my heart, I was afraid.
    “Phèdre,” Imriel called from the prow, pointing. “Dawn is coming.”
    So it was, the western horizon turning a leaden grey, the spokes of the Wheel paling against it. And in the rising light, I saw a hummock of land to the north of us.
    “Look,” I murmured. “Do you think?”
    Joscelin rested the oars and stared. “Kapporeth?” he said dully. “It could be. It means we’re off course. But with my arm ...”
    “It could be.” I shuddered. “I don’t know. I don’t know! Morit was guessing, at best. Let’s make for it.”
    We did, Joscelin rowing with grim determination, the small isle emerging lush and green with the rising sun, exuberant with birdlife; fish eagles and kites and horn-billed ibis. The shores were thick with waving ferns, tall fronds untrodden by human foot. Our skiff edged along them, Imriel standing balanced in the prow, looking for signs of inhabitation.
    “Nothing,” he reported, gazing inland. “No path, no landing sign ...” He looked back at me and turned pale. “Name of Elua!”
    I turned to look.
    It was a ship , of course; what else would it be? Looming in the distance, becoming visible in the dawn. I could barely make out twin banks of oars, four sets rising and falling. Someone had betrayed us, someone’s faith had faltered, Hanoch ben Hadad’s suspicions had been upheld ... who knew? It didn’t matter. It only mattered that they were coming for us.
    “We can hide!” Imriel said, wild-eyed. “Go ashore, and hide! It’s all overgrown, they won’t find us!”
    “No,” I muttered. “It’s not Kapporeth.” Joscelin put up the oars with his bloodstained hands and watched me quietly, waiting. “Elua!” I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, thinking and praying. “It’s not Kapporeth,” I repeated, dropping my hands. “I was wrong, I shouldn’t have doubted. We were on course, only slow. Joscelin, can you row?”
    “Yes.” The red stains spread on his bandages as he regarded me. “Phèdre, the stars have faded.”
    I stared at the brightening sky. It was true; the stars we had followed all night were paling, lost in the light of the rising sun. The Wheel was fading, its spokes already lost; Moishe’s Rod grew invisible. I closed my eyes again, feeling for the direction we had faced. My near-brother Alcuin had been good with maps. I never had, not like him. But Anafìel Delaunay had trained both our memories.
    Mine would have to do.
    “That way,” I said, pointing, not daring to open my eyes.
    Swish, dip, pull.
    We had to round the nameless island. I felt our course shifting, the skiff moving, and adjusted my arm accordingly. I dared not look, dared not lose the

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