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"You weren`t born here," he says, cold now. Belatedly she realizes it`s a question.
"No." She doesn`t like being the one on the receiving end of the questions. "Were you?"
"Oh, yes. I was bred to order." He smiles, and it`s strange seeing a smile layered over all that hate. "Not even as haphazardly as our child will be. I`m the product of two of the Fulcrum`s oldest and most promising lineages, or so I`m told. I had a Guardian practically from birth." He shoves his hands into the pockets of his rumpled robe. "You`re a feral."
This comes out of nowhere. Syen actually spends a second wondering if this is some new way of saying rogga and then realizing what he really means. Oh, that is just hte limit. "Look, I don`t care how many rings you wear—"
"That`s what they call you, I mean." He smiles again, and his bitterness so resonates with her own that hse falls islent in confusion. "If you didn`t know. Ferals — the ones from the outside — often don`t know, or care. But when an orogene is born from parents who weren`t, from a family line that`s never shown the curse before, that`s how they think of you. A wild mutt to my domesticated purebred. An accident, to my plan." He shakes his head; it makes his voice shake. "What it actually means is that they couldn`t predict you. You`re the proof that they`ll never understand orogeny; it`s not science, it`s something else. And they`ll never control us, not really. Not completely."
Грядет новая Зима. Мир, в небе которого парят Обелиски, пережил уже много Зим. Одни цивилизации гибнут, возникают другие. А когда землю не сотрясают извержения вулканов, люди все так же ненавидят не похожих на них. Глухачи презрительно называют роггами тех, кто способен слышать землю и двигать горы. Кто они – проклятые или боги в цепях, которых стерегут улыбчивые и жестокие Стражи?.. Иссун, потерявшая сына и дочь и жаждущая мести. Дамайя, преданная родителями и отданная Стражам. Сиенит,...