"Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Tales - Cataclysm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parkinson Dan)

"Always," said the druidess, brushing away the
question. "And you?" she asked. "Trugon. What would you
ask of me this time?"
She should have known it. Several seasons ago, the
scars had appeared overnight without cause, without
warning. For a year they had thickened slowly, hard as the
stone walls of our cottage, spreading until my entire body
was covered with a network of calluses. I could no longer
even tell my age. I was becoming more and more a
monstrosity, and no one could say why.
"Why. I would know why, my lady." It was always my
question. I had lost hope of her answering it.
Mother's gestures grew larger, wilder, and I would not
look at her. But when L'Indasha spoke again, my heart rose
and I listened fiercely.
"It's your father's doing," the lady said, a bunch of red
berries bright as blood against the corona of her hair.
"I have heard that much," I said, wincing as Mother
jostled me frantically. The pain drove into my shoulders,
and still I turned my eyes from her gestures. "I want all the
rest, Lady Yman. How it was his doing, and why."
The leaves crackled as the druidess stood and drifted to
the mouth of the cave. There was a bucket sitting there, no
doubt to catch rainwater, for it was half filled and glazed
with a thin shell of ice. With the palm of her hand, the
druidess broke the ice, lifted the container, and brought it
back to me, her long fingers ruddy and dripping with frigid
rain. She breathed and murmured over it for a moment.
I sat up, the heat flaring down my arms.
 "Look into the cracked mirror, Trugon," she whispered,
kneeling beside me.
I brushed Mother's desperate, restraining hand from my
shoulder, and stared into the swirl of broken light.
There was a dead man. He was small. His shadow
swayed back and forth in a room of wood and stone,
dappling the floor below him with dark, then light, then
dark. His fine clothing fluttered and his hood lifted slightly.
I saw his face . . . his arms . . .
"The scars. Lady, they are like mine. Who is he?"
"Orestes," she replied, stirring the water. "Pyrrhus
Orestes. Your father, hanged with a harp string."
"And . . . WHO?" I asked, my sudden urge for
vengeance stabbing as hot as the BEATHA, as the burning.
"By his own hand, Dove," L'Indasha said. "When he
thought he could neither redeem nor . . . continue the line."
REDEEM NOR CONTINUE. It was quite confusing and
I was muddled from the potion and the hour.
L'Indasha's face reflected off the fractured ice in the
bucket: it was older, wounded, a map of lost lands. "You
weren't told. But Orestes got his desire and now the scars