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

"The past?" The pain was gone now, gone entirely.
"Oh, yes, the past is changeable, Trugon," L'Indasha
claimed, passing from firelight to shadow, "for the past is
lies, and lies can always change." She was nearing the end
of the answer and the beginning of another riddle.
"But concern yourself now with the present," she
warned, and waved her hand above the troubled water.
I saw four men wading through an ice-baffled forest,
on snowshoes, their footing unsteady, armed with sword
and crossbow.
"Bandits," L'Indasha pronounced, "bound to the service
of Finn of the Dark Hand"
I shivered. The bandit king in Endaf."
The druidess nodded. "They are looking for Pyrrhus
Orestes. Remember that only your mother and you know he
is dead. They seek him because of the renewed fires on the
peninsula. They are bent on taking your father to the beast,
for the legend now goes, and truly, I suppose, that no man
can kill a bard without dire consequence, without a curse
falling to him and to his children."
She looked at me with a sad, ironic smile.
"So the bandits are certain Orestes must die to stop the
fires."
Mother helped me to my feet.
"I ... I don't understand," I said. "It's over. He's killed
himself and brought down a curse on me."
L'Indasha waved her hand for silence. "It wasn't the
killing that cursed you. It was the words - what he said
before he died. Now you must go from here - anywhere, the
farther, the better. But not to Finn's Ear, the bandit king's
stronghold on the Caergoth shore."
"Why should I leave?" I asked. "They are after my
father, not me. I STILL don't understand."
"Your scars," she replied, emphatically, impatiently.
"The whole world will mistake you for your father, because
of the scars."
"I'll tell them who I really am!" I protested, but the
druidess only smiled.
"They won't believe you," she said. "They will see only
what they expect. Hurry now. FIND the truth about
Orestes. The finding will save your life and make the past .
. . unchangeable."
I thanked her for her healing and her oracle, and she
gave me one last gift - her knowledge.
"Although now you may regret your blood," she said,
"remember that you are the son of a bard. There is power in
all words, and in yours especially."
It was just more puzzlement.
We climbed, Mother and I, into the sled, moving
quickly over thick ice on our way back to the cottage.