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

Mother slept, and I guided the dogs and looked into the
cloudless skies, where Solinari and Lunitari tilted across the
heavens. Between them somewhere rode the black abscess
of Nuitari, though I could not see it.
The black moon was like the past: an absence waiting to
be filled. And looking on the skies, the four big dogs
grumbling and snorting as they drew us within sight of the
cottage, I began to understand my scars and my inheritance.
 *****

Frantically, as I gathered my clothing in the cottage,
Mother told me more: that my grandfather, Pyrrhus Alecto
was no villain. He had kept the Solamnic Oath, had fallen in
the Seventh Rebellion of Caergoth, in the two hundred and
fiftieth year since the Cataclysm. She showed me the oldest
poem, the one that Arion had taken and transformed. The
old parchment was eloquent. I read it aloud:

"Lord Pyrrhus Alecto
light of the coast
arm of Caergoth
father to dreaming
fell to the peasants
in the time of the Rending
fell in the vanguard
of his glittering armies
and over his lapsing eye
wheeled constellations
the scale of Hiddukel
riding west to the garrisoned city.

"And that was all?" I asked. "All of this trouble over a
poem?" I hated poetry.
I gave voice to her answer as she held forth rapidly, as
the words slipped from her fingers into my breath and
voice. "No, Trugon, not over that, over the other one."
She did not know the words of the other poem. She had
not even seen or heard it. It was the poem of trouble, she
insisted, crouching nervously by the door of our cottage. It
was the poem that Father . . .
"Changed?"
She nodded, moving toward Father's old strongbox.
"Then Father lied as well as betrayed?"
Mother shook her head, brushed her hair back. She
opened the strongbox.
I knew what was inside. Three books, a penny whistle,
a damaged harp. I had never asked to see them. I hated
poetry.
Mother held up one of the books.
It was the story of the times since the Rending, since