"Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Tales 3 - Love and War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parkinson Dan)

They continued to grow toward the sun, their trunks
thickening as they grew. And as they did so, they encircled
each other. They put out ever more branches, tiny leaves,
and even some reddish fruit that hung in clusters.
Soon, what had been two delicate shoots only moments
before were now two sturdy trees in full-grown glory, their
thick, nearly merged trunks coiled around each other, their
roots bulging from the mud, their lofty crowns meshed and
arching over the entire width of what had been the pond.
Aron pulled himself out of the mud by one of the roots.
He gazed at the two entwining trunks and at the leaves
overhead, which now filtered out the sun. "Petal," he
whimpered, "forgive me. I believed my love was enough."
And there, in the shade of the two trees, Aron Dewweb
sat and wept. By the time the sun had set and the moon had
risen, sending its sprinkles of silver light through the two
trees' crowns, Aron died of a broken heart, and little green
leaves fell gently to cover him. . . .

So ended Barryn Warrex's tale.
When Aril Witherwind looked up from his book, he
detected in one of the old man's eyes a solitary tear. The
half-elf himself sighed from sadness and had to brush away
from his page a teardrop or two that threatened to make his
ink run. "Well, I must say, that is not a story I expected
from a knight," he said.
Barryn Warrex stirred, his eyes and ears once more
seeing and hearing what was before him. And when he
spoke, it was once more with his own deep but tired voice.
"I warned you," he said. "It is what has been in my heart."
With a creaking of his armor and bones, he slowly rose to
his feet.
"Well, now it's in my book, as well," said the half-elf,
blotting the page and shaking off his own sadness. "But as
to the title. How about, 'A Tale of Eternal Love'? - no, no,
too corny. How about, 'A Tale of Two Loves'? You see, it's
about two kinds of love, get it?"
Barryn Warrex, not much caring what title the folklorist
gave the story, trudged over to the flat rock where his
helmet and shield were lying.
"Well, I'll have to give that some thought," continued
Aril, tapping his quill feather against his downy chin. "By
the way, this is most important: Should I put this story
down as fact or as fable?"
The knight put on his visorless helmet, his grand white
moustaches flowing well out from it on both sides like two
elegant handles. "The story is true enough as far as I'm
concerned."
"Well, I don't know," said Aril, squinting at the page
through his spectacles. "It seems pretty incredible - even