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

flashing in anger. "I have no patience for this unless you
will listen to the story that I WANT to tell!"
"Of course, of course," said Aril, closing his eyes in
contrition. "Forgive me. That is, of course, just what I want
you to do."
"To a Solamnic Knight - at least to this old Solmanic
Knight - there is one thing as important - more important -
than even bravery, duty, and honor."
"More important? My, and what would that be?"
"Love."
"A tale of love? Well, that's good, too," said Aril
Witherwind, nodding his approval and dipping his quill into
the inkwell. "A knight's tale of chivalry - "
"I did not say 'chivalry', " snarled Barryn Warrex.
"Pardon me, I just assumed - "
"Stop assuming, will you? This is a tale told to me
when I was a mere child, long before I ever thought of
becoming a knight. And though much has happened to me
since, this tale has stayed with me all these years. Indeed,
these days, it aches my heart more than ever."
Aril was already scribbling in his book. "... more - than
- ever," he repeated as he wrote.
Barryn Warrex settled back once more, calming
himself. "It is about two entwined trees in the Forest of
Wayreth - "
"The Entwining Trees?" interrupted Aril, lifting his pert
nose from his book and pushing his slipping glasses back up
with a forefinger. "I've heard of them! You know their
story?"
"I do," returned Warrex, trying to stay calmer. "Indeed,
my garrulous friend, I intend to tell it you if you would but
be quiet long enough."
"Forgive me, forgive me, it's just that this is exactly the
sort of story I look for. The Entwining Trees, yes, do go
ahead, please. I won't say another word."
The knight looked at Aril Witherwind in disbelief. But,
sure enough, as he had promised, the bespectacled half-elf
said nothing further. He only hunched over his book, quill
at the ready.
Satisfied, Barryn Warrex rested his head back. Then an
odd change came over him: His eyes glassed over with a
distant look, as if they were seeing something many years
ago; his ears perked as if they were likewise hearing a voice
from that long ago; and when he spoke, it seemed to be in
the voice of someone else - so very long ago. . . .

Once, when the world was younger, there lived in a
small, thatched cottage on the outskirts of Gateway - where
cottages were a stone's throw from each other - a certain
widower by the name of Aron Dewweb, a weaver by trade,