"Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Legends 03 - Test Of The Twins" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

the-"
"You don't know!" Tas yelled angrily. "It's possible!" Suddenly, he ran forward, or he tried to run
forward, dragging his feet through the oozing, clinging mud as fast as possible. Stumbling into
Caramon, he grabbed the big maxis hand and tugged on it. "Let's go! Let's get out of here!" Once
again, he held up the time-traveling device. "We-we can go back to Tarsis! Where the dragons
toppled a building down on top of me! That was a fun time, very interesting. Remember?" His
shrill voice screeched through the burned-out trees.
Reaching out, his face grim, Caramon grabbed the magical device from the kender's hand. Ignoring
Tas's frantic protests, he took the device and began twisting and turning the jewels, gradually
transforming it from a sparkling sceptre into a plain, nondescript pendant. Tas watched him
miserably.
"Why won't we go, Caramon? This place is horrible. We don't have any food or water and, from
what I've seen, there's not much likelihood of us finding either. Plus, we're liable to get blasted right
out of our shoes if one of those lightning bolts hits us, and that storm's getting closer and closer and
you know this isn't Solace-"
"I don't know, Tas," Caramon said quietly. "But I'm going to find out. What's the matter? Aren't
you curious? Since when did a kender ever turn down the chance for an adventure?" He began to
limp down the trail again.
"I'm just as curious as the next kender," Tas mumbled, hanging his head and trudging along after
Caramon. "But it's one thing to be curious about some place you've never been before, and quite
another to be curious about home. You're not supposed to be curious about home! Home isn't
supposed to change. It just stays there, waiting for you to come back. Home is someplace you say
'My, this looks just like it did when I left!' not 'My, this looks like six million dragons flew in and
wrecked the joint!' Home is not a place for adventures, Caramon!"
Tas peered up into Caramon's face to see if his argument had made any impression. If it had, it
didn't show. There was a look of stern resolution on the pain-filled face that rather surprised Tas,
surprised and startled him as well.
Caramon's changed, Tas realized suddenly. And it isn't just from giving up dwarf spirits. There's
something different about him-he's more serious and ... well, responsible looking, I guess. But
there's something else. Tas pondered. Pride, he decided after a minute of profound reflection. Pride
in himself, pride and determination.
This isn't a Caramon who will give in easily, Tas thought with a sinking heart. This isn't a Caramon
who needs a kender to keep him out of mischief and taverns. Tas sighed bleakly. He rather missed
that old Caramon.
They came to the bend in the road. Each recognized it, though neither said anything-Caramon,
because there wasn't anything to be said, and Tas, because he was steadfastly refusing to admit he
recognized it. But both found their footsteps dragging.
Once, travelers coming around that bend would have seen the Inn of the Last Home, gleaming with
light. They would have smelled Otik's spiced potatoes, heard the sounds of laughter and song drift
from the door every time it opened to admit the wanderer or regular from Solace. Both Caramon
and Tas stopped, by unspoken agreement, before they rounded that corner.
Still they said nothing, but each looked around him at the desolation, at the burned and blasted tree
stumps, at the ash covered ground, at the blackened rocks. In their ears rang a silence louder and
more frightening than the booming thunder. Because both knew that they should have heard Solace,
even if they couldn't see it yet. They should have heard the sounds of the town-the sounds of the
smithy, the sounds of market day, the sounds of hawkers and children and merchants, the sounds of
the Inn.
But there was nothing, only silence. And, far off in the distance, the ominous rumble of thunder.
Finally, Caramon sighed. "Let's go," he said, and hobbled forward.
Tas followed more slowly, his shoes so caked with mud that he felt as if he were wearing iron-shod