Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Tales 3 - Love and War

Tales I

Volume 3

LOVE and WAR

Edited by MARGARET WEIS AND TRACY HICKMAN

featuring "Raistlin's Daughter" by Margaret

Weis and Dezra Despain

PENGUIN BOOKS

in association with TSR, Inc.

FOREWORD

Fitting it is that the many years of creative work on

the DRAGONLANCER saga should come to a provisory

culmination with this collection of short stories, the most

pleasing and powerful yet. Some of the writers represented

in this volume are veterans of TALES 1 and 2, and certain of

them will continue to write about the world of Krynn in an

exciting series of DRAGONLANCE novels in the

immediate future.

"A Good Knights Tale" by Harold Bakst suitably begins

this volume that has love and war as its theme. Told by a

Knight of Solamnia, it is a tale that involves both love and

war - the warring of passions of a selfish father's heart.

Love is painted in a more tender aspect in "A Painter's

Vision," by Barbara Siegel and Scott Siegel, but then what

can you expect when a dragon gets himself involved?

The story of love as sacrifice is recounted, along with

the tale of the undead who haunt Darken Wood, in another

of Nick O'Donohoe's revisionist interpretations of a portion

of DRAGONS OF AUTUMN TWILIGHT.

"Hide and Go Seek" by Nancy Berberick is the story of

the love friends bear each other as Tasslehoff risks his life

to save that of a kidnapped child.

"By the Measure" recounts the courage of a Knight of

Solamnia fighting impossible odds. Written by Richard A.

Knaak, this is the haunting story of a young knight's

courage and devotion to his Order.

The adventures of a very young Sturm are recorded in

"The Exiles" by Paul Thompson and Tonya Carter. The boy

learns his first lessons in courage, facing an evil cleric of

the Dark Queen.

A lighter moment is presented in "Heart of Goldmoon" by

Laura Hickman and Kate Novak. A tale of romance and

adventure, it tells of the first meeting of Riverwind and

Goldmoon and how the Que-shu princess came to learn of

the existence of the true gods.

Continuing in the romantic vein, "Raistlin's Daughter"

written by myself and Dezra Despain, relays a strange

legend currently circulating in Krynn. It will end, for the

time being, the DRAGONLANCER saga with - what else -

a question mark.

"Silver and Steel" is the legend of Huma's final battle

with the Dark Queen. There are many such legends about

the valor of Huma, but this one, written by Kevin Randle, is

a gritty, moving account of war that will not soon be

forgotten.

It is fitting that the book end with "From the Yearning

for War and War's End," Michael Williams's poignant

reminder for us all that war - though sometimes sadly

necessary - is a destroyer of both love and of life.

Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

A Good Knight's Tale

Harold Bakst

In those chaotic years just after the Cataclysm, when

the frightened citizens of Xak Tsaroth were fleeing their

beloved but decimated city, there was among them a certain

half-elf by the name of Aril Witherwind, who, while others

sought only refuge, took to roaming the countryside,

carrying upon his bent back a huge, black tome.

Even without his peculiar burden, which he held by a

leather strap thrown across one shoulder, Aril Witherwind

was, as far as half-elves went, a strange one. Though he was

properly tall and willowy, and he had the fair hair, pale

skin, and blue eyes typical of his kind, he seemed not at all

interested in his appearance and had, indeed, a slovenliness

about him: His shoes were often unbuckled, his shirt hung

out of his pants, and his hair was usually in a tangle. He

often went days without shaving so that fine, blond hairs

covered his jaw like down. In addition to everything else, he

wore thick, metal-rimmed eyeglasses.

All this, though, had a simple enough explanation:

Aril Witherwind was, by his own definition, an academic.

More particularly, he was one of the many itinerant

folklorists who appeared on Krynn just after the Cataclysm.

"The Cataclysm threatens to extinguish our rich past,"

he would explain in his gentle but enthusiastic voice to

whoever gave him a moment of time. "And if peace should

ever again come to Krynn, we will want to know something

of our traditions before everything was destroyed."

"But this is not the time to do it!" often came the curt

response from some fleeing traveler, sometimes with

everything he owned in a wagon or in a dogcart or even

upon his own back, his family often in tow.

"Ah, but this is exactly the time to do it," returned Aril

Witherwind automatically, "before too much is forgotten by

the current sweep of events."

"Well, good luck to you, then!" would as likely be the

answer as the party hurried off to some hopefully safer

comer of Krynn.

Undaunted, Aril Witherwind criss-crossed the

countryside, traversing shadowy valleys, sun-lit fields, and

sombre forests. He stopped at the occasional surviving inn,

passed through refugee encampments, and even marched

along with armies, all the time asking whomever he met if

he or she knew a story that he could put into his big black

book.

In time, it became clear to Aril that he usually had the

best luck with the older folks - indeed, the older the better.

These grayhairs were not only the most likely to remember

a story or two, but they were the ones most likely to be

interested in relating it. Perhaps it was because they

welcomed the opportunity to slow down and reminisce

awhile. Or perhaps it was because they had not much of a

future to give to Krynn, only their pasts.

In any case, Aril Witherwind soon learned to seek them

out almost exclusively, and his book slowly began to fill

with stories from before the Cataclysm, when Krynn had

been in what he considered its Golden Age.

He gave each story an appropriate title, and then he

gave due credit to the source by adding: ". . . as told by

Henrik Hellendale, a dwarven baker" or ". . . as told by

Verial Stargazer, an elven shepherd" or "... as told by Frick

Ashfell, a human woodchopper" and so forth.

People often asked Aril what his favorite story was,

but, with the professional objectivity proper to an academic,

he'd say only, "I like them all."

But, really, if you could read his mind, there was a

favorite, and that was one ". . . as told by Barryn Warrex, a

Solamnic Knight."

It had been on a particularly lovely spring day - a day,

indeed, when all of nature seemed happy and unconcerned

with the political upheaval miles away - when Aril, while

traversing the length of a grassy and flower-dotted valley,

espied a knight, kneeling at the base of the valley wall. The

knight, as luck would have it, was an old one.

"Perfect," murmured Aril to himself as he strode

toward the grand man, stopping several paces away.

At first, the old knight didn't seem to realize he had an

audience. He simply continued his kneeling, his head

bowed in either deep meditation or perhaps even in

respectful prayer to the recently deposed gods of Krynn.

Behind him was a low, rocky overhang, almost a cave

really, which was apparently serving as his humble, if

temporary, shelter - The Order of the Solamnic Knights,

you see, had been destroyed in the Cataclysm and fallen

into disrepute, its few remaining members scattered by the

four winds.

It seemed to Aril Witherwind that such events must have

taken a truly terrible toll on this fellow, maybe making him

look even older than he was, for he had a drawn, haggard

face; his hair, though thick, was totally white; and his

hands, clenched before him, were gnarly, almost arthritic.

Still, Aril could see much in the man that boasted of the

old grandeur of his order. He was dressed in his full plate

armor, a great sword hanging at his side, his visorless

helmet and shield resting nearby on a flat rock. And though

he was kneeling, he did seem to be quite tall - that is, long

of limb. But what impressed Aril Witherwind the most was

his truly copious moustache, a long white one that drooped

with a poignant flourish so that its tips nearly brushed the

ground as he knelt there.

A lot of pride must go into that moustache, mused Aril

as he waited patiently for the knight to finish whatever he

was doing.

Now, all that time, the itinerant folklorist thought he

was unobserved, so he was startled when the knight, not so

much as lifting his head or moving a muscle, spoke up in a

deep, though tired, voice:

"What do you want?"

"Oh! Pardon me," said Aril Witherwind, stepping

ahead, bent forward as if he were bowing, though, in fact,

he was merely carrying his heavy tome. "I didn't mean to

interrupt anything. Only, if you are done, I would like to

speak with you."

"I am in meditation."

"So you are. But perhaps you could return to it in a

moment," suggested Aril. "This will not take long."

The old knight sighed deeply. "Actually, you're not

interrupting much," he said, his body slumping from its

disciplined pose. "I no longer have the concentration I once

did."

"Then we can talk?"

The knight began to rise to his feet, though it clearly took

some effort. "Ach, it's getting so I can't distinguish between

the creaking in my armor and the creaking in my bones."

"I believe it was your armor that time," said Aril with a

smile.

At his full height, the knight indeed proved to be a very

tall man, as tall as Aril, who himself, when he did not carry

his book, was a gangly fellow. And when the knight faced

him fully, Aril got goosebumps because engraved upon the

knight's tarnished breastplate was a faint rose, the famous

symbol of his order.

"On the other hand, I do not feel much like talking,"

said the knight sullenly, walking right past the half-elf and

seating himself upon a large rock where he leaned back

against another and gazed languidly up at the blue sky and

white clouds bracketed by the opposing walls of the valley.

"I am a man of action only."

"I quite understand," said Aril, following. "But it does

seem to me you are at the moment - um - between actions.

The thing is, I am a folklorist - "

"Aril Witherwind."

"Yes, that's right. You've heard of me? I'm flattered."

The knight squinted at the gangly blond person with

the large book upon his back. "You are indeed a strange

one."

"It takes all kinds," said Aril Witherwind, again with a

smile. "In any case, you know why I'm here."

"I do not wish to talk."

"Oh, but you must make yourself. A knight such as you

surely has many wonderful tales of derring-do, bravery.

Why, this may be one of your few opportunities to set the

record straight about your order before the world forgets."

The knight appeared unmoved at first. But then, despite

himself, he tugged contemplatively at the tip of his long

moustache. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "if I do think about it

- "

"Yes, do think about it!" said Aril Witherwind as he

hurried to another, smaller rock, where he sat down, his

bony knees pulled up. He brought forth his book and

propped it open on his legs. He then took from his pouch a

quill and inkwell, placing the inkwell on the ground.

"You're a pushy one," said the knight, arching an

imperious eyebrow.

"These days, a folklorist must be," said Aril. "Now

then, first thing's first: What is your name?"

"Warrex," said the knight growing ever more

interested. He even sat up. "Barryn Warrex."

"Is Warrex spelled with one 'r' or two?"

"Two."

"Fine. Now what do you have for me? Some tale, I bet,

of epic battles and falling castles, of heroic missions - "

"No," said the knight thoughtfully, again pulling on his

moustache, "no, I don't think so."

"Oh? Then perhaps a tale of minotaur slaying or a duel

with some fierce ogre - "

"No, no, not those either, though I've done both."

"Then, by all means, you must tell of them! People one

day will want to read such knightly adventures - "

"Please!" snapped Barryn Warrex, his old milky eyes

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,

and his young daughter, Petal, who was considered, if not

THE most beautiful, then certainly among the most

beautiful human girls for miles in any direction. Petal was

slender and delicate, with a long, elegant neck, large brown

eyes, and long fair hair that reached her narrow waist.

It came as no surprise, then, that when Petal reached

marriageable age, she found at her doorstep every young

bachelor who was looking for a wife. These fellows would

wander by the front fence, sometimes pretending to be

going on a stroll, when they'd "by chance" notice the young

girl gardening in her front yard, and they'd begin chatting

with her.

"Why, hello," they'd say, for instance, "what lovely

roses you have."

Naturally, Petal was very flattered to receive so much

attention, and she'd leave her gardening and go flirt with the

young men, which only encouraged them.

Now, Aron, though he had always been the kindest and

happiest of fathers when Petal was growing up, turned stem

and dark of expression. He stopped smiling. He grumbled a

lot. He became, in a word, jealous.

True, he tried, at first, to view the situation with

pleasure. After all, the attention she was receiving was that

due a young, beautiful, marriageable girl, and he tried to

pretend that he was prepared for it.

But he couldn't help himself. Whenever one of Petal's

would-be suitors came calling at the front fence, offering

Aron a wave and a "hello," Aron Dewweb could only grunt

back, or more likely, ignore the young man and stalk into

his cottage.

Several neighbors told him, "Look, Aron, you can't

keep nature from taking its course."

Aron listened politely, but that was because his

neighbors were also customers for his weaving. Really, he

didn't give a damn about nature or its course or their

opinions. He just couldn't bear the thought of some swain

taking away his only, precious daughter. As far as he was

concerned, no matter how old she got, Petal would always

be that little girl who laughed and squealed when he

bounced her lightly on his knee.

So he said, "Dash it all, I don't care what anyone thinks!

I don't like what's happening!" And he took to chasing off

the young men with a knobby walking stick he kept handy

near his loom. "Stay away!" he would cry as he came

running out of his cottage toward the fence. The young man

of the moment, startled by the attack, would leave Petal

standing by the gate and flee. "And tell your boorish friends

to stay clear, too!"

Petal was always very embarrassed by this display.

"Daddy, why can't they visit me?" she'd ask, near tears. "I'm

old enough!"

"Because!" answered Aron, his face red, his knuckles

white as he clenched his walking stick. "Just - just

because!" And then he'd storm back into the cottage.

Well, "because" wasn't good enough for Petal, and she

continued to encourage her suitors. A wink from her was

enough to draw them back like bees to a bright, fragrant

flower - though none of them dared actually enter the gate.

From his loom - which, incidentally, was a clever, if

noisy, contraption operated by various levers and pedals -

the stern weaver could look out his window and see the way

his daughter was behaving. And he saw the effect it had on

her callers, who were growing ever bolder, some even

venturing to open the gate. Apparently, waving a stick at

them was no longer enough to drive them away (which was

just as well since Aron was getting tired of running out

every other moment). So, finally, he decided there was only

one thing left to do: He would have to take Petal away from

Gateway.

This he did. He piled his loom and other possessions

high on a wagon, put Petal on the seat next to him, and off

they went, pulled by a tired, old ox, which he borrowed

from a neighbor. Petal sighed deeply as she waved farewell

to all her would-be lovers, who lined up along the road in

front of their own cottages to see her off. They waved back,

their hearts heavy.

Aron took Petal far away. The road became unpaved

and overgrown, and eventually it led to the Forest of

Wayreth. There, Aron had to leave behind most of his

possessions for the time being because there was no path

between the trees wide enough to allow the wagon to pass.

He would have to make several trips, but he loaded up his

goods on his back, took Petal by her slender hand, and off

they went through the sunless forest.

When he had gone far enough - that is to say, when he

became too exhausted to continue - Aron put down his load

and said, "Here! Here is where we shall live!" And right on

that bosky spot, he built a new cottage of sticks and thatch.

He included a small room for Petal, a larger one for himself,

and a still bigger one for the cooking hearth, table, chairs,

and, of course, his loom, which he had the ox drag through

the forest before he returned the beast to its owner.

Convinced at last that his daughter was now where no

young man would find her, or at least where she'd be too far

away to be worth the bother, Aron resumed his weaving.

Such a location among the reputedly magical woods was

inconvenient for him, for he had to make long trips to his

customers in Gateway, but it was worth the peace of mind

that came from knowing that his daughter was safe from

anyone who would dare try to take her from him.

As for Petal, she cried for days and days. She wanted to

go back to Gateway. She wanted to flirt with her suitors.

But Aron said, "You'll get used to it here. Soon, things

will be back the way they were before all this foolishness

started."

Petal did, in fact, stop crying, but things never quite

went back to the way they were. Petal was lonely, and she

never looked happy.

"What's the matter?" Aron finally snapped one day from

his loom while Petal, long-faced, was sprinkling fragrant

pine needles on the floor. "I was good enough company all

these years!"

"Oh, Father," said Petal, pausing in her work, her eyes

watering, "I still love you but as MY FATHER. Now it's

time I loved another, as my husband."

"Nonsense!" said Aron with a wave of his hand.

"There'll be plenty of time for that when I'm dead!"

"Don't talk that way!" said Petal, stepping toward her

father, dropping the rest of the pine needles.

"What way? One day I'll be gone, and then you'll be

able to entertain all the young men you want!" And, with

that, Aron turned his back on his daughter and continued his

weaving.

The arguments usually went that way, and they always

broke Petal's heart. Finally, she stopped bringing up the

subject, which was what Aron wanted, anyway.

The days settled into a routine. Aron worked

methodically and constantly at his loom, and Petal tended

the cottage and the garden. Neither said much to the other.

Petal continued to look sad, and Aron, even way out in the

forest, continued to feel uneasy:

What if one of those tom cats should sniff his way to the

cottage, after all? What if a whole gang of them should

arrive and start wailing at his door?

Or, worse yet: What if Petal sneaked away?

This last thought truly began to worry Aron. He kept a

constant eye on his daughter, which caused many uneven

threads in his weaving. He became so nervous that if Petal

were out of his sight for any length of time - and he did not

hear her, either - he'd jump up from his loom, knocking

over his chair, and cry out, "Petal! Come here!"

"What is it, Father?" she'd call, hurrying into the

cottage, with, say, a basket of mushrooms she had been

gathering.

Aron never answered. He was just glad to see his

daughter, and, relieved, he'd pick up his chair and resume

his weaving.

Nights, though, proved even worse for Aron than the

days. It was then he had to sleep, and so it was then he

could keep neither eye nor ear on his daughter. He kept

waking at the slightest sound, thinking Petal might be

sneaking away, and he kept checking up on her in her room.

She was always there, curled up beneath her blanket on a

mattress filled with her fragrant pine needles.

But then, on one warm summer night, shortly after

midnight, Aron peeked into her room and found her bed

empty.

"Petal!" he bellowed, stepping from her door back into

the large room. "Petal!"

She didn't answer.

Aron ran outside into the benighted woods, where only

sprinkles of silver moonlight fell through the canopy and

broke up the dark forest floor, the way Petal's pine needles

broke up the cottage floor.

"Petal! Petal!"

There was no answer except for the hoot of a lone,

unseen owl.

All the rest of that night, Aron scrambled about the dark

woods, calling his daughter's name and bruising himself as

he hit his head on low limbs and banged fully into unseen

tree trunks.

By the time the sun rose, sending its early morning rays

to light the misty air and awaken the birds, who promptly

began their warbling, Aron was ready to faint from

exhaustion. He had been searching and calling all night.

Defeated and heartbroken, but determined to march to

Gateway to fetch his daughter if need be, he trudged to his

cottage to get his stick.

Yet, when he got there, whom did he find, sleeping

curled up in her bed as innocently as a doe, but Petal.

Aron rubbed his swollen eyes. His heart soared with

joy. Was it possible, in his great concern, that he had missed

her sleeping there the night before? Everything was as it

was supposed to be - except, Aron noted, that there were

little puddles of water, footprints really, leading up to

Petal's bed. This was curious, but Aron didn't give it much

thought. He was happy to have his daughter back. He told

himself he would try to be nicer to her from then on, for the

last thing he wanted was to drive her away.

That morning, when his daughter awoke, Aron acted

more chipper at the breakfast table. Petal was surprised by

his new demeanor, but she welcomed it. She, too, was

happier.

"You see?" said Aron as he sipped his tea. "Do you see

how easy it is for us to be friends?"

"Yes, Father," said Petal as she nibbled at a muffin.

"Forgive me for my pouting."

"No, no, it is I who must ask for forgiveness. I've been

an ogre."

"Only because you love me. I know that, now."

Aron reached over and patted his daughter's soft, fair

hair, which felt, strangely, a little damp. Again, he gave this

little thought. For the rest of the day, he whistled at his

loom while Petal hummed in her front garden - which,

actually, wasn't growing as well in the constant shade of the

woods as it had in Gateway.

In any case, for all his outward pleasantness, Aron, that

very night, tossed and turned uncomfortably in his bed,

certain once more that his daughter had indeed disappeared

the previous night. And those puddles popped into his mind,

perplexing him.

It was no use. Aron jumped out of bed. He had to check

up on his daughter. But he didn't want her to know, for then

she'd be truly angry at him. So he tiptoed ever so quietly to

her room.

She was gone.

Aron grew frantic. He bolted out of the cottage. But

before he could call his daughter's name, he saw in the

moonlight that sprinkled through the tree cover Petal

herself, dressed in her flowing white gown, just

disappearing silently between two enormous tulip trees.

Again, Aron was about to call to her, but he stopped

himself. Was she meeting someone? He had to know. He

decided to follow and catch her in the act. He rushed back

into his cottage, grabbed his stick, and hurried out to catch

up to his daughter.

He passed between the two tulip trees and found himself

on a path, one that he had not even known existed. It was

narrow, virtually covered with fern fronds, but it was

illuminated clearly by the full moon, for there was a slit in

the tree canopy that followed the path exactly.

Aron failed to see his daughter, but he walked along the

bending path, confident it would take him to her. Using his

walking stick for its intended purpose, he proceeded as

quickly as he could without making too much noise. All

around him, just a step away to his right or left, was the

gloomy forest. Only those trees nearest the path were partly

lit, their dark and gray trunks marking his way. Behind

them, the trees were cast in shadow. And farther from the

path still, the trees were in total blackness.

The croaking of frogs grew louder, and soon he came to

a small glade, in the middle of which was a pond. Petal was

standing on its bank near an old beaver dam, her long white

gown bathed in the sky's ghostly light. For several moments

she did nothing but gaze at the black water, upon whose

surface floated many lily pads, their white blossoms open to

the moonshine.

Then she softly called, "My love, my love, take me to

your home."

At that, some of the lily pads were jostled from beneath.

Petal then slipped off her gown and stepped into the water.

She waded toward the center of the pond, pressing past

some lily pads. The water rose steadily up her slender legs,

reaching her narrow waist, and continued to rise as she went

forward.

Aron was confused as to what was happening. But

when he saw his daughter in the pond up to her delicate

neck, her fair hair floating behind her, he burst from his

hiding place.

It was too late. Petal's head dipped below the surface,

her hair floating momentarily, then it, too, vanished below.

"Petal! What are you doing?" cried Aron. "Petal!" He ran

back and forth along the shore as he squinted and tried to

peer into the inky water. But he saw only the round, white

moon above and his own dark silhouette gazing up at him.

Finally, he jumped in.

The water was cold and black, and he couldn't see a

thing. He came up for air, then dove even deeper, grabbing

blindly at the water, ripping at lily pad stems and smacking

a few startled fish. But after becoming so tired that he

nearly drowned, Aron finally pulled himself onto the bank

and collapsed. There he slept, his legs and arms twitching as

if he were still diving, until he was awakened by the

morning sun and the warbling of birds.

Convinced that his daughter had drowned, Aron mulled

over the idea of taking his own life as he returned to his

cottage. But, lo and behold, who did he find there, once

more curled up in her bed as if nothing had happened, but

Petal!

Aron shook his head. He was almost ready to believe

he had dreamed the whole adventure, except that, once

more, he saw puddles on the floor leading to his daughter's

bed.

Though he was overjoyed, Aron was also furious. He

was about to shake his daughter awake and demand an

explanation when he decided, No, let her confess to me on

her own. It would be better that way.

But confess what exactly? That she had gone for a

midnight swim? Surely that's all there was to it. Surely there

was nothing - no one - in the pond waiting for her.

Still, in the Forest of Wayreth, you never know.

So all that day, Aron waited for his daughter to tell him

what happened. From his loom he kept eyeing her, but all

she did was go happily about her duties.

Fine! thought Aron in frustration. Let her think she's

fooled the old man! I will just have to catch her in the act!

For the rest of the day, Aron played the innocent, too.

He smiled at his daughter, engaged her in polite

conversation during lunch and dinner, and generally acted

as if nothing were on his mind - except that, while at his

Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Tales 3 - Love and War

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