'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
