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