The Second Generation (Margaret Weis) читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги

THE SECOND GENERATION BOOK 1 of the SECOND GENERATION SERIES By MARGARET WEIS and TRACY HICKMAN

Prologue

It is always the map of believing,

The white landscape

And the shrouded farms.

It is always the land of remembrance,

Of sunlight fractured

In old, immovable ice,

And always the heart,

Cloistered and southerly,

misgives the ice, the drifting

for something perplexed and eternal.

It will end like this,

the heart will tell you,

it will end with mammoth and glacier,

with ten thousand years

of effacing night,

and someday the scientists

rifling lakes and moraines,

will find us in evidence,

our relics the outside of history,

but your story, whole and hollowed, will end

at the vanishing edge of your hand.

So says the heart

in its intricate cell,

charting with mirrors

the unchartable land

of remembrance and rivers and ice.

This time it was different:

the town had surrendered

to the hooded snow,

the houses and taverns

were awash in the fragmented light,

and the lake was marbled

with unstable ice,

as I walked through drifts

through lulling spirits,

content with the slate of the sky

and the prospect of calendared spring.

It will end like this,

the winter proclaimed,

sooner or later

in dark, inaccessible ice,

and you are the next one

to hear this story,

winter and winter

occluding the heart,

and there in Wisconsin,

mired by the snow

and by vanishing faith,

it did not seem bad

that the winter was taking

all light away,

that the darkness seemed welcome

and the last, effacing snow.

He stood in the midst

of frozen automobiles,

cars lined like cenotaphs.

In a bundle of coats

and wool hats and mufflers

he rummaged the trunk

for God knows what,

and I knew his name

by the misted spectacles,

the caved, ridiculous

hat he was wearing,

And whether the courage

was spring in its memory,

was sunlight in promise

or whiskeyed shade,

or something aligned

beyond snow and searching,

it was with me that moment

as I spoke to him there;

in my days I am thankful

it stood me that moment

as I spoke to the bundled

weaver of accidents,

the everyday wizard

in search of impossible spring.

Tracy, I told him, poetry lies

in the seams of the story,

in old recollections and prospect

of what might always and never be

(And those were the words

I did not say, but poetry lies

in the prospect of what should have been:

you must believe that I said these words

past denial, past history),

and there in the winter

the first song began,

the moons twined and beckoned

on the borders of Krynn,

the country of snow

resolved to the grasslands

more brilliant and plausible.

And the first song continued

through prospects of summer,

where the promise returns

from the vanished seed,

where the staff returns

from forgetful deserts,

and even the northern lands

cry out to the spirit,

this is the map

of believing fulfilled;

this is the map of belief.

Where’s my hat? You took it! I saw you. Don’t tell me if s on my head! I know better! I... Oh, there it is. Decided to bring it back, did you? No, I don’t believe you. Not for a minute. You’ve always had your eye on my hat, Hickman. I—What? You want me to write what? Now? This minute? Can’t do it. Don’t have the time. Trying to recall the words to a spell.

Fire sale. Fire engine. Great balls of fire

That's close....

Oh, very well. I’ll write your blasted foreword.

But just this once, mind you. Here goes.

A long time ago, a couple of doorknobs named Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman decided to leave their homes on Krynn and go out adventuring. I’m afraid there’s some kender blood in those two. They just couldn’t resist traipsing off to visit other new and exciting worlds.

But Weis and Hickman are like kender and bad pennies—they keep turning up. And so here they are again, all set to tell us about the wonderful things that are happening in Krynn.

Some of these stories we’ve heard before, but they have a couple of new ones, too, all about the children of that small band of adventurers who are now known as the Heroes of the Lance.

Many years have passed since the war. The Heroes' children are growing up, going off on adventures of their own, heading out into a world that, I’m sorry to say, still has plenty of danger and trouble left to go around.

Now, as you read these stories, you will notice that some times Weis and Hickman contradict certain other stories you may have heard. Some of you might find yourselves more than a little perplexed over their accounts of the Heroes' past lives—accounts that differ from other accounts.

There is a perfectly simple explanation.

Following the War of the Lance, Tanis and Caramon and Raistlin and all the rest of the Companions stopped being ordinary people and became Legends. We liked hearing about the Heroes' adventures so much, we didn’t want the stories to end. We wanted to hear more. To fill the demand, bards and legend-spinners came from all over Krynn to tell the wondrous tales. Some of these knew the Heroes well. Others simply repeated stories they’d heard told by a dwarf who had it from a kender who borrowed it from a knight who had an aunt who knew the Heroes... You get the picture.

Some of these stories are absolutely, positively true. Others are probably almost absolutely, positively true, but not quite. Still others are what we refer to in polite society as “kender tales”—stories that aren’t true, but sure are a hoot to hear!

And so you ask: Fizban, Great and Powerful Wizard, which stories are which?

And I, Fizban, Great and Powerful Wizard, answer: As long as you enjoyed the stories, you doorknob, what does it matter?

, well. Glad we got that settled.

Now, go pack your pouches. Pocket your hankies. Grab your hoopak.

We have a lot of adventuring to do. Come along! Forget your cares! Travel with Weis and Hickman through Krynn once again, if only for a little while. They won’t be here long, but they do plan to come back.

(Maybe next time, they’ll return my hat!)

What was my name again?

Oh, yes.

I remain, yours sincerely,

Fizban the Fabulous