Glimpses by Lynn Flewelling Read Free Book Online

become my
apprentice or remain simply my friend who visits from a place where
you are miserable. Come have some more tea while you think it
over.”
    Seregil slowly returned to his chair by the
fire, looking baffled. He took the mug and drank in silence. At
last he looked up. “Why?”
    “Because you were honest.”
    “That’s it?”
    “I can see how badly you want to join me
here. Yet you told me the one thing that you believed would make me
reject you. That shows character. Besides, wizards are sometimes
called upon to kill.” He sipped his tea, letting that sink in.
“So?”
    Seregil “Yes. I accept your offer, Nysander,
with all my heart. I will try to be worthy of your regard.”
    Nysander leaned forward and extended his
hand. “Welcome to the Third Orëska, apprentice Seregil.”
     

     
     

The Wild
     
    Amasa knelt behind his little son in the
sun-dappled clearing, supporting his bow arm and showing him how to
pull the string back. “Keep your left arm straight, Alec. Don’t let
your elbow bend in or the string will hit it and it will hurt.”
    “I can do it, Papa.”
    Amasa watched proudly as Alec slowly pulled
the bowstring almost back to his ear. His left arm was shaking—the
bow was half Alec’s height, but Amasa had taken his measurements
carefully while making it and Alec managed to hold his stance for a
few seconds.
    “That’s good, child. Now ease it back.”
    Alec was only six, and hardly looked that,
but that was old enough to start learning. Who knew when he would
have to fend for himself? Skinny and sun-browned in his tunic and
leggings, Alec had Amasa’s thick golden hair and blue eyes, but the
older he got, the more he resembled his mother. At times it broke
the man’s heart to look at his own son.
    The clearing was loud with the sawing of
summer cicadas. They were singing sooner than usual this year,
thanks to the early spring. This was the danger season. They’d kept
a cold campsite at night for several weeks already, drinking stream
water and eating smoke-cured meat and what roots they could
find.
    Amasa had Alec pull the bow several more
times, then handed him one of the short arrows he’d made for him.
Alec nocked it to the string without being shown; he was smart and
quick and had seen his father do this thousands of times. From the
time he was an infant bundled on his father’s back, the song of the
bowstring had been his only lullaby.
    “Watch me, Papa!” Alec pulled the string back
again, the arrow a little wobbly, and let fly. The shaft came off
badly and skittered along the ground into a patch of tall
grass.
     

     
    Amasa handed him another arrow. “Try again.
Keep your arm up.”
    They practiced until Alec’s arms were shaking
too badly to shoot any more, then went to check their snares by the
river bank. It was a lucky day; they had six muskrat pelts by
afternoon, and meat to dry. Amasa nailed the skins fur side down to
trees around the clearing, then scraped and buffed them clean with
his knife and a smooth piece of horn. Alec followed him, rubbing
each hide down with the animals’ oily, cooked-down brains.
    Amasa cooked some of the muskrat meat over
the remains of the fire, then buried the embers and tamped the dirt
down smooth.
    “Time to move, child.”
    He helped Alec shoulder his little pack and
led the way down a game trail through the thick pine forest to
another clearing half a mile off. They never slept where they spent
the day. With any luck, the pelts would still be there in a day or
two when it was safe to go back. Amasa missed the silence of
winter. The Hâzadriëlfaie man hunters didn’t come looking for them
then.
    He and Alec were thirty miles south of
Ravensfel Pass this year, but no matter how far they went, the
hunters always seemed to find them. So far Amasa had managed to
elude them, though he’d caught sight of them a few times from
hiding places. Their leader was a slender man with grey streaks in
his hair. The other riders, usually ten