Luck in the Shadows by Lynn Flewelling Read Free Book Online Page B

crestfallen.
    “But the apprentice idea should do nicely. Luckily, you can sing. But can you think like a bard?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well, suppose you’re in a tavern on the highroad. What sort of customers would you have?”
    “Traders, wagoneers, soldiers.”
    “Excellent! And suppose there’s a great deal of drinking going on and a song is called for. What would you choose?”
    “Well, probably something like the ‘The Lay of Araman.’ ”
    “A good choice. And why?”
    “Well, it’s about fighting and honor; the soldiers would like that. And it’s widely known, so everyone could join in. And it has a good refrain.”
    “Well done! Aren’s used that song many times, and for just those reasons. Now suppose yourself a minstrel in a lord’s hall, performing for fat barons and their ladies.”
    “Maybe ‘Lillia and the Rose’? There’s nothing coarse in it.”
    Laughing, Seregil leaned across to clap Alec on the shoulder. “Perhaps you should take Aren on as apprentice! I don’t suppose you play an instrument?”
    “Afraid not.”
    “Oh well. Aren will just have to apologize for your green skills.”
    They spent the rest of the afternoon extending Alec’s repertoire as they rode along.
    By late afternoon the Downs gave way to the rough, sloping terrain of the Brythwin River valley. In the distance they could make out the squares of bare fields and distant farmsteads that marked the boundary of the Woldesoke district. The river itself, a black, tree-fringed line far below, flowed into Blackwater Lake several miles east of the waterfront town. Bordered along its northern shore by the great Lake Wood, the shimmering expanse of water stretched unbroken to the far horizon.
    “You say the Gathwayd Ocean is bigger than that?” asked Alec, shading his eyes. He’d hunted along the Lake’s shores all his life and couldn’t imagine anything larger.
    “By quite a margin,” replied Seregil cheerfully. “Let’s move on before we lose the light.”
    The late-afternoon sun cast a mellow glow across the valley. Picking their way down the stony slope, they struck the main road leading along the river toward Wolde. The Brythwin was low, its course laced with gravel spits. Stands of ash and willow grew thickly along the banks, often screening the river from view.
    A mile or so before reaching the lake shore, the road curved away from the river to skirt a dense copse of trees. Reining in, Seregil studied the wall of branches for a moment, then dismounted and motioned for Alec to follow.
    Bare willow branches stroked over them, catching at hoods and harness as they pushed their way through to a clearing beside the river. A tiny stone cottage surrounded by a wattle and daub fence stood on a rise close by the water’s edge.
    As Seregil approached the gate a brindle hound came rushing at them from around the corner of the cottage, growling and showing its teeth. Alec retreated hastily back in the direction of his horse, but Seregil stood his ground. Muttering a few low words, he made some sort of sign with his left hand. The dog skidded to a halt on the other side of the gate, then skulked back the way it had come.
    Alec gaped. “How did you do that?”
    “Just a little thief’s trick I picked up somewhere. Come on, it’s perfectly safe.”
    A very old, very bald little man answered Seregil’s knock.
    “Who’s that?” he demanded, peering blankly past them. A deep scar, faded white against the old fellow’s leathery skin, ran in a ragged line from the top of his skull to the bridge of his nose.
    “It’s me, old father,” Seregil replied, slipping something into his outstretched hand.
    The old man reached to touch Seregil’s face. “I thought as much when Crusher went quiet like that. And not alone this time, eh?”
    “A new friend.” Seregil guided the blind man’s hand to Alec’s cheek.
    The boy remained still as the dry fingertips ran swiftly over his features. At no point were names