Talon of the Silver Hawk by Raymond E. Feist Read Free Book Online Page A

people, Talon appeared almost mute at times to those around him. Inside he ached for that free expression he knew in his childhood, and though that childhood was only weeks earlier in his life, it felt ages past.
    Pasko and Lela were open enough, should he ask a question, but Lela was as likely to answer with a prevarication or misinformation as Pasko was likely to merely dismiss the question as being irrelevant to whatever task lay at hand. The frustration within that grew from this situation only added to Talon’s bleak moods.
    The only respite from the crushing darkness in his heart was found in hunting with Caleb. The young man was even more reticent than Talon, and often a day of hunting would go by with fewer than a dozen words spoken between them.
    Reaching the stabling yard, Lela said, “Oh, we have guests.’’
    A coach, ornate with gilded trim on black-lacquered wood, all metal fittings polished to gleam like silver, sat near the barn. Gibbs and Lars were quickly unhitching from the traces as handsome a matching set of black geldings as Talon had ever seen. Horses were not central to the mountain tribes of the Orosini as they were to other cultures nearby, but a fine mount could still be appreciated. The coachman oversaw the two servants, ensuring his master’s team was treated with the respect due.
    Lela said, “Looks like the Count DeBarges is visiting, again.’’
    Talon wondered who he might be, but remained silent.
    â€œPut the basket down on the back stoop,” Lela instructed.
    Talon did so, and the girl smiled as she vanished through the rear door to the kitchen.
    He waited a moment, unsure what to do, then turnedand headed back toward the barn. Inside he found Pasko seeing to one of the many constant repairs the old wagon required, humming a meaningless tune to himself. He glanced up an instant, then returned his attention to the work at hand. After a few moments of silence, he said, “Hand me that awl there, boy.’’
    Talon gave him the tool and watched as Pasko worked on the new leather for the harnesses. “When you live in a big city, boy,” he commented, “you can find craftsmen aplenty to do such as this, but when you’re out on the road miles from anywhere and a harness breaks, you have to know how to do for yourself.” He paused for a moment, then handed the awl back to Talon. “Let me see you punch some holes.’’
    The boy had watched the man work on this new harness for a few days and had a fair notion of what to do. He began working the straps where he knew the tongue of the buckles would go. When he felt unsure, he’d glance up at Pasko, who would either nod in approval or shake his head indicating an error. Finally, the strap was finished, and Pasko said, “Ever stitch leather?’’
    â€œI helped my mother stitch hides . . .” He let the words fall off. Any discussion of his family brought back the despair that threatened to overwhelm him on a daily basis.
    â€œGood enough,” said Pasko, handing him a length of leather with the holes already punched. “Take this buckle”—he indicated a large iron buckle used to harness the horses into the traces of the wagon—“and sew it on the end of that strap.’’
    Talon studied the strap for a moment. He saw it had been fashioned from two pieces of leather sewn together for extra strength. He noticed there was a flatter side. He picked up the buckle and slid it over the long strap, the metal roller opposite the tongue he placed against the flat side. He glanced up.
    Pasko nodded with an ever-so-faint smile, and Talon picked up the heavy leatherworker’s needle and started sewing the buckle in place. When he was done, Pasko said, “Fair enough, lad, but you made a mistake.’’
    Talon’s eyes widened slightly, in question.
    â€œLook at that one over there,” he said, pointing to another finished