Glimpses: A Collection of Nightrunner Short Stories

by Lynn Flewelling

  He let Seregil finish his tea, then took him back to the workshop. Once again Seregil looked around with keen interest, and began asking questions. A lot of questions.

  “May I ask your clan?” said Nysander asked as he showed him how the astrolabe worked.

  Seregil looked out through the glass dome. There was little to see at the moment. The pouring rain cloaked the city in a veil of grey. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  Running away again, Nysander thought. One moment he was as eager as a child, the next he was that sad, tightlipped young man again, full of secrets and pain.

  “Very well. Would you like to try another spell?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Nysander carried an unlit candle in a holder into the casting room and set it on the polished stone table at the center. “I want you to light this. Just say or think the word ‘magistal’ and snap your fingers while concentrating on the wick.”

  With a look of eager anticipation, Seregil snapped his fingers. Instead of lighting, however, the candle flew across the room and stuck to the wall in a melted mass. “I must have thought it wrong.”

  “Perhaps.” Nysander placed another candle in the holder. “Try again and say it aloud.”

  “Magistal.” Seregil snapped his fingers. This time the candle softened and drooped like a wilted flower. “I guess I was right. I don’t have any magic in me.”

  “If you didn’t, then none of the spells you have cast would have had any effect at all,” Nysander explained. “So you do, but there is something odd about it. Those were beginner’s spells. Are you still feeling sick from the translocation?”

  “A little.”

  “Perhaps that is the problem. And of course magic works a bit differently with your people. Well, your clothing will be dry by now. Change and I will show you the museum.”

  When Seregil was dressed they wended their way through the piles of documents stacked by the tower door, and out to the mezzanine that overlooked the glass-domed atrium. From here one could see the mosaic that covered the floor below; the scarlet dragon of Illior crowned with a silver crescent, flying above the harbor and walled city of Rhíminee.

  “You have dragons in Skala?” asked Seregil, peering over the railing.

  “Not for a very long time. But it is still one of the symbols of Illior.”

  “Your god that’s like Aura?”

  “Yes. We believe them to be one and the same.”

  Seregil looked doubtful as he followed Nysander down the five flights of stairs and across the atrium to the corridor leading to the museum.

  It was a huge vaulted room filled with large glass cases. A whale’s skeleton hung from the ceiling.

  “There is a great deal to see here,” Nysander said. “Let me show you a few of my favorites.”

  For nearly an hour Seregil moved eagerly from case to case, looking at the various artifacts as Nysander explained their use or history. There were jewels and weapons, as well as magical items that posed no threat. That sort were stored in the maze of chambers under the House.

  Seregil asked more questions and Nysander was again impressed by the young man’s native curiosity and quick mind. Some of the artifacts were Aurënfaie, and he seemed to take particular delight in telling Nysander what he knew of them. One case held a display of sen’gai, the distinctive head cloths each clan wore.

  “That one’s Khatme,” Seregil said, pointing to a red and black weave. “And that’s Golinil, and Virésse. What are they doing here?”

  “Gifts to various wizards who traveled in your land, before the Edict of Separation. Do you recognize the green one?”

  As he’d expected, a brief look of pain betrayed the young man. “Yes. That’s Bôkthersa.” He moved on to a case filled with Zengati seal rings and after a few minutes Nysander noted that he was now avoiding any case that contained Aurënfaie things.

  “It would take weeks to see everything!” Seregil exclaimed at last.

  “Indeed. And you are welcome to come back any time to you like to explore. We also have a very fine library.”

  Seregil looked like he’d just been given his heart’s desire. “Thank you, my lord!”

  “Please, you must call me Nysander, if we are friends now.”

  Seregil smiled. “Thank you, Nysander. I deeply appreciate all that you’ve done for me.” Just then his belly gave a loud gurgle.

  “Dinner time already?” Nysander laughed. The afternoon had flown by. “Dine with me, Seregil, and then I’ll send you back to the palace in a carriage.”

  Seregil grinned. “Better than the way I got here.”

  Over dinner they talked of what they’d seen in the museum, and a little about Seregil’s life at court.”

  “I understand you are no longer a junior scribe,” said Nysander, chancing a conversational dead end. “May I ask why?”

  Seregil gave him a rueful smile. “Emidas slapped me, and I dumped an ink pot over his head.”

  “Why would he slap you?”

  “I hit one of the other junior scribes with a book,” he replied with an almost crooked smile. “But only because he insulted me.”

  “I see. And what have you been doing, since?”

  “I was in the household honor guard.”

  “Was,” Nysander noted. “Did you hit someone else?”

  It was as if a wall had come down between them. “No,” Seregil replied, looking down at his plate.

  Seregil had admitted so readily to his other infractions; what in the world had he done? Something to do with Phoria, judging by his outburst in the garden, and something that had left Seregil furious rather than shamed. Nysander again resisted the urge to touch the young man’s mind. He had other, more scrupulous channels of inquiry, palace gossip being what it was.

  ***

  Within the week Nysander learned that Seregil’s last offense had been his affair with Prince Korathan. Apparently it was Princess Phoria who’d taken exception. She had far too much hold over her brother, as far as Nysander was concerned. The prince was old enough to make his own choices, and why in the world would Phoria care, anyway? Seregil didn’t speak of Korathan, and was evasive when Nysander tried to sound him out. Apparently that relationship was truly over. That was regrettable; as far as he knew, Seregil hadn’t made any other friends.

  He kept this knowledge to himself, and Seregil came to see him nearly every day, exploring the museum and library. The boy seemed even more thrilled by the Orëska House’s elaborate bath chamber, but that wasn’t all that surprising with an Aurënfaie, the cleanest of people. Much of the science of the indoor bath, including the piping of hot water under tiled floors to warm them, had been learned from them.

  Seregil began to be known around the House. In fact, he seemed to be spending as much time as possible here, even when Nysander was too busy to visit with him. The keepers of the library and museum welcomed him, and Seregil began to make friends. People seemed drawn to him, whether for his good looks or sharp mind. He had winning ways, too, when he wanted to, and could be very charming and humorous. He made friends readily, apparently, and Nysander often found him talking or gaming with some of the apprentices.

  Nysander watched and evaluated, and gave him little magical tests now and then, though these seldom went as planned. Seregil did have a way with animals, though and simple tricks concerning them directly came more easily to him.

  As they sat over tea one day, Nysander said, “Seregil, I have a proposition for you, and I want you to consider it very carefully before you answer.”

  Seregil looked up in surprise. “All right. What is it?”

  “You still are not happy at the palace, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Because of what happened with Prince Korathan?”

  Seregil blushed to the tips of his ears, but his tone was slightly defiant as he replied, “No, because Phoria made him stop seeing me. Korathan and I got along fine.”

  “But not any more?”

&n
bsp; Seregil said nothing.

  “Are you are in love with him?”

  He snorted at that. “Love is for fools. I just liked him, that’s all.”

  “I see. Thank you for being honest. I do hope you change your stance on love someday, though.”

  “Not likely! So, what is your proposition, exactly, and what does that have to do with it?”

  “Nothing, except it is important that I know what sort of person you are before I make my offer.”

  “Well, you already know I’m the sort who whacks people with books and dumps ink on them. I’m no whore, though, no matter what Phoria says.”

  “Certainly not, dear boy! I was not thinking anything of the sort, I assure you.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I would like to take you on as my apprentice.”

  Seregil stared at him. “You—You’re serious?”

  “Very.”

  “But why? I’ve hardly gotten a spell right.”

  “You have had a few successes and I find that heartening. And you have a quick, inquiring mind, and a good memory. Those are as important in a wizard as the magic. I also enjoy your company. Given that we would work together for decades, maybe even centuries, that is important, as well. So, would you like to be my apprentice, and live here at the Orëska with me?”

  “Yes!” Seregil exclaimed with no hesitation.

  The wizard wasn’t surprised to see tears glisten in the young man’s eyes, even as he broke into the brightest smile Nysander had seen. It had no doubt been a while since anyone had told Seregil that he was wanted. Except, perhaps, for Korathan. Nysander didn’t think much of how that had turned out.

  “So what is your condition?” Seregil asked.

  “That you tell me why you were exiled from your homeland.”

  In an instant Seregil’s expression changed to one of pure betrayal and shame. He stood and headed for the door.

  Nysander cast a lock on it from where he sat. “I will not give up on you so easily.”

  “Let me go,” Seregil whispered, not looking at him.

  “Not until you tell me.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference! Once you know, you won’t want me.”

  “I should like to be the judge of that.”

  Seregil turned to him, voice trembling with anger. “All this time—You being so nice to me. All so you ask me that?”

  “Certainly not. As I said, I simply need to know what sort of person you really are.”

  Seregil drew himself up, glaring at him. “All right then. I killed a man. Can I go now?”

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “It matters a great deal.”

  Seregil bit his lip. “I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, and he surprised me in the dark and grabbed me. I—I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to get away. But that doesn’t change anything. So I was exiled.”

  “I have one last question.”

  “What?”

  “Aside from killing that man, do you always lash out at people the way you have here?”

  Seregil sighed and shook his head, hand on the door latch. “No. Can I go now?”

  “That’s entirely up to you, dear boy. My offer stands.”

  “But—after what I just told you?”

  “It is up to you whether you 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 in all, were a mix of men and women of varying ages. They carried fine bows and long swords, too. Amasa had only his knife and bow. If it ever came to a fight at close quarters, he knew what his chances were.

  He didn’t recognize any of them as kin of Ireya’s but it didn’t matter. They hunted his son and Amasa had no illusions as to what would happen to the child if they ever found him.

  ***

  Until seven years ago, Amasa had never put any stock in the legends about the Elder Folk, or the stories of travelers disappearing if they got too close to the Ravensfel. The pass was high and difficult to reach, and no doubt treacherous enough to claim the lives of those unwise enough to chance it. There was plenty of game in the forested foothills; no need to go risking his neck.

  I
t had been a litter of white lynx that took him into the heights that fateful winter. Just one spotted pelt would bring enough gold to live on for half a year, with some left over for new gear and maybe a woman now and then. He’d seen the spoor of half a dozen cats, probably a mother and her half-grown kits. He tracked them on snowshoes for days, going higher and higher into the mountains and closer to the pass. The foothills became mountains, and the mountains turned to wooded peaks stark against the clear winter sky.

  In a steep, snow-choked cut flanked on either side by thick forest, and strewn with ice-covered boulders he spotted the lynx in the distance, sunning themselves on a rocky outcropping.

  It took two hours of careful stalking to get within bowshot of them and he was losing daylight. He was taking aim at the mother cat when he heard someone yell and something cold and hard struck him in the back of the head, and then another. As he turned to see who’d struck him he got a snowball square in the face that nearly broke his nose. It hurt like fire and he tasted blood on his lips. Staggering backwards, he caught one showshoe and went tumbling ass over teakettle down the steep slope he’d worked so hard to climb. The cats were long gone. So were his bow and fur hat.

  Spitting blood, he untangled his snowshoes and looked for his bow. His quiver was full of snow and most of the arrows had broken fletching.

  Snowballs weren’t much of a weapon. Furious, he trudged back up the slope to find whoever had cost him a small fortune. As he toiled on, the thought that it might be a lost traveler leavened his anger a little, though not much. If they needed help, why annoy him first?

  He found his hat and was almost back to where he’d dropped his bow when something moved behind one of the boulders up the slope near where he’d stood to shoot. Unarmed except for his knife, he crouched, watching to see if his attacker would show himself. After a moment the hint of movement came again and another snowball narrowly missed his head.