Glimpses: A Collection of Nightrunner Short Stories

by Lynn Flewelling

  “Come now, I know you’re there. That raspberry patch won’t make much of a bower for you when the dew falls.” After a long moment, the fellow let out an exasperated sigh. “No? Well, I won’t force you out, but I don’t fancy sleeping with you lurking there like that, so we’re both in for a weary night.”

  Seregil lay still, mouth watering, as the dew settled through his scant clothing, chilling him from the back as the damp ground chilled him from the front. The sausages sizzled on their stick, redolent of rosemary, mutton, and garlic. He hadn’t smelled anything so good since the market stalls at Cirna. By the Light, how long ago? Two years? Three? The aroma reminded him suddenly of Nysander, too. His old master had always had good sausage like that at breakfast, and toasted cheese. And soft white bread with honey and jam.

  He ached with hunger now, and something else, too. Something that made his throat tighten and his eyes sting.

  It was almost certainly a trick, he thought, blinking away the smoke that had blurred his vision for a moment. He flexed the fingers that had gone stiff around the rock. This was no bandit. This man knew how to wait, how to bait his prey. That was warning enough.

  All the same, he could just as easily have come after him. The man knew where he was, and assumed he was dealing with a defenseless girl. Why all the calling and courting?

  Seregil wrestled with his doubts a little longer, but the smell of hot food weighted the argument against caution. At last he called out, “What do you want with me?”

  His voice came out hoarse as a rook’s; he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

  “Nothing,” the man replied, lifting the meat and cheese from the fire and examining them closely. “This is about ready.”

  Still not looking in Seregil’s direction, he reached into his bundle again and threw something into the steaming pot. A moment later Seregil smelled the sharp, rich tang of tea. Real tea from Zengat by the smell, not the stinking mess of boiled leaves and roots they brewed up here in the wilderness.

  “I’ve an extra mug here somewhere, girl. You’re welcome to it.”

  That decided it. Either this was a civilized fellow, or he knew enough to steal from such. Seregil stood up slowly, braced to run if the man proved treacherous after all. “I’m not a girl,” he croaked.

  The man looked over at him and his moustache twitched in what might have been a grin. “So you’re not. My apologies, lad. You ran off so fast I didn’t have time to make a proper study of you. You won’t be needing that, though you’re welcome to hang onto it if it makes you feel any safer.”

  Seregil glanced down and saw that he was still clutching the rock. No doubt he looked ridiculous to the big swordsman, but he kept it anyway.

  “Come on if you’re hungry,” the man urged. “I’m not getting up to serve you.”

  Seregil pulled himself free of the thorny canes and limped to the fire, giving the stranger a wide berth and keeping the fire between them. The man stayed where he was, but leaned over to hand Seregil the toasting stick.

  He took it, and watched warily as the man found a cup and tossed it over to him. He caught it easily and set it down beside him.

  “Welcome. My name’s Micum,” his host said, resting his large hands on his knees where Seregil could see them, clearly a calculated move to show he meant no harm. Seregil ignored the expectant pause that followed. He gave his name to no Tír.

  “I don’t have a knife,” he said at last. In fact, it was all he could do not to gnaw the meat and cheese straight off the toasting stick, but that would have been common, and poor thanks for the hospitality offered.

  The stranger drew the knife from his belt and held it out, handle foremost.

  Seregil tensed again. If he reached for it, distracted with food and one hand busy with the stick, it would be a simple matter for the other man to grab for his wrist.

  He’d hardly finished the thought when Micum placed the knife on the ground between them and sat back. “You’re a cautious one, aren’t you? Though from the looks of you, maybe you have good cause to be.”

  It was nearly dark now, but the firelight shone full on his face and for the first time Seregil was able to look him in the eye at close range. Light eyes, he had, bright at the moment with friendly amusement. Seregil snatched up the knife and cut the purse string from his wrist, then carved himself a portion.

  “You’ll want this, too.” Micum tossed a chunk of stale brown bread neatly over the fire and into Seregil’s lap.

  Seregil took a second look at him, guessing that this move had been a sign, too. This man knew how to fight and wanted him to know it; the scabbard hanging overhead was scarred with use and he had a few scars on the backs of his hands. He was big, nearly a head taller than Seregil, and well muscled, but he moved with a natural, fluid grace. Fine swordsman that Seregil was when he had a sword, he already suspected that this Micum fellow was someone he’d rather fight beside than against. He’d made no move to harm Seregil yet, either, but the evening was still young.

  ***

  “I’ll have the knife back, if you’re done with it,” Micum said, watching the stranger closely without making a show of it. He was beginning to regret his kindly impulse.

  Not only was this no lost girl, as he’d first supposed when he’d glimpsing the huddled figure from the road; this ragged, wild-haired fellow wasn’t as young as he’d first guessed, either. No, he was ‘faie—true pure Aurënfaie, too, judging by his build, his high-tone manner of speech, and the southern cut of his rags. What a ‘faie was doing here on the banks of the Keela River, only Illior knew. No gear. No horse. No food. Thin and dirty as a young tom in spring, and just as battered. Someone had given him a proper drubbing recently, and perhaps he’d deserved it. There was a toughness about him that balanced that fine, pretty face, and a hard glint in those cold grey eyes that Micum didn’t like one bit; it was the look of a kicked dog that was ready to bite. He hadn’t given his name like an honest man, either.

  And, Micum noted with no particular alarm, he still had the knife. He held out his hand for it, and the bottom nearly dropped out of his belly as the stranger handily flipped it up in the air, caught it by the blade, and shied it at him.

  Either the man’s aim was very good or a little bad, for the blade thudded to earth a few inches from Micum’s left knee, the quivering blade sunk a good three inches in the ground. Judging by the fellow’s smirk, this was a message to him, and Micum added arrogance to the rapidly growing list of reasons why he didn’t like this nameless stray.

  All the same, he had given the knife back. Micum pulled it free and wiped the blade clean on his trouser leg before cutting his own portion. “You’re an Aurënfaie, aren’t you?” he asked, to see if he could take him down a peg. “Up from Skala, I’d say, by your accent and those rags. You’re a long way from home.”

  This earned him a startled look. His guest didn’t look quite so smug now. “I am. I don’t recognize your accent.”

  “I don’t suppose you would,” Micum replied, fighting back a grin. “I’m from a little town in the free holdings beyond the Folcwine. Cavish, it’s called.”

  “Never heard of it. Is that in Mycena?”

  “North and east beyond it. I’ve been working the Gold Road as a guard for the caravaneers. I liked what I’ve heard of the southern lands, and I liked the men I worked for. The caravaneers were full of tales of Skala and her fine cities, so when we got to Nanta, I decided to keep on going and have a look for myself.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Suddenly the stranger surprised him again, this time with a smile . “So you’re a long way from home, too.”

  Micum blinked. It was as if a completely different person was looking at him from under all the dirt and tangled hair. The hard, guarded look had slipped like a mask, showing Micum someone almost as young as he’d first supposed. He was shivering, too, Micum saw; the hand holding the bread was shaking so badly that the cheese was sliding off.r />
  Micum untied his cloak and gave it to him, still careful not to move too suddenly and startle him. “You’d best wrap up.”

  “Thank you.” The stranger accepted it with a rather chagrinned look.

  Balancing his supper on one knee, he bundled himself up to the chin as if it was winter, rather than a warm autumn night. With his rags covered, he had a more refined look about him, even with the dirty face. Micum hadn’t had a lot of contact with folk of quality, but he knew one when he met one and this boy was gentle born, whatever his circumstances might be now. He chewed his food slowly, rather than wolfing it, then dipped his cup in the pot and held it to his nose, eyes half closed as he inhaled the fragrant steam.

  “It’s been a long while since I’ve had this,” he murmured.

  “Got a taste for it from those Skalans,” Micum told him, studying his guest with growing interest. “I’d rather have good ale, myself, but this carries easier and refreshes the spirits.”

  The stranger saluted him with the cup, poured out a few drops on the ground for whatever gods he owned, and then sipped delicately at the brew. Micum filled his own cup and they sat in silence for awhile as the stars came out overhead.

  ***

  As the tea spread its comforting warmth through him, Seregil let out a contented sigh. Micum’s cloak was warm and smelled good. The man had given freely of his food and offered him no violence. As the comfortable silence stretched out between them, he allowed himself a second look at his companion. Micum wasn’t handsome, certainly, but he had a good smile and a steady, easy manner that put Seregil at his ease. It was tempting, so very tempting, to like him.

  More fool, you, the inner voice taunted.

  Ignoring it, he arched a wry eyebrow at Micum. “So you don’t mean to rob or rape me, after all?”

  “Is that what you thought?” Micum asked, insulted. “And rob you of what, pray tell?”

  “I’m sorry,” Seregil said hastily. “I ask your pardon. I haven’t had much cause to trust anyone for a long while. But tell me, why did you come up here after me?”

  The man looked as if he’d asked why the sky was blue. “I saw you from the road. You looked like someone who needed help.”

  “A girl who needed help,” Seregil reminded him.

  Micum shrugged. “It makes no difference.”

  Seregil looked into that earnest face and felt his resolve slipping again. Stop it! He’s a Tír. Nothing but a Tír ...

  “You don’t believe me?” Micum bristled again.

  “Oh, I do,” Seregil assured him, looking down into the fire to avoid that earnest gaze. “I do.”

  “Then I don’t suppose I might know who I’m talking to?”

  Fool! the voice shrieked as Seregil leaned over and offered his hand to the man. “Forgive my rudeness. I’m…” He faltered as Micum’s big, rough hand closed around his. The man’s grip was warm, firm, reassuring, and came in the company of a ready smile. Seregil had to swallow hard before he could finish. “I’m Rolan. Rolan Silverleaf.”

  The Bond

  Watermead

  Something brushed Alec’s hand and he opened one eye, expecting to see Illia or one of the dogs.

  Nysander was standing beside the bed.

  “Go after him,” Nysander whispered, his voice faint as if it came from a great distance.

  Alec lurched up, his heart pounding. Nysander had disappeared, if he’d ever been there at all.

  Worse yet, Seregil was gone. Alec slid his hand over the sheets where Seregil had slept. They were cold.

  Whether dream or vision, the urgency of Nysander’s warning grew stronger by the second.

  Scrambling out of bed, Alec hauled on breeches and a shirt and headed for the door. His bare foot struck something as he crossed the threshold. It was a thick roll of parchments bound with plain string.

  Untying it, he quickly scanned the familiar flowing script covering the first page.

  “Alec talí, remember me kindly and try—”

  “Damn!” Pages scattered in all directions as Alec ran for the stables.

  Too much to hope that Seregil had gone on foot; Cynril was missing from her stall. Mounted bareback on Patch, Alec searched for and quickly found Cynril’s tracks, the distinctive print of the slightly splayed right hind hoof plain in the dust of the road outside the courtyard gate.

  Kicking Patch into a gallop, he rode down the hill and across the bridge, reining in where the two roads met to see which way Seregil had gone.

  But there was no sign of Cynril here. Cursing softly to himself, Alec dismounted for a closer search, then walked back onto the bridge and scanned the hillside, looking for telltale lines across the dewy meadow. Nothing there either, or on the hill trail. He was about to ride back for Micum when a patch of freshly turned gravel on the stream bank above the bridge caught his eye.

  You went up the streambed, you sneaky bastard! Alec thought with grudging admiration. The bridge was too low to ride under and there were no other signs downstream. Upstream lay Beka’s otter pond, and the ill-fated pass that Alec had crossed to Warnik’s valley.

  And beyond that, the whole damn world.

  Mounting again, Alec rode up the trail. The streambed grew steeper and he soon found where Seregil had been forced to come up onto the trail. Judging by the tracks, he’d traveled quickly from here.

  Heedless of the branches that whipped at his face and shoulders, Alec kicked Patch into a gallop again. When the clearing around the pond came into view ahead, he was both relieved and surprised to see Seregil there, sitting motionless in the saddle as if admiring the morning.

  Alec’s first reaction to Seregil’s letter had been only the desperate desire to find him. He realized now that there had also been a generous leaven of anger mixed in. When Seregil raised his head now, looking back at him with an expression of startled wariness, the anger took over. It was the look you’d give an enemy.

  Or a stranger.

  “Wait—” Seregil called, but Alec ignored him. Digging his heels into Patch’s sides, he charged Seregil, bearing down on him before he could turn his own horse out of the way. The animals collided and Cynril reared, throwing Seregil off into the water. Alec leapt down and waded in after him. Grabbing Seregil by the front of his tunic, he hauled him to his knees and shook the crumpled note in his face.

  “What’s this supposed to be?” he yelled. “‘All I have in Rhíminee is yours now’? What is this?”

  Seregil struggled to his feet and pulled free, not meeting Alec’s eye. “After everything that’s happened—” He paused, took a deep breath. “After all that, I decided it would be better for everyone if I just went away.”

  “You decided. You decided?” Furious, Alec grabbed Seregil with both hands and shook him. The wrinkled parchment drifted across the pool, hung a moment against a stone, and spun away unnoticed down the stream. “I followed you over half the earth to Rhíminee for no other reason than you asked me to! I saved your damn life twice before we even got there and how many times since? I stood with you against Mardus and all the rest. But now, after moping around all summer, you decide you’re better off without me?”

  Color flared in Seregil’s gaunt face. “I never meant for you to take it that way. Bilairy’s Balls, Alec, you saw what happened at the Cockerel. That was my fault. Mine! And it was only thanks to Ashnazai’s twisted vanity that you didn’t end up dead with them. Micum’s crippled for life, in case you didn’t notice, lucky to be alive. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve almost gotten him killed before? And Nysander—Let’s not forget what I did for him!”

  “Nysander sent me!”

  Seregil went ashen. “What?”

  “Nysander sent me after you,” Alec told him. “I don’t know if it was a dream or a ghost or what, but he woke me and told me to go after you. Illior’s Hands, Seregil, when are you going to forgive yourself for just doing what he asked you to?”

  He paused as another thought dawned on him. “When are you going
to forgive Nysander?”

  Seregil glared at him wordlessly, then pushed Alec’s hands away. Sloshing up to the bank, he sank down on a log overlooking the pond. Alec followed, settling on a rock beside him.

  Seregil hung his head and let out an unsteady breath. After a moment he said, “He knew. He should have told me.”

  “You would have tried to stop him.”

  “Damn right I would have!” Seregil flared, clenching his fists on his knees. Angry tears spilled down his cheeks, the first Alec had ever seen him shed.

  “If you’d done that, we’d have failed,” Alec said, moving to sit beside him on the log. “Everything Nysander worked for would’ve been lost. The Helm would have taken him over and he’d have ended up as their Vatharna.”

  For an instant Alec thought he felt the wizard’s touch against his hand again. “I think he must be grateful to you.”

  Seregil covered his face, giving way at last to silent sobs. Alec wrapped an arm around him, holding him tightly. “You were the only one who loved him enough not to hesitate when the time came. He knew that. In the end you saved him the only way you could. Why can’t you let yourself see that?”

  “All these weeks—” Seregil shrugged helplessly. “You’re right, right about everything. But why can’t I feel it? I can’t feel anything anymore! I’m floundering around in a black fog. I look at the rest of you, see you healing, going on. I want to, but I can’t!”

  “Just like I couldn’t make myself jump that time at Kassarie’s keep?”

  Seregil let out a small, choked laugh. “I guess so.”

  “So let me help you, the way you helped me then,” Alec persisted.

  Seregil wiped his nose on his sodden sleeve. “As I recall, I threw you off the roof into a gorge.”

  “Fine, if that’s what it takes to show you that I’m not about to let you slink away like some old dog going off to die.”