Glimpses (11 page)

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.

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.”

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.