slowly, having inherited at least the potential for the long life span rumored of them. Some said they lived a full handful of centuries, others said they were near immortal. If the gangs were not so interested in themselves, they might have noticed that he stayed young, far younger than they, as they grew older. Stockier and shorter, too, than the high elves, he had spent most of his life successfully hiding from the scorn held for Vaelinars or half bloods among the true blood of Kerith. No one had a use for a half blood. Vaelinars, because the Talent for strange powers and magic rarely passed through, tainting their heritage, and the others because of their hatred for the invaders and sometime slavers. Never mind that the Vaelinars had brought new ways of doing things that were beneficial to all. They had also brought Godlike powers, and hatred, and war. Better to be dead than to be thought elven. Or, as the Kernan proverb went, “Better Death should knock on your door than a Vaelinar.”
He found a place for himself as he finally grew into a young man’s stature at the traders’ stables whenever the caravans coming in had fork-horns pulling the carts. The immense bovines had their racks sawn off and capped, but that made them uneasy and difficult to handle. They could no longer defend themselves as they’d grown used to, and in an animal way, that drove them berserk from time to time. Though devoid of horns, their weight and hooves could be extremely dangerous and their ill temper kept the stable boys far from them, afraid of being crushed or trampled. He could move among them, talking, petting, soothing them into settling down to be groomed and harnessed, or unharnessed and corralled. It proved a steady and legitimate way of earning coin. Along the way, as he occasionally saved up to visit a tavern, he found his ability to soothe could keep him out of other troubles as well, avoiding recalcitrant drunks and bullies. Occasionally, though, when the seasons changed, fork-horns would be replaced on the trails by mules, and he would lose his income for a while, relegated to scrounging from the alleys to stretch out his meager savings. He thought to train his weapon skills, to be hired as a caravan guard when he was grown enough. Traders hired small, private armies of guards and kept them well.
It was on such a raw and hungry day between seasons and work that Gilgarran fell on him from an upper story window. Knocked to the ground, Sevryn lay flat under the man and only knew that trouble had hit him hard. He twisted out from under, immediately falling into his soothing voice to scramble away before his attacker’s attackers fell on them both in pursuit. The gentleman wore fine clothes, and a mask, and good weapons, and everything spelled awful trouble.
“I’m no one to bother with. I’m just going to walk away and everything will be fine,” he started, as he clambered to his feet, spreading his hands wide in supplication.
“Velk,” spat the man. He rolled, knocking Sevryn’s feet out from under him, and pounced, kneeing him and grabbing him by the ear. “Who are you to use a Voice on me?”
“N-nobody,” Sevryn stammered as he panted for air. The knee on his chest kept him pinned, and then the gentleman pulled at him.
“Get up. Which way out, before we’re chased.”
His ear pinched painfully between fingers that felt as hard as steel, Sevryn carefully got to his feet and jabbed with his thumb.
“On, then, and don’t think you can outrun me. Quickly!”
The grip on his ear released. Sevryn broke for freedom as if a pot of boiling oil had been tossed at him, and the master ran after, effortlessly, right on his heels. He dodged throughout the town, keeping to the shadows, desperate but not so heedless as to give his secrets away to anyone. Anyone that is, but the man trailing him. They crossed into the derelict section, on the town’s far edge, where not even the desperate lived. Sevryn took him to his
He found a place for himself as he finally grew into a young man’s stature at the traders’ stables whenever the caravans coming in had fork-horns pulling the carts. The immense bovines had their racks sawn off and capped, but that made them uneasy and difficult to handle. They could no longer defend themselves as they’d grown used to, and in an animal way, that drove them berserk from time to time. Though devoid of horns, their weight and hooves could be extremely dangerous and their ill temper kept the stable boys far from them, afraid of being crushed or trampled. He could move among them, talking, petting, soothing them into settling down to be groomed and harnessed, or unharnessed and corralled. It proved a steady and legitimate way of earning coin. Along the way, as he occasionally saved up to visit a tavern, he found his ability to soothe could keep him out of other troubles as well, avoiding recalcitrant drunks and bullies. Occasionally, though, when the seasons changed, fork-horns would be replaced on the trails by mules, and he would lose his income for a while, relegated to scrounging from the alleys to stretch out his meager savings. He thought to train his weapon skills, to be hired as a caravan guard when he was grown enough. Traders hired small, private armies of guards and kept them well.
It was on such a raw and hungry day between seasons and work that Gilgarran fell on him from an upper story window. Knocked to the ground, Sevryn lay flat under the man and only knew that trouble had hit him hard. He twisted out from under, immediately falling into his soothing voice to scramble away before his attacker’s attackers fell on them both in pursuit. The gentleman wore fine clothes, and a mask, and good weapons, and everything spelled awful trouble.
“I’m no one to bother with. I’m just going to walk away and everything will be fine,” he started, as he clambered to his feet, spreading his hands wide in supplication.
“Velk,” spat the man. He rolled, knocking Sevryn’s feet out from under him, and pounced, kneeing him and grabbing him by the ear. “Who are you to use a Voice on me?”
“N-nobody,” Sevryn stammered as he panted for air. The knee on his chest kept him pinned, and then the gentleman pulled at him.
“Get up. Which way out, before we’re chased.”
His ear pinched painfully between fingers that felt as hard as steel, Sevryn carefully got to his feet and jabbed with his thumb.
“On, then, and don’t think you can outrun me. Quickly!”
The grip on his ear released. Sevryn broke for freedom as if a pot of boiling oil had been tossed at him, and the master ran after, effortlessly, right on his heels. He dodged throughout the town, keeping to the shadows, desperate but not so heedless as to give his secrets away to anyone. Anyone that is, but the man trailing him. They crossed into the derelict section, on the town’s far edge, where not even the desperate lived. Sevryn took him to his
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