Far-Seer Read Online Free PDF Page A

of his dayslab creaked in relief. “And you, Yenalb, who have seen the boy occasionally at service, have spoken to him once or twice, you feel you know what’s good for him better than I, who has been his master for half a kiloday now. Is that it?”
    “Well…”
    “And now you have the fangs to come in here and set me straight?”
    “Saleed, I have only the boy’s welfare at heart.”
    “And I do not? That’s your contention, isn’t it?”
    “Well, you’re not known for being the gentlest soul…”
    Saleed slapped his tail against the floor. “I am training the boy’s mind. I am teaching him to think.”
    “Of course, of course. I meant no slight.”
    Saleed lifted his tail from the floor and bobbed his torso once, a slow, deliberate gesture, a clear signal that he felt Yenalb had crossed into territory Saleed considered his own.
    Yenalb backed away. “My apologies, astrologer. I meant to suggest that you might perhaps see fit to let Afsan voyage with Keenir.”
    Saleed was not mollified. “Yenalb, perhaps you should place a little more faith in me. Ask Keenir .” He drummed his now unsheathed claws against his thigh. “He will tell you that I have already arranged for young Afsan’s passage aboard the Dashetar .”
    Yenalb’s nictitating membranes fluttered over his eyes. “You have?”
    “I have.”
    “Saleed, I — I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
    “Your business here is concluded?”
    “Yes, but…”
    “Then perhaps you will do me the honor of withdrawing from my area.”
    Swishing his tail in wonderment, Yenalb did just that.

*4*
    The hunt! Afsan excitedly slapped his tail against the floor of the Hall of Worship. All young Quintaglios looked forward to joining in a pack, setting out in the ritual quest for food.
    And yet, there was trepidation, too, for the hunt was difficult and dangerous. But if Afsan were to take his pilgrimage soon, then he must make arrangements to join a pack right away.
    Most of the apprentices at the palace were older than Afsan — he was, after all, a relatively new arrival in Capital City — and all but a few bore the tattoo of their successful first kill. Afsan’s hand went to the left side of his head, above the earhole, the spot where the tattoo would go. Who else did he know who did not have the tattoo? Dybo.
    Of course. Dybo, shorter by three finger-widths than Afsan himself. Dybo, who had such a flair for music and poetry, but who had often enlisted Afsan’s aid in his studies of mathematics and science. Dybo, whose penchant for mischief had gotten Afsan in trouble on many occasions, although, of course, Dybo himself always emerged unscathed. Dybo, the crown prince.
    Surely Dybo could be talked into going on a hunt. His blood-red sash of royalty, after all, was a hollow honor in the view of some people, for it had not been earned, but the tattoo of a hunter carried weight everywhere and with everyone. Yes, a prince could get away with not having it, but some would always compare him to the others who never acquired it, the beggars who had to fight with the wingfingers for whatever meat remained on discarded carcasses.
    Most people enjoyed killing their own food now and then, Afsan knew, finding it invigorating and cathartic. Some made careers of hunting — Afsan had heard it said that those who might otherwise be too violent for living peacefully with others were often assigned that vocation. But to forgo the Ritual Hunt, one of the prime rites of passage, was to never know the camaraderie of the pack, and, therefore, to never really be considered a part of society.
    Yes, Dybo would be the answer. His rank could get them both bumped to the top of the waiting list to join a pack. But where to find him? Afsan looked up at the bright white sun, so small as to be not much more than a searing point of light. It moved quickly across the sky — not quite fast enough for its progress to be perceived at a glance, but with enough rapidity that a few tens