Follow A Song
This is the oldest story in the book, written while I was a student at Harding University in Searcy, Arkansas. It won (or at least placed in—I can’t quite remember anymore) the annual creative writing contest. I was nineteen. Be kind.
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TELAR, PERCHED ON THE BOTTOM BRANCH of the dead tree, stared sheepishly down at his father, who glared up at him. “Telar,” said Annuin with some heat, “I am a blacksmith, but I cannot make a living as one when I must leave my forge cold to search for you. Why are you not at the war-hall practicing your swordplay as you should be?”
Telar climbed down from the tree, but hung his head and said nothing, hearing exasperation in Annuin’s voice as he continued, “It has been three months since the First Rite, boy. What’s wrong with you? For
