The Path of the Sword (38 page)

As a child, he had often climbed to the top of his tree, as high as he would dare and he would gaze through the holes in the greenery for hours on end, playing out endless dramas in his mind. Some were naive musings on how stars were born: created by a seamstress's ever busy needle, or spun from the endless depths by God Himself, to provide light in the corridors of His grand palace. He even scared himself once thinking that the sun, having crashed into the earth far to the west, had shattered and all that was left were the broken remnants strewn across the sky. He had not slept that night, not until he saw the sun rise intact, along its natural course in the east. Sometimes he had made stories not from individual stars but from entire constellations: the Virgin ran from the Hunter, frightened by his drawn sword (unaware at that age, that his story could be interpreted in a second, more scandalous way); or one night, he had imagined the Priest sacrificing the Lion on the Altar.

As the cart rumbled along the uneven mud road, he let his mind drift, let his thoughts turn to the more pleasant memories of a simpler time.

* * *

“Jurel, are you awake?” Kurin's voice reached down, sweeping open the curtains of his sleep and his eyes popped open, blinked in the brilliant sun of morning.

“I am now,” Jurel answered.

“Ah good, good. Glad to hear it.”

Jurel sat up, rubbing the grit of sleep from his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. It was with
disappointment that he noted this road looked much as it had on the other side of Tack Town. On the south, the same forest, dark and forbidding followed along the edge of the road, and on the north, more farmland, with the odd farmhouse or barn dotting the white landscape here and there. Looking back the way they had come, he tried to see Tack Town, but they had been on the road for at least four, or maybe five hours, by the position of the sun, and there was no town to be seen. Not even a stream of smoke, rising from a chimney was visible. Looking over the bench that Kurin sat on, Jurel was disappointed again. There was nothing ahead except more farmland, and more forest.

What fun.

“So how far is it to Merris, anyway?” Jurel asked. He had heard Kurin tell the guard that he wanted to arrive by the next spring but that just seemed ridiculous, probably no more than annoyed sarcasm.

“Oh, five days or so,” Kurin replied.

Five days. They would be out here in this miserable cold for five days and the old man told him with the same tone as one informing another of the evening's menu.
“What's for dinner?”
one would ask to which the other might reply,
“Oh, beef stew and bread.”
Jurel hated the cold.

“Cheer up, Jurel,” Kurin said, as though reading his thoughts. “It's not so bad. The sun is out, there's plenty of shelter and we can always set a fire for warmth.”

“I don't suppose we could light a fire back here, could we?”

Kurin laughed, shook his head. “No, that probably would not be a good idea. How about breakfast, instead?”

Now
that
was a good idea. Jurel sat up straighter, his belly answering the old man for him, grumbling impatiently, and once again Kurin laughed.

“Breakfast it is. Why don't you rummage around back there and find the leather bag I packed under my seat. You should find something in there.”

He did not need to be asked twice. After finding the indicated bag, he rifled through the contents, dismayed at the realization that this would be a cold breakfast eaten on the go, but quite content at the prospect of eating at all. Some hard tack, apples and cheese were what he came up with and Kurin nodded his approval.

“That will do, and pull out the brandy, will you?” the old man said, biting off a sizable chunk of the yellow cheese, grimacing slightly. “Told that trader I wanted a mild cheese,” he grumbled, “Not something that would bite me back.”

It was good enough for Jurel who ate his share in mouthfuls to make a bear proud.

They ate their breakfast, and drank some brandy (which had the added bonus of staving off the chill) and chatted amiably about nothing in general, passing away the time and the miles with jokes and stories.

“...and then I told him I bet he was Valik's field,” Jurel laughed recounting that long forgotten story from his sixteenth birthday. Kurin threw back his head and howled in delight, wiping a tear from his eye.

“You did not.”

“I did so. I was so bloody drunk that I barely even remember it. I do remember the looks they gave me though. Oh boy, did they stare daggers at me.”

“That's priceless. Did you get away with it?”

Jurel thought back to the nasty surprise he and Daved had found in his bed later that night and shook his head while a sheepish smirk crept onto his features.

“Not quite. He managed to get the last laugh on that one,” Jurel said.

The memory was a cherished one by then, something from his childhood that he could look back on, just a foolish prank that had become no more than a way to waste some time with a friend, a way to share a laugh.

“When dad and I got home, we noticed that someone had broken in and tramped about. Footsteps led up to our loft and right to my bed. Would you believe that the big shit left a little shit dead in the center of my clean sheets?”

That sent Kurin into more gales of laughter and Jurel was glad to join in.

“By the gods man! No wonder I felt such animosity between you two when I visited. You hated each other so much then?”

Jurel sighed, his mood curdling a bit. “We did. He thought I was a simpering coward and I thought he was a childish bully.”

“There must be some part of you that is glad to have left that behind.”

“Maybe. But I've lost more than I've gained.”

“How so?” Kurin turned back and gazed inquisitively at Jurel, letting his roan pick its way along the road. It was a well trained animal and would not stray.

“Galbin's dead. He was like an uncle to me. Have I mentioned that to you before? It seems I must have. And father...” he broke off, that familiar lump rising in his throat.

“I understand, my boy. Think on this: Your father loves you dearly. There is a bond between you that no amount of distance or length of time can break. You will see him again one day, of that I am certain, and when you do, it will be as though all the time in between is washed away.”

Jurel nodded his understanding, not trusting himself yet to speak.

“Let us put that behind us now shall we?” Kurin asked. “The future calls and we must lay the past to rest for now.”

They rode, letting the warmth of the sun banish the chill in the air, silently taking in the vista of the road. The leafless trees of the massive forest to their right were as guards, standing at attention as they passed, watching their progress silently, stoically, an army of gnarled veterans awaiting commands. Every now and then, the crack of an overburdened branch reached them, sharp and brittle in the winter stillness, and the barely heard
shuff-shuff
, of foxes on the hunt or of rabbits foraging, whispered that life went on, no matter how cold the days were.

Jurel was lulled by the serenity, the beauty of it all. What had bored him so short a time ago, now called to him, tantalized him with secrets to be uncovered, wonders to be seen, if he only had the courage and the resourcefulness to seek them out. He rested his head on his hands and watched the world unfold around him, understanding at least a little what it was that lured Kurin to a life of travel.

Kurin, for his part, watched the road too, but every now and again, let his eyes slide down to the young man who stared at the forest with quiet wonder.

“You see it, don't you?” he asked Jurel.

Raising his eyes, as if waking from a dream, Jurel gazed at the old man.

“See what?”

“The world. Life.” Kurin waved his hand, a wide sweep that took in all around them. “ It's not just trees you're staring at.”

“No, it's not just trees. I don't really know how to explain it.”

“How can you? You're just beginning to grasp it. Give yourself time. It will come if you leave yourself open to it.”

Jurel turned his eyes back to the forest, endeavoring to do as the old man suggested, and allowed himself to take in the world. He opened himself.

He did not know how, he just opened. His senses...let
go
.

It was like a dirty window had been opened and he gazed upon the world with different eyes, eyes that were somehow cleaner, purer. He gaped, staring at trees as if seeing them for the first time. The trees were moving, swaying slightly though there was barely a breeze, each branch waved, reached to the sky, grasping at the sun that was ever just out of reach. In the depths he saw deer as though they stood no more than ten paces away. A flash of red, just a flicker, a hundred yards past the tree line drew his eye, and he saw a fox dappled in shadow, dart out of sight liquid quick, going wherever it was that foxes go. He smelled wet earth, and frozen wood, the musty aroma of leaves rotting on the ground, and the musky scent of the wolf that spied on them, peering from its hiding spot in the underbrush, noting their passage. He saw these things and smelled them, but he also
sensed
them as indistinct blurs of light in his mind.

He closed his eyes, tilted his head up to the sky, felt the wolf slip from its spot behind a clump of bushes and pad silently alongside them keeping pace as though to protect lupine borders. He felt a hare, startled by the approach of the lanky predator, raise its head in alarm, ears quivering, listening, before it bolted.

His eyes shot open and he shuddered. The world dimmed again, that dirty window slammed shut. Kurin was staring at him with a mysterious expression. Excitement? He imagined an osprey stared at ripples on a pond in much the same way and it made him nervous.

“What?” he asked, not able to hide his defensiveness, not sure what it was that just happened.

Kurin, schooling his expression to bland indifference, turned away to gaze at the road ahead. “Nothing, nothing,” the old man said and changed the subject. “It's about midday. What say we stop for some lunch? A hot meal would do quite nicely, I think.”

Jurel's belly answered for the second time that day with an anticipatory growl.

“Do you ever speak for yourself?” the old man smirked.

They found a spot, relatively flat, relatively clear, just inside the tree line and they busied themselves with the small chores of the campsite. Jurel ranged out, collecting wood that was not too wet, digging under piles of scrub and felled trunks, while Kurin searched the packs in the cart for bacon and eggs. After lighting a humble fire with the dried tinder that Kurin produced from another of the sundry sacks, they cooked, then ate, savoring each bite, savoring each others company.

For the remainder of the day, and for a long time, Jurel would wonder exactly what it was he had done.

Chapter 27

Thalor paced his office, waiting. The sun shone through the tall stain-glassed window, illuminating the fresco of his God and laying a wide bar of multi-colored light across his office that reached almost to his door, a carpet fit for Gaorla Himself. Thalor had always liked that window. When someone stood before him, they saw God standing at his shoulder, arms spread benevolently, shining His holy light down on Thalor, and gracing him with His blessing. The effect was dramatic; many visitors, even other high priests, had been cowed by Thalor bathed in God's own glory.

Having returned from the morning mass a short time ago, he was still dressed in his silk robes, white with a scarlet cross running down the front from his neck to the hem at his feet, and across his ribs, with stripes of the same color around each cuff, though he had taken off his miter. That blasted thing always gave him a sore neck; he wondered, for what must have been the thousandth time, if Gaorla would really care whether or not his priests wore the bloody heavy things.

Thoughts of the morning raced through his mind and he worked every angle, trying to find any weakness in his plan. The meeting with those he considered his allies, those that he trusted at least marginally, had given mixed results at best, even with the information provided by his agent. Although they had agreed that something needed to be done about Kurin and the boy, they had balked at Thalor's solution. Brother Vernan had gone so far as to threaten censure if Thalor dared cause a man's blood to be spilled. A good man, Brother Vernan, but far too idealistic in Thalor's mind. After bickering they had reached the agreement that Kurin and his boy needed to be arrested and returned to the Temple of Gaorla where they would be tried for heresy. Same difference, Thalor thought wryly. Death on the road by hired thugs or death on a pyre as heretics was death either way. The others were just squeamish. They did not have Thalor's flair for decisive action.

When he had ordered his agent to send a message to Merris and Tack, he had made sure that his orders were clear: find trustworthy men who would stick to the story that the deaths were unintentional, caused when they fought too hard for escape. He would reprimand the men publicly to satisfy his fellow brothers, but he would ensure their rewards were great. His secret would be safe.

A knock, soft but confident echoed from his door and he jumped, excitement welling up. Hastily, he darted to his tall chair and sat, carefully arranging himself and schooling his features before calling for the newcomer to enter.

When the door opened, Thalor stifled a sigh, trying to hide his dismay when he saw it was not the agent he had been expecting but instead Calen, a fellow high priest on the council and his bitterest rival, wearing a smile that curdled Thalor's insides. He did not like the way Calen's fat worms for lips curled up smugly. Whenever Calen had that expression, it meant that Thalor had to keep an eye on his back lest a dagger hilt suddenly sprout from between his shoulder blades.

Calen entered the office, shut the door quietly behind him and settled his ponderous bulk in the plain wooden chair facing Thalor.

“You are so formally dressed, brother Thalor,” Calen said in his strangely fluid, effeminate voice. “Morning service has been over for nearly three hours. One wonders what is so important that you have not taken the time to get more comfortable.”