by Remi Michaud
“Well, yes he was. But not long after they left, a messenger arrived from Merris with news.” A long silence follows Kurin's words, until Kurin spoke again. “Do you mind then, standing aside? I need to be on my way if I wish to reach Merris Town before next spring.”
No answer. Nothing. Jurel shut his eyes tightly, trying to banish all the images that came unbidden to his mind. He saw himself dragged to the guard house, tossed in a dank dirty cell crawling with rats and left for dead. He saw himself hauled to a gallows, noose prepared and sized just right to fit his neck. He saw himself, ears ringing, enraged, attacking everyone around him...no. Not that. He would not think of that.
“So what did your nephew write to cause you to go sneaking off in the night?” the guardsman finally asked, and his voice rang with so much doubt that Jurel trembled.
“Well,” Kurin stammered, “that his wife is ill. That he does not think it safe for her to travel. So he has begged me to come to them and do what I can for her. That's what I do, you know. I'm a healer. I heal.”
“Oh, is that what you do? Thank you for that enlightenment.” Jurel could almost see the sarcastic smirk that creased the guard's face.
“Do not get snippy with me, young man. I have healed more people in my life than you have seen in yours. Now unless there is something I can do for you, please stand aside and leave me be. Or perhaps I should have a word with Commander Javon next time he drops in for a visit. I imagine he might not be happy to hear that his men are waylaying innocent folk on errands of mercy,” Kurin snapped and Jurel held his breath.
Make or break.
“I apologize, Master Kurin. I was simply ensuring the safety of the town and its folk.”
“By stalling me?” Kurin growled. “What am I going to do? Heal everyone to death?”
Oh god, I'm a dead man. The blanket that had so recently offered an extra level of welcome warmth stifled him. Trickles of sweat worked their way down his temples and he thought he would suffocate for there just did not seem to be a single breath of air under the blanket all of a sudden. It took every shred of willpower he had to resist the temptation of throwing off his blanket and breath deep, refreshing breaths.
“I—I'm sorry sir.”
“Well, I suppose you should be commended for your thoroughness,” Kurin said as though he was forcing graciousness. “I'll let it pass this time. But please remember, man, that these are public streets and not everyone is a thief in the night.” With those words, Jurel felt the cart shudder and jolt into motion once again.
No thieves, but there are plenty of murderers out this night, Jurel thought.
“Yes, sir,” the guard called as they passed him and, peeking out from a crease in the blanket, Jurel saw the guard standing stock still and ramrod straight looking for all the world like it had been his commander after all who had given him a dressing down.
Jurel let himself sag, the tension oozing from his muscles, replaced by a dull ache as he wilted further into the packs and boxes in the cart. Something dug into his hip and he shifted to get it free.
“Be still,” Kurin muttered. “We're not out of the woods yet.”
The cart trundled on, picking up some speed, and it jostled and jolted, sending tremors sizzling through Jurel. He braced himself as best he could, staring at the blanket above his eyes, trying not to think about their near ruinous run in with the town guardsman, seething that Kurin had almost undone them so early in the game.
After an endless time, Kurin slowed the cart, and called cheerily over his shoulder to Jurel.
“Come on out, Jurel. You'll miss all the scenery under that thing.”
Throwing off the blanket, Jurel sat up, felt his sweat turn to little pebbles of ice on his brow and glared at the old man.
“Well, thanks to you, the only scenery I almost saw was a cell,” he grumbled.
“What, you mean that fool guard? Posh! He was never a problem,” Kurin laughed. “I know him. He's a good enough man but there's a reason his commander put him on the night shift. He's not got enough brains to tell the difference between a mule and his ass. He's on the night shift so that less folk will be bothered by him.”
Jurel decided to let it go. No harm done after all, he conceded.
Looking around, he tried to see where they were, but the moon had set, leaving a blanket of impenetrable darkness that the scattering of stars overhead, a million pinprick holes in night's satin fabric, did nothing to lessen. Until dawn broke, Jurel thought the scenery that Kurin had urged him to view would be awfully boring.
“So where are we going anyway?” Jurel asked. The question popped from his lips, surprising him. He had not thought to ask again if the old man had decided on a destination. The answer was obvious.
“Oh I don't know, I don't know,” Kurin said. “Wherever the wind takes us, I suppose. We'll probably stop in Merris Town for a day or two to rest and resupply before setting out again. Why? Did you have any specific place to be?”
“No, I suppose not. I was just curious, that's all.” He was not sure he liked the idea of constant travel, of just roaming around aimlessly for the rest of his life. With nothing to say and nothing to see, he leaned back and gazed at the stars as he had so many times in his life, losing himself in the silent majesty above.
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.