by Remi Michaud
Something struck Jurel between the shoulders, knocking him off balance. He spun, angry words forming on his lips. There was no one there. When he looked back at Daved, he frowned: Daved's form was wavering as though Jurel was seeing him through water.
Father?
Daved reached for him, still smiling that gentle smile. He tried to take his father's hand but lurched off balance again as a searing light blinded him. He staggered, gasped, fell backward. Pain exploded in his head. The world tilted sickeningly. He shut his eyes.
And when he opened them, he found himself staring at Andrus across his table. Andrus was trembling, sweating, ashen faced. They regarded each other, neither speaking a word. The only sound was the rasping of unsteady breathing.
Andrus swallowed with an audible click, and muttered, “Well that was interesting.”
Rising, Jurel stalked to his window. He needed to see the sun. He was not sure how else to banish the sudden darkness that threatened to engulf him. All the memories were fresh again, ripped open and bleeding. He took deep breaths to calm his trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut but opened them quickly when Daved's image appeared.
“I am sorry Jurel,” Andrus said quietly.
A tear leaked from Jurel's eye and coursed its way down his cheek. “Why did it happen? Why didn't it do that before?”
Silence.
Jurel turned slowly, woodenly, to face Andrus who gazed back sorrowfully, sympathetically. “Why?”
Adjusting his spectacles, Andrus shrugged. “I'm not entirely certain. Perhaps the suggestion of the dangers inherent in seeking your source put doubt in your mind.”
“Are you saying that telling me about it made it happen?”
Andrus smiled wanly. “Well...I don't know that I would put it quite that way, and there is a little more to it than that, but essentially accurate.” Andrus resumed his teacher's expression. “Now come. We must not let this discourage us. We shall try again.”
Incredulous, Jurel glared at Andrus who went ashen faced.
“Try again? Try again!” He took a threatening step forward. “Why you gods-be-damned callous bastard.”
“Now Jurel, I understand you are upset but-”
“Get out.”
“-you must not let this discourage you.”
“Get. Out.”
“You must be strong and-”
“I said GET. OUT!”
For a moment, Andrus stared at Jurel in the way a disappointed parent looks at a wayward child. Then he picked up his tome and walked primly to the door.
When the door latch closed with a quiet snick, Jurel sank back in his chair and buried his face in his hands. His body shook as the memories continued their assault. Daved was joined by Galbin; the two men had been the best of friends and a constant in Jurel's life for as long as he could remember. They had been the pillars that Jurel had held Jurel's life together. They had been his friends, his mentors, and above all they had been his family.
Within months of each other, both had been taken.
And now Jurel was lost.
He had discovered that he was chosen to be the God of War. He had proven his power at the temple in Threimes just this past spring, though he had been unsuccessful in tapping that power since.
But what did any of that matter without his family? He was adrift, without direction, lost.
He wept.
* * *
The knock at his door roused him from a fitful doze. He raised his head from the cradle of his arms and blinked to clear away the cobwebs. His room was gloomy; the sky outside his window was overcast. Yet even so, he was able to estimate that it was late afternoon and he had been asleep for three or four hours. The memories tried to encroach again but he managed to keep them at bay.
He glanced at the door. “Come in, Gaven.”
Gaven entered and favored Jurel with a bright grin. “How'd you know it was me?”
An ex-Soldier of God, Gaven had found it difficult to fit in at the Abbey for the first month. There had been too many suspicions. His skill with a sword and tactical training, along with his upbringing as the son of a minor noble, made him a natural leader and shrewdly, Mikal had enlisted him under his command as a lieutenant. He had thrown himself at his assigned tasks with an eagerness and honesty that had ultimately won over the men under his command. His aristocratic good looks and confident charisma, on the other hand, had made him quite popular with the ladies. Still attired in his leather cuirass and tight fitting breeches, his blond hair swept wildly back, he cut quite a figure. It was a rare evening indeed that Gaven was not seen in the company of one beautiful young lady or other.
Jurel shrugged. “You knock funny.” Jurel had never thought of it. He always seemed to know who was at his door. He shrugged again uncomfortably.
“Uh-huh,” Gaven grunted, eyeing him askance. “Anyway, listen, I'm done in the yards for the day. Thought I'd pop in and get you out of your cave here.”
Jurel smirked. “No young ladies waiting in line for their turn tonight?”
Gaven laughed. “No, not tonight.” At least he had the good graces to blush.
“So you figured with nothing better to do, you'd settle for wasting some time with me?” His smirk widened. “That's just selfish, Gav.”
“Well if you were prettier, then maybe I would spend more time with you.”
With a laugh and a rueful shake of his head, Jurel rose. “Where to?”
“I dunno. Let's just go where the wind pushes us.”
With nothing better to do, Jurel shrugged and followed Gaven out the door.
The Abbey was a huge place. Not as large as the king's palace in Threimes but certainly larger than the temple, it was a long complex of hallways spread out over several stories. In the southwest wing were the living quarters; hundreds of doors lined the long red stone hallways leading to chambers like Jurel's. The northeast wing was the business end. It was there that audience chambers, shrines, temples, workshops, and the huge library with its endless shelves covered in everything from ancient scrolls to the latest literature could be found. It was also where the Grand Hall was. This majestic hall, adorned with tapestries, frescoes and intricately carved stone trim, was lined end to end with benches. At the head of the hall, the Abbot's chair dominated from its place on a dais. This was where the Salosian council met; this was where the future of the Salosian Order was decided.
Outside, they made their way through arbors and gardens, past stables where workmen and acolytes busily tended to their affairs, through training yards beyond which the squat barracks housed Mikal's forces, and on to a heavy iron door that led through the thick wall that surrounded the Abbey compound.
In the course of his tutoring, Andrus had informed Jurel that at one time centuries past, this had been a border fortress, the last major outpost between Threimes (though at that time it was not yet Threimes, but unclaimed wilderness that held strategic significance) and the great empire of Kashya in the south. It had been abandoned as useless and soon forgotten by the kingdom after a massive earthquake had caused the land just south of the fortress to flood with what was now the Sun Sea.
About a hundred years after the abandonment, Andrus had informed Jurel, a Salosian brother, hiding from the roving bands of the then newly formed ranks of the Soldiers of God, had happened upon this place and had sent out the message to all Salosians. Its remote location and the fact that it had been largely forgotten by the kingdom and the prelacy had made it an ideal place for the Salosians.
Its martial mien remained. The wall towered some forty feet over their heads, and this side door that led out to the small plain beyond was set inside a tunnel some eight or ten feet long.
In the near distance, beyond tall grasses that waved gently in the mild summer breeze, the treeline to a dense forest ringed the grounds like a border.
By unspoken consensus, Jurel and Gaven made their way for the forest. As they walked, they spoke.
“I heard you had some trouble earlier thi
s afternoon with Andrus.”
Jurel snorted. “Yeah. You could say that.” He shook his head as he stepped over a depression almost hidden in the carpet of grass. “He's just...he's so...” At a loss for words, Jurel simply went silent.
“Birdlike? Boring? I've spoken to a few acolytes who are in his regular classes-”
“Female acolytes, no doubt.”
Gaven ran a hand through his hair and grinned boyishly. “Maybe. Anyway, they all agree on two things: One, he's a good man who simply wants to educate; two, he's as interesting as mud.”
“And he's persistent.”
“Okay, three things everyone agrees on then.” They shared a laugh. “So then what happened today? Why did you kick him out of your room?”
So Jurel related the story of his experience during his trance. When he was done Gaven winced.
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Ouch.”
His mood curdled by the memory, Jurel strode into the shade of the first trees silently. Gaven hurried to keep up. He was tall, but not as tall as Jurel; Jurel's natural walk was a long stride that most people could only keep up with by loping.
“So what are you going to do?”
That was the question. That was what Jurel had been mulling over for weeks. What would he do? What could he do? He was supposedly a god but he could not touch his power. He was supposed to be the herald of some great future but he could not let go of the past.
Sensing his friend's mood, Gaven changed the subject and soon they were off meandering along game trails that wound along the forest floor exchanging jokes and gibes until, after nightfall, they returned to the Abbey where Jurel sought his bed.
Though Gaven had been moderately successful in raising Jurel's spirits, Jurel still fell asleep with dark thoughts and darker memories hanging over him like a shroud.
* * *
The sun shone on grasses that glittered with a million dew drops and the whole field seemed like a giant emerald. He stood on that emerald, breathing deeply the scent of wild flowers and he smiled. When he looked up at the sky, a sky so blue, so pristinely, purely blue that it would have made any artist weep with envy and lust, he let his breath out slowly.
He turned, his black armor with the strange gold-gilt swirls making a sound like a footstep in fresh snow, knowing what he would see, surprised that he did not. The field was empty. Where were his men? Where were his armies? Confused, his smile fading, he turned again, and again. But the field was most definitely empty.
What had his father called this place? His place. This was his place. He did not quite know what that meant but he knew it was significant. He thought about that for a while, playing his father's words in his mind over and over again—“Here, I will begin you on your path: It is your place.”—trying to pry loose anything new like someone might pick his teeth after a feast. But there really was not much to work with.
Your place.
Perhaps he should sit, get comfortable, give himself time to think-
“Hello.”
He spun at the sound of her voice, like a burbling brook, like wind in the trees, like birds singing. He saw her where just a moment before he knew there had been no one. When his eyes met hers, he was struck. Struck by the deep aquamarine, like a sea, or was it sky-cerulean? It seemed to depend on which way the light came. Golden hair that seemed to shine independently of the sun hung in waves and those waves moved languidly, languorously, though there was no breeze. Her crimson lips were like the petals of a rose under the delicately aquiline cheeks and nose. Her skin was the color of the first buds in spring, and her lithe, naked form bespoke life. Her breasts were full, round, perfectly formed, as ready to be caressed in acts of passion as they were to give nourishment to a suckling babe; in the center of each was what appeared to be a rosebud. Her hips gently swelled outward like the world's most perfect hourglass: perfect for birth, perfect for the act that presaged birth. Her legs, were long and slender, willowy and graceful.
And then he knew. He knew because it made sense. He knew because—well, who else could she be?
“Hello sister,” he said.
She laughed, a golden tinkle, and her eyes turned azure, cyan, then so deep blue that he did not have a name for it. “I see father picked well,” she said.
He blushed, looked down, and he was not sure if it was the praise that made him do so or the intense lust that woke in him, heated him, and thrashed sensible thought to tatters. Of course, the lust was merely a side-effect of who she was; he could not expect to be in the vicinity of the Goddess of Life and not feel something. Still, it was off-putting to be thinking thoughts like that about his sister. It was disturbing.
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“Who? Shomra and Maora?” Valsa asked. “Oh I imagine they'll be along in their own time. They're rather busy right now.”
She stepped toward him, extended her hand and caressed his cheek. She smiled and he had to stifle an animal growl that rose in his throat, had to resist pressing his face into those silken fingers, had to resist...
That's my sister!
A dissident part of his mind chuckled maliciously. More like an adopted sister though, it said. That would be all right, right?
“I'm glad to finally meet you,” she said and she sparkled like a thousand fireflies. “The other two are always so boring. Shomra is always dour and sad. He's always mourning. You'd think he'd be used to it by now. Maora can't ever seem to stop spouting useless trivia.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “It's enough to make a woman weep! I think you're going to be much more interesting.”
Interesting? He had an idea that all he would really be doing was keeping Shomra very, very busy.
“Oh don't say that,” she scoffed and he had to wonder if he spoke aloud. He did not think so. “No you didn't. But your thoughts are so loud that you may as well have.”
Could she see his other thoughts? Could she see the other shamfeul imaginings that went on in the dim, secret recesses of his mind? Oh her? And him? Oh gods!
She laughed again, and patted his cheek with one soft hand. “Oh don't worry about that,” she said. “I got used to that a long time ago. It's part of my charm.”
“So what brings you here?” he asked. There was certainly real curiosity to know, but there was also an intense desire to change the subject. Before his head popped.
“I just wanted to meet my new brother. I wanted to take your measure. So far I'm not disappointed.”
She leered at him! Her eyes took him in with a slow sweep from head to toes and back, and where they passed, it was like a physical contact, like fingers. Soft, warm...tracing, exploring.
Your sister, you bloody fool!
Uncomfortable almost to the point of fainting, he backed away a pace and turned to walk through the grasses. He could feel her eyes on his back but it was better. She caught up with him and they wandered through his field—his place—and she twined her fingers with his.
“It's a beautiful place you have here. Full of life and color. Odd considering your warriness. Is that a word? Warriness? I should ask Maora. He'd know. Would it be better to say 'martial disposition'?”
“I suppose,” he mused, “though I'm still getting used to the whole idea. I'm not sure I particularly like it.”
“Oh but you must! You're important. Vital. You are as much a part of the world as I am, or the others, or father.”
“Maybe, but still. God of War? I'm not really interested in war, you know? To be honest, I'm not too interested in being a god, but if I could choose, it certainly would not be war.”
“Who you are is the past. It's not what you make of yourself in the future. A flower grows from its roots but it doesn't necessarily grow straight up. It grows toward what it needs to survive.”
“The sun.”
She clicked her tongue. “Of course, the sun. But this is a metaphor. Stay with me.”
“Sorry.”
“A flower is a flower. It knows it. But
no matter what, there is always room to change. To grow toward what it needs to survive even as it remains a flower.”
She extended a hand out and under her fingers, those fingers that reignited his lust, those fingers that he will find out later keep him up at night with their implicit promise, will make him waken from his dreams in a hot, guilty sweat, a tendril of green grew from the grasses, willowy at first, then thicker. Leaves sprouted from the side of it like reaching arms and a delicate bud formed on top, a vegetable teardrop that grew, trembled, until it burst open like fireworks. Deep red in the center faded toward the edges of the petals until it was a gentle pink, like a kiss. As he watched, he saw the flower, no bigger across than his extended finger, quiver, shudder, and twist until it faced the sun.
“You see? Always toward the sun.”
He saw. It was something to think about.
His eyes snapped open and he stared at the blackness of his room. There was a sense of loss, an empty feeling of loneliness as he lay on his cot. There was a sense of waiting like a pent breath.
Chapter 4
The kingdom of Threimes was founded nearly two thousand years ago, according to Andrus. At that time, the inland kingdom to the east known as Madesh and the empire of Kashya in the south were tangled in war to gain dominance over the region which was rich in lumber and precious stones.
After nearly two decades of bitter, bloody war, the two powers came to realize that they were evenly matched and neither would easily overcome the other; the cost of continuing the war began to outweigh the benefits of victory.
Embassies from both sides were sent into the territory in question to begin peace talks with the ultimate hope being a mutually beneficial treaty between Madesh and Kashya. For another three years, these talks continued. Most of the issues were quickly resolved to everyone's benefit, but one remained outstanding. For obvious reasons, neither of the great powers wanted a citizen of the other to rule.
The delegates had decided that since it was not feasible for either Madesh or Kashya to take control of the territory, they would recognize a sovereignty, thereby rendering the territory, as an autonomous entity, neutral ground that both the larger powers could establish trade with. It was not ideal for either land, but a prolonged war of attrition that would leave both Madesh and Kashya weak, unstable, and beggared was much less palatable.