The Path of Man (The Soul Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by Matt Moss

  “Don’t worry,” Cain said, smiling. “The water is way too cold right now, so you’ll just have to wait until summer to watch me.”

  She giggled and touched his arm. “It’s a date,” she said.

  “Why wait until summer,” Arkin said, taking the attention from Cain. “I’ll do it right now.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Arkin,” Cain said.

  “Yes,” Lyla said. “But your bravery is duly noted.” She winked at him which made him feel better.

  “See that flat right over there,” Cain said, pointing, “that’s where we’ll make a fire. It’s almost dark so we don’t have much time. Arkin, you and I will gather wood. Lyla, you find us some tinder.”

  The three made quick work, and after Cain sparked the fire with his flint, they were soon basking in its heat.

  “Nothing like a good campfire,” Cain noted, then he drew a mouthful of the apple ale.

  “Man, now that’s good,” he exclaimed then passed it to Arkin.

  Arkin drank and found it more to his taste. “I like that,” he said, then passed it to Lyla.

  “I don’t drink,” she stated.

  “What?” Cain asked, perplexed.

  “Never have,” she said and began twirling her hair.

  “Well, what better time than tonight?” Cain asked rhetorically, as he reclined against a log.

  “I could use something to eat though,” she noted.

  Cain pulled the dried beef from his pack and divided it out.

  “So,” he said through chews, “what do you think?” he asked them.

  “It’s good,” Arkin said with a mouthful.

  “I’m talking about the Order,” Cain said. “This whole place.”

  “I love it here,” Lyla said.

  Arkin remained silent, content with staring into the fire. Not long ago, his life was totally different.

  “What’s the story with you two?” Cain asked and Arkin looked up sharply. “I mean, how did you wind up here?”

  “Torin invited me,” Lyla said. “I will say that I was a bit hesitant at first, but my father convinced me to go.”

  “Why?” Cain asked.

  She tensed. “To become a doctor.”

  “But you’re a woman,” Cain said.

  “Exactly. When I’m done training here, I’m going back to Fortuna to show them what a woman can do.”

  Cain laughed

  “What’s so funny?” Lyla said, putting her hands on her hips.

  “I believe you,” he said still chuckling.

  Her brow furrowed. “Are you patronizing me?” she said.

  “No,” he said, holding his hands up in defense. “I can just see the look on all their smug faces when they find out a woman is doing their job. And probably better to boot.”

  Her cold stare warmed as she gazed into his eyes.

  “Seriously,” Cain said. “You’re going to be great.”

  She smiled, never looking away.

  “What about you?” Cain said to Arkin.

  Arkin took a pull of ale. “I watched my father die,” he said with no hint of emotion. “His last wish was for me to come see the Prophet. I found Torin and Lyla on the road, so now here I am.”

  “I’m sorry, Arkin,” Cain said. “I had no idea.”

  “It’s alright,” Arkin said and took another drink. He passed the jug to Cain. “I’m getting better.” It was partially true.

  “What about you?” Arkin asked, throwing a stick on the fire.

  “Me?” Cain asked.

  “Ya. How’d you wind up here?” Arkin asked.

  “Well, I was born here,” Cain said, then took a drink. “Mother left when I was about five, so the townsfolk took me in.”

  “Where’d she go? Lyla asked, turning her head up to steal a glance at the stars.

  “Don’t know. She just left.” Cain kicked a log, sending embers into the night.

  “And your father?” Arkin said

  “I never knew him,” Cain said. “Sometimes I wonder if he even knows I exist.” He looked at Arkin. “Your father’s death is horrible, but be thankful for the time you had with him. Cherish his memory.”

  Arkin solemnly nodded. “Cain,” he said. “the Prophet has got me working on something. Lyla has offered to help.”

  She swiftly nodded, pursing her lips in excitement.

  “We could sure use your help as well,” Arkin said.

  “What is it?” Cain asked.

  “We’re going to find the Garden of Stones,” Arkin said.

  “Ha! You sound so sure,” Cain said.

  “We are,” Lyla said. “We will find it.”

  Arkin stood. “Will you help us?”

  Cain stood and threw another log on the fire. “You’re asking me to help you find something that people have been searching for long before the Order existed.” He shook his head and sat back down. “A place most people doubt even exists at all, claiming it’s a myth.”

  Never batting an eye, Arkin and Lyla awaited his answer.

  Cain stared into his cup and laughed to himself. He drained it, then looked at his companions.

  “I guess somebody’s gotta look after you two. I’m in.”

  Twenty

  A loud silence enveloped the palace cells. The flickering torchlight still accompanied the steady, slow drip of water like a shadow stalking its prey. Two men, known to each other, but also unknown, sat in adjacent cells.

  The Prophet, reclined on a bed of straw, laid with his eyes shut. Meditating. Praying.

  Lucian sat on the cold floor of his cell in a state of hateful bliss.

  Time passed, both men aware of how little they had left.

  The young guard brought the evening meals. He reverently placed the plate of hot meat and vegetables in the Prophet’s cell. Paul sat up and nodded his appreciation.

  “I know you didn’t do it, sir,” the young man said. “It’s all lies. I know you didn’t.”

  Paul smiled and put his hand on the guard’s forehead. The young man looked down then moved to Lucian’s cell. He threw the bowl of grey mush down, spilling its contents, then spat on it before stomping away.

  Both men ate, Lucian with his gaze fixed on Paul. After savoring his last bite, the Prophet met Lucian’s eyes. Lucian cracked an evil grin of self-satisfaction and pride. Their eyes locked for a few moments, causing Lucian to pause, before Paul laid back down and closed his eyes.

  Dumbstruck, Lucian did the same, confused by what he saw in the Prophet’s expression. He had spent so many years surrounded by and succumbing to hate and jealousy, that he had forgotten what love and compassion felt like.

  He felt that in Paul’s eyes.

  As soon as the realization came, it left, and Lucian shook his head. His familiar cold hate followed in its wake.

  Satisfied, he fell comfortably into sleep.

  A splash of grey slop to the face let Lucian know that breakfast was served. He rose, wiping the mess and the sleep from his eyes. He looked at Paul. The old man was enjoying a hot plate of eggs, ham, and toast, garnished with a side of fresh fruit.

  Stretching, Lucian stood and walked toward Paul. He placed his hands on the bars “Irony has a way about it,” he said. “Kind of like someone, once removed, inviting themselves to your supper table.”

  Paul looked up from his plate, still chewing on his food.

  “Seems fate finally caught up with you,” Lucian continued. “All your lies. The pain you have caused. The blood you spilled.”

  Paul said nothing.

  “Yes,” Lucian went on, “ironic that we now face the same end together, and you will now go through eternity knowing it was by my hand that you fell.”

  Paul popped a grape into his mouth then grabbed a piece of bread off his plate. He looked up at Lucian.

  “Say something!” Lucian said.

  The cell bars seemed to flex as he spoke. Torches on the walls danced, almost to the point of snuffing out, causing the light in the room to fade before ill
uminating again.

  The Prophet stopped mid chew, stood, and walked toward Lucian. He held out the piece of bread to him.

  The gesture caught Lucian by surprise. He stared at the old man for a moment before bursting into laughter.

  “You truly have lost your mind,” Lucian said. “I heard stories, but didn’t believe them to be true.”

  Paul cocked his head, shrugged, then returned to his bed of straw. He tore a piece of bread off and placed it on the floor next to him. A tiny mouse scurried to the bread like a hungry beggar.

  “It’s nice to see you made a friend,” Lucian jeered.

  “Everyone needs a friend,” Paul said.

  “He speaks!” Lucian mocked. “It’s a miracle.”

  “A wise man speaks only when necessary.”

  “And where was this wise man eighteen years ago?” Lucian asked.

  Paul nodded solemnly. “I have been a fool over the years,” he said. “And if one thing is for certain, it is that I will go to my death bed announcing to the world how much I do not know.”

  “Hope you got that speech ready,” Lucian said then walked to the rear wall and sat down.

  “You mentioned fate,” Paul said, “I believe it has brought us together at this appointed time.”

  “Let me guess,” Lucian said, extending his legs on the floor. “You saw this coming.”

  “Yes!” Paul said enthusiastically. “Just as I saw the five famine years and the plague of...”

  “Enough already,” Lucian broke in. “You didn’t see this coming by a long shot.”

  “You’re right.” Paul chuckled. “I did not see this coming. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that fate brought us here.”

  Lucian snorted

  Paul stood and walked to the bars.

  “I can see the hate in you. How it eats at your soul.”

  “Of course you can. I hate the Order,” Lucian said. “And I hate you even more.”

  “I’m not talking about me or the Order,” Paul said. “I’m talking about how you hate yourself.”

  “You know that spiel about a wise man only speaking when necessary,” Lucian said, “I believe you better take a piece of that advice.”

  Paul grinned. “Why did you choose the path you’re on?” he said

  “You think I had a choice?” Lucian replied.

  “Everyone has a choice. You could have come to me.”

  “I tried,” Lucian said, turning his head away. “Once.”

  “Pardon an old man,” Paul said. “I cannot recall some things. Please, enlighten me.”

  “Sarie,” Lucian said. “I came to you in good faith. I wanted to take her away from all of this.” He paused. “She told me that she wanted to start a family.”

  “I know you and my son both loved her,” Paul said.

  “She loved me more,” Lucian said, almost a whisper.

  “She may yet still love you,” Paul noted.

  “I doubt even in the afterlife she would love me knowing all I’ve done.”

  “You don’t know?” Paul asked. “Do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “Sarie. She’s alive. At least the last I saw her she was.”

  “You lie,” Lucian said, then stood.

  “When the fighting finally ended the Rebellion,” Paul noted, “I walked to my balcony to assess the battle. Victor and the rebels were retreating. I saw a group make it to the outer wall. Victor stood, looking back, with Sarie by his side.”

  “That’s impossible,” Lucian said. “I saw the life bleed out of her by my own hand.”

  “I have seen many things in my life that would seem impossible,” Paul said.

  “Through the eyes of a fool,” Lucian stated.

  “Victor never told you about her?” Paul asked incredulously.

  “Why would he? She’s gone.”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons to keep her secret from you,” Paul said. “I never told Levi. He would have scoured the Earth for her if he thought for a moment that she still lived.”

  “Enough!” Lucian spat. “Speak of her again and it’ll be the last words to ever come out of your lying mouth!”

  Paul held his tongue, briefly. “How did my son die?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Lucian said, walking to the cell door. “He’s dead.”

  Paul dropped his head. “I forgive you,” he said.

  “Then you’re a foolish, weak old man,” Lucian retorted. “I don’t want, or need, your forgiveness.”

  Paul knew it was more for him than it was for Lucian. “Still, I forgive you.”

  Lucian silently stared at the floor.

  Paul saw his opportunity to press him further, fully aware of the consequences.

  “I know Sarie would forgive...”

  Lucian lunged. Paul cut out mid-sentence as Lucian’s hands reached through the opening in the bars and gripped around his throat. He saw the intensity in Lucian’s eyes as he gasped for air.

  “Unlike you,” Lucian said, “I stay true to my word.”

  Lucian spat in the old man’s face as his grip tightened.

  Paul knew this could be his final moments.

  “Sarie...would want you...” Paul choked out. “To be a better man.”

  Lucian’s grip tightened even more, fueled by rage. Paul’s eyes began to fade, then roll.

  He wheezed, “God... wants you... to be a better man.” The words took the remaining air from his lungs.

  Straining, Lucian let go. Paul fell to the floor, gasping for air.

  Lucian stepped back, slowly, dumbfounded to hear the same words Thomas had spoken only days before.

  Lucian looked at Paul. Impossible, he thought.

  Paul put his hand to his neck. After catching his breath, he raised his head to look at Lucian. A smile crept onto his face. With his heart racing, he crawled over to his bed of straw, vainly attempting to let sleep take him.

  Twenty-One

  The early morning sun held its caress to the distant mountains as long as it could. Its kiss of warmth on the cold night, along with a clear blue sky, welcomed a new day.

  The townsfolk were busier than usual this morning. Shop owners opened up early to do business before the noon hour — the hour of judgement. The day of execution. The day everyone had been waiting for.

  On this day, business was good. People bought, sold, traded, and laughed in excess. Beer and wine flowed, despite the early time of day. There was an odd sense of celebration, hatred, and sadness all rolled into one.

  Victor stood on the balcony of the Church, overlooking, thinking. Behind him, Sarie stirred in the bed. She woke slightly and called out to him.

  “Come back to bed,” she said before drifting off again.

  He walked over and gently brushed the hair from her eyes.

  “Wake up, my dear. The long awaited day is finally here.”

  After a moment of protesting, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked up at him.

  “Did you even sleep?” she asked, noticing the same clothes he was in the night before.

  “Come,” he said pulling her out of bed, “let’s get dressed.”

  She stood and he pressed her body against his.

  “You remember what I told you?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “That’s my girl.” He kissed her on the mouth.

  He marveled, watching her sway away from him. Her gown tucked tight to her body and he wanted her back within reach.

  This woman is about to change the world as we know it, he thought.

  He turned back to the balcony. The rising sun made him close his eyes. He basked in it, lost in the moment.

  Twenty-Two

  Lucian awoke to the familiar cold of the stone floor and the steel cage. Somehow it had begun to feel comfortable to him. He glanced at Paul. The old man sat on his straw bed, back against the wall, eyes shut. Lucian wondered if he was sleeping, meditating, or praying.

  Rubbing his eyes, he realized that he didn
’t care.

  His stomach panged in hunger. He looked to where the guards would leave his plate of mush. It wasn’t there.

  In confinement, he knew the passing of the days based upon the rations — one in the morning and one at night. He figured this to be day seven. Or was it eight?

  “Today is the day,” Paul said.

  “Did your God tell you that?” Lucian said, stretching.

  Paul cracked a smile at the blatant sarcasm. “I had a dream last night,” he said.

  “Here we go again,” Lucian said and rolled his eyes.

  “Listen to me!” The Prophet said as he stood. “Last night, I had a dream. Before me lie two paths. One death. The other life. Time flashed. I saw you sitting on the King’s throne, covered in blood.”

  Lucian stood and walked to the bars. “Sounds like a nice dream. Pity it will be your last.”

  Paul walked to meet him.

  “I’ve made my choice,” he said. “The path I choose, I choose for you. I believe in you. I believe you will do what is right.”

  Lucian stared at him. “You damn fool,” he said laughing. “You’re about to die. I’m about to die. If you’re looking for an apology, then I’ll see you in hell. We’ll settle up there.”

  Footsteps came down the hall, more than usual. A dozen armed men arrived in front of the cells.

  “It’s about damn time,” Lucian said to the guards. “I don’t think I could have stood this guy another day,” he said, motioning towards Paul.

  The old guard turned the key on the Prophet’s lock, his head down in sorrow. Paul stepped out of his cell and the guards placed shackles on his wrists.

  “Thank you, you’ve been kind,” Paul said to the old guard.

  The man met his gaze with a tear in his eye.

  As the guards took him away, Paul looked at Lucian.

  The old guard then unlocked Lucian’s cell. Half of the remaining guards had their hands on their swords, ready to draw.

  Smiling, Lucian held his wrists out. Three guards quickly shackled him, then shoved him out the door.

  Lucian looked at his cell one last time before walking down the long, dark tunnel.

  King George’s throne had been moved outside for the day’s events; the black and white stone of the chair contrasting sharply in the morning sun.