Blood of War (19 page)

“Jurel? Are you all right?”

As if in a dream, he turned, the image before him sliding, skewing as though it tried to stay in front of him, until his eyes rested on Metana. The look she returned was one of concern. He coughed, cleared the lump.

“I'm fine,” he said gruffly.

They debated for a little time, argued whether or not the occupant would mind their intrusion until Metana pointed out that the door had not been locked, after all. And after all, they could leave a few coins for the time they spent and the wood they used.

In agreement, they sat and Jurel laid his pack on the table. As they ate rolls and cold meat, they passed few words. Somehow, it seemed that voices marred the idyllic nature of the place, jarred it like an off note in an otherwise perfect symphony. When they licked the last crumbs from their fingers, Jurel reached instinctively for the water bucket that was always near his old stove. The realization was just dawning on him tinged with bitter consternation that he was no longer in his cabin, no longer home, when his fingers struck wood.

And he picked up the water bucket. And he stared at it. And he swore to Metana that the splinter of wood that was missing from one of the staves was the same splinter that was missing in his own long gone bucket.

He scanned the table more carefully. Searched, in fact, for something that could not possibly be there. His fingers traced the scratches and whorls on the surface, his eyes picking carefully along the wood's grain. There had been a day where Daved had come home surly, sour from having sustained an injury in his back. He had walked with a slight hunch for a week as the kink worked itself out. On that day, Jurel had prepared dinner and they had eaten in silence. When Jurel had sopped up the last dregs with his roll and stuffed it into his mouth, he had glanced up to see his father staring into the distance.

“What's the matter, Pa?” he had asked.

Daved had grunted sourly. “Age lad, age.”

“But you're not old.”

“Oh? Then why is it that your old man can't do half the things he used to? Hells, I can't even stand up straight.”

To that, Jurel had no answer.

“Do yourself a favor, lad.” Daved's hawk glare had caught him as surely as a fly in a web. “Never grow old.”

All the while as they had spoken, his father had been distractedly, unconsciously digging the blade of his knife into the wood of the table creating a circle of bare rough wood the size of his thumbnail within the surrounding finish.

And when Jurel's fingers happened on a bare circle of roughened wood, approximately the size of his thumbnail, when his eyes latched onto the sight, his chest constricted, his heart seemed to swell until his ribs could no longer contain it. He collapsed back into his chair.

“It's not possible,” he whispered.

“What? What's not pos-”

A clatter at the door and a crotchety voice assaulted their ears and both jumped as though bitten.

“Who be ye then a-sittin at old Ursula's table?”

An ancient woman, so old that her age could not be guessed, stood framed by the door. She wore what appeared to be undyed cotton under a shawl the color of fresh soil. Her hair, so white it was almost blue, cascaded in twists and knots over her hunched shoulders and over the hump on her back. At odds, her eyes were as bright as crystal at noon.

Jurel and Metana rose swiftly to their feet. He bowed, abashed at having been caught out for their trespass.

“Our apologies ma'am. We meant no harm. We were simply footsore from walking all day and when we spied your cottage, we thought to rest a while before our return.”

As Jurel spoke, a smirk creased her face further and her eyes grew amused. “And do ye then come from a place where tis couth to wander into any home unannounced and uninvited because ye're feets is sore?”

His abashment grew. He stared at his toes. “No, ma'am. We're sorry. We'll go.”

“
Ah! And I see twas
ye
who pilfered old Ursula's rose bush.”

Beside him, Metana drew a sharp breath. A slender finger grazed one of the silken petals. He prayed silently that she would hold her tongue, that she would not lash out at the old woman. He need not have bothered. A surreptitious glance showed him that she looked just as contrite as he; her cheeks were nearly the color of the flower in her hair.

Ursula glared at them a moment longer. She drew in her breath and Jurel tensed, waiting for the next volley. Her head flew back and she emitted a cackle like a dozen crows.

Once again surprised, Jurel glanced up and the old woman was holding her quivering belly as she wheezed and renewed her cackling.

“Tis no matter,” she wheezed when she had finally regained at least some mastery over herself once again. “Me flower is put t' good use though p'raps its beauty pales in comparison to its wearer. Please sit. Be not afeared o' old Ursula. I be just pullin yer leg.”

As they slowly resumed their seats Ursula bustled for all the world as though she was a woman half her age, or a third. She set a pot on the hearth and she swept the floor—grumbling about inconsiderate strangers tracking mud in. She went to a chest and returned with an armload of food: fresh rolls that still seemed warm, a jar of honey, conserves, strawberries, raspberries, a basket overflowing with nuts, and a dozen other victuals that all smelled as fresh as if they had just been harvested and prepared that day. Somewhere, she managed to find some plates, a knife, and some cups, though neither Jurel nor Metana could have said where. And when she joined them at the table, sitting in her chair with a grunt, she gestured impatiently.

“Well then, dig in. Twon't eat itself, y'know.”

But though Jurel was ravenous, his mind had caught on one little discrepancy: never minding the table full of food that should not have been able to fit in the small chest she pulled it all from, where exactly had Ursula found a third chair?

“So tell me then what brings ye two out so far from yer camp?”

Metana choked on her mouthful.

“You know about our camp?” asked Jurel.

“Well o'
course
I know. How could I not? I'm old, not blind or
deef
. Tis a noisome bunch who tramp about causin such a ruckus that old Ursula can barely get her beauty rest.”

“But it's hours away from here.”

“No matter. There be not much that happens here about that old Ursula don't ken.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. We'll be gone tomorrow morning. We didn't know we were unwelcome.”

“Now I never said ye were unwelcome. Tis a rare thing that there be visitors outten this way. And stop yer apologizin.”

They fell to silence. Finally managing to push aside his wonder, Jurel sampled the feast laid out. The berries were so plump they exploded into sweet juice almost as soon as they were behind his lips, the honey was sweeter than any Jurel had ever had, the rolls were soft as clouds and indeed still warm as though they came from the oven just before their arrival. He set to with a vengeance.

When everything was gone down to the last berry, they munched on nuts from a bowl she produced and sipped mulled wine.

“So where are we anyway?” Metana asked. Her voice had a dreamy quality, content, almost blissful.

“Why yer at my place.”

My place.
Jurel sat up straight, his eyes widening, his guts churning.

“I think we gathered that,” Metana said with a laugh. “But where is your place?”

The old woman cackled. “I spose ye could say ye're in the Great Forest. Twould be three or four hours back to the road as the crow flies.”

“What did you call this place?” Jurel asked.

“Why tis my place o' course. What else would I call it?”

He did not know why it struck him so hard. After all, this was her cottage, her home, her place. Yet the use of those specific words, and a strange inflection when she spoke them had more than piqued his curiosity. In fact, he desired the answer with an urgency that bordered on necessity.

“Who are you?”

Her brow furrowed; the crags became crevasses. She tilted her head sideways in the universal gesture that said,
“Huh?”
It was a gesture that was not at all convincing. She was not a good actress.

“Ye be none too swift, be ye boy? I tole ye, I be ole Ursula.”

“I heard that. But who
are
you?”

“Jurel,” Metana murmured, nudging him in the ribs with an elbow. “Don't be rude.”

He shot her a sharp look and trained his glare back to the old woman. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't mean to seem boorish and you have been nothing but hospitable. But who are you?”

The crevasses smoothed back to crags. Her eyes took on a sly twinkle and the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile. “P'raps I miscalculated. It seems ye may be worthy after all. But me story is long and tis not the time to be startin on it. Tis enough to say that I be, in fact, ole Ursula and I be on yer side. It may be that some day ye will get to hear me tale.”

“May I ask then, what this place is?”

“Alas an that be part o' the story.”

“And the circle of stones outside? And the strangeness of your cabin?”

She chuckled. “Ye noticed did ye? Aye this cabin tends to take on the aspect of certain visitors. As for the circle, well tis many things an fer now ye may call it an alarm. Ye see, ole Ursula knew as soon as ye'd stepped into her glade that ye be here. An now me children, tis time to say farewell. I have no wish to seem rude but tis time ye be on yer way.”

So Jurel and Metana rose, gathered their meager belongings, and thanked old Ursula for her hospitality. When they reached her door, she had a few more words for them, and they rolled from her with the force of an oracle:

“Be wary, young Jurel. Yer trials have only just begun. There are many dangers on yer road. Some o them will be obvious and others will be couched in mystery an shadow. Step carefully and remember yourself always.

“And ye also, Metana, must be wary. Soon there will come a day when a seemingly innocent choice must be made. If ye should make the wrong one, all will be lost.”

* * *

When the door shut behind them, they stared at each other. Neither had any idea what to make of the visit. Neither had any idea how to decipher her words, or even where to begin.

Neither had any idea how, after spending what had to be two or three hours conversing and sharing the old woman's table, they stepped out into the same early twilight as when they arrived as though they had only been there for a few short moments.

Chapter 16

His old bones were just not what they used to be. Grand Prelate Maten grunted when he knelt before his king, groaned when he straightened up. His heavy robes, all satins and velvets, weighed him down and they made him sweat copiously. He worried he would faint if he was not soon offered a place to sit.

But so far the king was satisfied to let him stand there in his great office covered in gold, satiny woods, bookshelves and silk pillows like he was an acolyte being reprimanded for some transgression or other.

“Grand Prelate, so good of you to come,” Threimes said. Though the words were outwardly warm, they carried an underlying chill that made Maten's sweat cold. “I have heard disturbing reports.”

“Your Majesty, it is always an honor to have audience with you.”

He supposed he knew what was coming. He had prepared his defense. Thalor was only doing his job after all, if a little over-zealously. If Threimes had listened to him in the first place, then this meeting would not have had to take place.

“Yes well, let us hear what you have to say first, then we shall decide if it is an honor or something a little more serious.”

Speechless, Maten gaped. How dare he? He may be king, but Maten was Grand Prelate and had been since this man was in his swaddling, spitting up on his nanny's shoulder. He was not some lowly noble that the king could walk all over. They were almost equals damn him!

He had to restrain himself. He schooled his expression to benign smoothness, and bit his tongue with such force he thought he tasted blood, though the king saw it. He was well versed in reading the subtleties of expression and stance, was the king.

“Calm yourself. Now. I have had several reports of villages being burned by your Soldiers. Entire villages put to the torch. Hundreds of innocent people are dead. Why?”

“Your Majesty, the church is highly motivated in their search of some very dangerous fugitives. I am certain you have considered what we discussed those months ago? We must find these men. We must stop them at any cost.”

“No, Maten. The cost is too high. You're killing good people. Innocent people. Farmers, traders, millers. Those people keep this kingdom running smoothly. Your explanation is lacking.”

His eyes were cold, so cold, as he regarded Maten. Once, not so long ago, Maten had been one of his closest advisors. Once they had been friends. As friendly as their positions allowed them to be, at any rate. That had all changed with the princess. Foolish. All of it. The king knew it had to be done. His daughter was meddling in matters she should not have been. Maten had been required by law to put a stop to it.

“Sire, please understand, we do not take this matter lightly. We are striving to stop evil, and dare I say, insurrection. You did not heed my words and that has forced us to take extreme measures. At the time, my Soldiers were spread too thinly to effect a proper search so they resorted to more direct methods in flushing the vile criminals out.”

The king shot from his seat like a stone from a catapult. He leaned across his desk, fists resting on it, and he shivered with barely restrained fury. His eyes glinted in the candle light and for an instant Maten thought the fiery glow came from within.

“
My
people, Maten.
My
subjects. You do not have the authority to burn entire villages,” the king roared. Spittle flew from his lips.

Maten glared back. “If I deem them to be heretics, then I do. Your Majesty. And anyone who would harbor such fiends as we seek is a heretic. Your Majesty.”