Blood of War (58 page)

He breathed deeply, getting a grip on the surge of emotions evoked by memory of her. He must speak with her, that he knew. But he thought his goals and hers were likely to be quite different. She, of course, would demand to know where he had been the last few weeks before professing her love for him, and then demanding that he be sensible and get over himself.

He, on the other hand, knew that was not possible. She did not deserve to be stuck with him. He did not deserve her love.

He breathed deeply again, centering himself, finding that place within his soul where he could do what he needed to do without thinking too much about it. It was the same place, he realized, where he went when he was charging into battle.

At the same moment the second timid knock came, he spoke.

“
Come in, Metana,” he said, and though his voice was barely more than a whisper, he still felt her jump as though he had screamed.

He did not rise as a bar of torchlight—the energy required to keep the corridors illuminated by arcane means had been diverted to the defense of the Abbey—widened, revealing a cloaked silhouette framed in the doorway.

And she did not move, though he could feel the power of her gaze like a blast of sun in a darkened room, peeling away the layers of shadow, banishing mystery of what might be, laying bare the truth of what was.

Even though he could only see the formless outline of her cloak, his heart clenched. He savagely suppressed the tenderness that threatened to unman him.

Hardening himself—

I don't deserve her. She doesn't deserve the horror I bring to her life.

—
he said, “What do you want, Metana?”

Yet, still, she remained a statue in his doorway, her unseen gaze gouging him, flaying him, threatening to cleave open his armor as effectively as any sword or ax.

Gathering his tattered resolve, he stood.

Then he did the most painful thing he had ever done. He glared at her and said, “Did you not hear me? I asked you what you wanted.”

Better if this were done in a way that made the growing rift between them uncrossable forever after. Perhaps it would ultimately be easier for her.

He had expected anger. He had expected sparks of her wrath at his callous demeanor.
Instead, her posture softened, her hands reaching tentatively to him across the darkness. Finally,
she did speak, her voice cracking with emotion.

“
Oh, my Jurel. What has happened to you?”

It was by the thinnest of threads that he managed to remain still, that he managed to not rush to her and kneel before her, that he somehow, gods only knew how, did not weep and beg her forgiveness.

Instead, marshaling himself, he straightened his shoulders and leveled a glare that was polar opposite to the one she aimed at him. He suppressed the pain it caused him, the pain it must have caused her. He sniffed quietly.

“
Jurel.” Forlorn, oh so forlorn, she took a hesitant step forward. Just a small one as though something pushed against her, kept her from crossing the threshold, from crossing the barrier between her world of light and his of shadow. “Jurel, please.”

Inside Jurel, something gave way. Exasperation, anger, borne of fear, of...love? But no, he had tamped down all those weak feelings. The truth poured from him, every word of it hurtful.

“
What do you want, Metana?” he demanded. “What do you want me to say? You do realize that in a few hours, we're going back to battle, don't you? You realize that with the way things stand, we won't survive the day.

“
The Gaorlans brought enough Soldiers of God that, if nothing else, they can simply grind us to dust with sheer numbers. Metana, our only hope was that we destroy them quickly and decisively. That hope died when the sun set.”

“
But with all their numbers,” she countered, stepping further into his room, “we still managed to fend them off. We could do it again today.”

“
We have at best four thousand soldiers left, and that includes the refugees and Mikal's men out there,” he gestured vaguely, wildly. “The walls are weakening, the gate shows cracks, everyone is exhausted, and damned bloody hells, the Day of Shadows is past.”

Now that she was in the room and not framed by the bloody torchlight, Jurel was able to see her expression turn to confusion.

“
What does the Day of Shadows have to do with this?”

“
Come on, Tana.” That one slipped; he chided himself silently for letting the intimate nickname get past his guard. “You're not stupid. Everything really important in my life always happens on the Day of Shadows. All the prophecies say so.”

He probably should not have insinuated she was acting foolishly. Even buried in his armor, he flinched when her eyes flashed dangerously. Striding forward, she raised one dagger-like finger and jabbed him in his chest.

Her voice perilously quiet, sharp as razors, she said, “You great bloody oaf. You stupid damned buffoon.” Like a dueler pressing an advantage she advanced, and he, hard-pressed under the onslaught backed away until his chair halted him. “I'm going to let the bit about me being stupid pass for the moment. But we'll get back to it after I've managed to knock some sense through that thick bloody stone you call a skull. Let's start with this ridiculous notion you have about prophecy, shall we?”

He slumped into his chair, blank-faced dazed, and she spun away from him. Waving her hands frenetically, she nearly shrieked.

“
Haven't you listened to anything you've been taught since you arrived? Have you not yet understood that prophecy is just a vague idea? Just a guide? Are
you
that bloody stupid?”

It was his turn to flare angrily. He rose to his feet in one swift motion.

“
Now see here,” he roared. “Who do you think-”

As graceful as a swordmaster, she spun on her heel; as quick as a striking serpent she lunged forward; as strong as an ox, she pushed and he fell floundering back into his chair, his outrage suddenly quenched by shock.

“
Sit down and shut up,
” she hissed. Her eyes were slitted bits of diamond, her teeth bared in a snarl.

“
I don't care who you are,” she continued more moderately—if plain fury could be considered more moderate. “Right now, all I see is a spoiled child. One who is too busy pouting, wrapped up in self-pity to see anything beyond the tip of his poor, sanctimonious little nose.

“
Tell you what: I will, perhaps for the first time, spell it out word for word. I will tell you in short, easy to understand words. I'm too tired to care about getting you to think for yourself. Let me know if you feel you're in over your head.”

Her scathing tone shocked him, seared him with anger and shame.

“
First, a little light.”

He felt a surge of power, tiny compared to what he could call forth, but enough. His candelabra and his hearth erupted into sudden flame, casting away the darkness that had enveloped him and comforted him like a warm blanket, leaving him bare and unprotected against this new winter blast.

No longer obscured by the banished night, the full force of Metana's glare cut into him.

“
Now then,” she stood with her fists planted on her hips, her entire posture screaming choler, glaring down her nose at him. “Let's start with something easy.

“
You want to know what prophecy is? It's a series of broad statements about what's going to happen at some undisclosed point in the future. It's meaningless drivel at worst and at best an entertaining story. Until someone gives it worth...and that worth is normally not given until
after
the prophecy is fulfilled.

“
Do you understand what that means? No, of course you don't.” Jurel just did not think he warranted such a contemptuous sneer. “You're a bloody oaf.”

“
Imagine—if you can,” (he really did not think he deserved
this
kind of treatment) “that I were to make my own little prophecy. I might say something like, 'On the day an old man dies, a grandson will find his fortune.' Now, to everyone who hears it, it will sound pointless and absurd. But what if an old man happens to die? What if he was, say, a wealthy merchant? And what if he bequeaths his estate to his grandson? Imagine the grandson's reaction if he were to hear my words. He would say, 'By the gods, the prophecy was true!' My
prophecy
is given worth because it happens to fit the circumstances.”

Squirming under her hard gaze, Jurel meekly raised a hand. “So...you're saying that prophecy is meaningless?”

“
Very good. Close, but not quite. Prophecy is a guide, an idea of what
could
be. But that doesn't mean it's what
will
be. No matter what all those stupid bloody books and scrolls told you, you still have choice.
Do you hear me?
You. Still. Have. Choice!
You don't have to do anything those bits of paper tell you.

“
So this idea of yours that everything important must happen on a specific day is beyond stupid.”

“
But so far, a lot of it has come true.”

Throwing her hands high, she huffed. “Of course it has, you great pea-brained twit! First, I didn't say that prophecies never came true, just that they might not. Second, you've been striving so hard to make them true that it was pretty much a given that some of the things you've read would happen.”

Three things struck Jurel, as she continued her lecture: first, her tone became more moderate, assuming more and more the voice of a teacher and less that of an aggrieved lover; second, he found himself interested despite his misgivings; and third, he was surprised that one person knew so many different ways to describe stupidity.

“
In your case,” she continued, oblivious to the relief he felt at the first thought and consternation at the next two, “I think there is a certain amount of truth. But only in the broad picture.

“
It has been well known for centuries that the God of War would waken. According to the histories in the library, this information was passed on to Salos by Gaorla Himself. No,” she cut him off before he could voice his protest: Gaorla Himself had told Jurel he had only spoken to one mortal. “The story is a long one and this is not the time or place.

“
Knowing that the God of War would walk the land at some point in the future, Salos understood that certain tasks had to be accomplished—not through any divine sight but rather through plain, simple deduction. He realized that,” she raised a finger, “the God of War had to discover who he was. Obviously.” Another finger rose. “The God of War had to accept that he was in fact the god of war. No easy feat, all things considered.” A third finger, “Since the prelacy is based on a monotheistic belief system, Salos knew that the God of War would have to prove them wrong and that it would be difficult and probably bloody.”

She glared fire at him. “Is this all starting to sound familiar?”

Jurel nodded mutely. His mouth felt packed with coal dust.

“
Finally!
” she huffed raising her arms as though in thanks that someone somewhere had answered a prayer she never thought would be heard. “There's more that needs to be done, but the
prophecy
,” she loaded the word with scorn, “is too cryptic yet to understand. But if it happens, the meaning will come clear. And if it doesn't then it was meaningless to begin with. Useless gibberish.

“
This, all of this,” her hand made a broad sweep to encompass not just they two, but the Abbey and the predatory army arrayed beyond the walls, “this is what it boils down to. This battle must happen in order for you to take your rightful pace at your Father's side.

“
This battle that we wage may be lost, or it may not. We've had some surprises before. It doesn't matter. We, all of us might die to defend you. But even if every last one of us ends up in a shallow grave, I don't think you will.”

“
But why?” Jurel cried, no longer to abide in silence. “Why would you—all of you—die for
me
?”

“
Half-witted boob,” she muttered. “We wouldn't die for
you—
well a few of us would: Kurin, Mikal, Gaven.” She paused. He barely heard the next word for she barely breathed it and yet it still smote him to his core: “Me.” She shook herself, spoke her next words more clearly, “We die for our beliefs. But that too is a discussion for a different time and a different place.”

This time when he surged to his feet, she did not contest him. He felt as though he was on the verge of some sort of breakthrough, a mental connection that had so far eluded him, an intersection of ideas which, once revealed, would answer many questions. But, as with all meaningful understanding, his did not become readily apparent.

“
I do this because I must,” he said. “No one has to do it with me. I never asked anyone to die for me. I'm not worth it.”

One ebony eyebrow raised as she regarded him with speculative humor. “Oh no? Then what is there worth dying for, if not for the power of conviction? And if there is nothing worth dying for, then what is there to live for?”

His mind trembled at the implications, both the perceived and the as yet nebulous. What did he believe in? Did he, in fact, believe in
any
thing? Or did he just drift from day to day, accomplishing, or failing, the tasks set before him, with no thought to whether a greater purpose was served? And if he was to believe in something, what should it be? His Father? Metana? Himself? Humanity? Some other thing that, as yet, remained hidden from him?