The Path of the Sword (15 page)

He was tired, he was going to bed, he thought he heard his father calling him: a variety of excuses played through his mind, but once again, curiosity won out.

“Of course sir. I will be right down.”

“No, no. No need. No need at all.”

There was a grunt and the tree trembled slightly. Another grunt, and shocked, Jurel realized the old man was climbing. His sight barely penetrated the gloom under the leafy cover of the tree, but there was just enough moonshine that he made out a vaguely man-like shape clambering with surprising agility from the ground below. A few scraping noises, another grunt, and the old man was resting on a branch directly behind Jurel who once again, found himself tongue-tied by the old man's strangeness. The silence stretched uncomfortably, pulling taut until it threatened to injure someone when it snapped, and when it finally did, Jurel almost
did
get injured; he jumped at the sudden words—never a good thing to do when one is precariously perched high in a tree.

“You never did answer my question, Jurel.”

“It is as I said sir.”

“Please stop calling me that,” he said in a pained voice. “My name is Kurin.”

Silence again and the boughs whispered nervously in Jurel's ears.

“You and Valik are not friends, are you?”

“No. How did you know?”

“It wasn't that hard to figure out,” Kurin answered with a low chuckle. “You pointedly ignored him and he stared daggers at you all evening.”

Jurel nodded. It was pretty obvious when he thought about it.

“May I ask why?”

If he had thought on it, maybe if he had been older and wiser, he might have asked why Kurin wanted to know, or what business was it of his? But, natural suspicions aside, he thought he heard real curiosity and that more than anything compelled him to speak.

“He's mean. He always treats us badly as if he's better than us.”

Even Jurel heard his own poutiness. He did not care.

“There's more.”

It was not a question; the old man was stating a fact. It annoyed Jurel to no end that he was being prodded so.

As if reading his thoughts, the old man added, “I apologize if I make you uncomfortable. Sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me. When a mystery pops up, I can't help but grab on and shake it until the answer comes loose. You need not answer, of course.”

Who was this man that, in one moment could make Jurel sweat anxiously, and the next make him want to answer any question at all?

“We were never really friends but I suppose the worst of it came when I didn't join in a fight that my friends picked with some other boys. My friends took a good thumping for it and Valik has never forgiven me.”

The more he thought of it, the more it soured his mood and he could not help adding, “Probably never will.”

“Ah. This boy does not seem to recognize your wisdom. A shame, really. When he owns this farm, I imagine he'll need all the wisdom he can find.”

It was wistfully spoken, and quiet but even as the compliment filled Jurel with pride, the rest filled him with foreboding. The words were meaningless, moonlit musings that disappeared as soon as the sun rose, banished like morning mist. And yet...

“What do you mean, 'when he owns this farm'?”

“He is Galbin's eldest son, isn't he?”

Jurel heard a rustle as if the old man were turning so he could see him to drive home an important point with a meaningful look. But there was a tree in the way and anyway, he need not have bothered. He had Jurel's undivided attention. For some reason he felt the same way he did that time that Darren had burned his arm at his father's forge, leaving a sickening black and red gash that smelled kind of like cooking pork. As nauseating as the sight was, he had not been able turn away. He had stared at that burn with horrified fascination even as his friend screamed in agony.

“Yes he is,” Jurel responded carefully.

“Galbin is human and as all humans must, his time will come and he will pass to the other side. The laws of this land are quite clear: in the event that a father dies, the eldest child inherits whatever the father owned,” he lectured.

Understanding lanced through Jurel like an arrow and he groaned. On some level, he always knew that Valik would one day own the farm. He should, for Valik loved rubbing it in their faces as often as possible. But aside from Valik's boasting, it was an abstract idea, as useless to dwell on as rain during a picnic: what would be, would be. He had always assumed that he would spend the rest of his life here with his father and Galbin and his friends. But the contradictory thought perked itself: Someday, Valik would own the farm. On that day, Jurel would be homeless. He knew that. It was inevitable.

But certainly that was a long way in the future. Galbin was healthy and strong as an ox. Nothing could bring that man down short of the moon falling on his head. He need not be concerned over an event that would not come to pass for years. Right?

“By your silence, I take it you understand the ramifications,” Kurin commented. “So how old are you anyway? Your face says twelve, maybe thirteen but by the gods, your size says seventeen. I hate a mystery. It's driving me mad.”

“I'm twelve. I'll be thirteen in a few months. On the Day of Shadows.”

Behind him, he heard a strangled cough like Kurin had swallowed his tongue and alarmed, he craned his neck as far around the tree as he could, trying to see what ailed the old man.

“Sir? Are you all right, sir?”

He coughed wetly and responded in a wavery voice, “Yes, yes. Just a touch of chill. And I asked you to call me Kurin.”

A touch of chill. Jurel sweated in the muggy heat and Kurin had a touch of chill. Right. Sure.

Leaning back, he said nothing, instead content to let the silence draw out again. It gave him time to regroup his muddled thoughts. Kurin kept jumping from topic to topic and it was awfully confusing. An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness, like a warning to the life that scurried in the grasses:
“Fair warning: I'm on the hunt. Here I come.”
He imagined hundreds of mice scuttling for safety, calling out squeaky rodent warnings,
“Git the little 'uns inside! Quick!”
or
“No time for foraging. There's death in the skies tonight!” “She'll hit when you least expect.” “You'll be dead before you can blink.”

“You said you were a traveling healer,” he said, more to get rid of the bloody image than anything. “What's it like?”

“Well my boy,” Kurin mused. “It's a good life. Not easy, but good. I wander wherever the wind takes me and I see new things every day. Why just last month I was on the western shores of the Sun Sea watching the most spectacular sunrise you could ever imagine. Do you know why it's called the Sun Sea, Jurel?”

Why
it was called the Sun Sea? He barely knew
where
the Sun Sea was. He had only heard of it once or twice in his entire life. If memory served, it was somewhere east and far to the south, near the Kashyan border.

“No.”

“Hmmm. Well if you stand on the shore on a clear morning and wait for the sun to rise over the mountains in the east, you're greeted with the most wondrous view. The sun is mirrored on the surface of the sea, you see, and it appears for all the world that the sun's twin is under the surface. The entire sea lights up golden and red and purple and...well, all the colors you can imagine. People from all over the kingdom travel there just to catch a glimpse of the sunrise.”

“Sounds pretty,” Jurel said without much conviction. He saw the sun rise all the time; sometimes he went out to the pond and the sun reflected there too. He could see no difference except for the scale. Even if Kurin apparently could.

“Pretty?” he spluttered and Jurel wondered if the man was going to have a heart seizure. “Pretty? It's one of the most breathtaking wonders in the entire kingdom. Why, to some, it's almost a religious experience. Pretty?”

His voice dropped and he continued his rant in a low mutter to himself. Jurel strained his ears, trying to make out the man's words but all he managed to get was “provincial louts” and “fool farmboys”. Indignation flashed red hot and he sat up straighter.

“I am terribly sorry that I cannot live up to your expectations.
Sir
.” The old man had a chill did he? Well Jurel would see him downright frozen! “I do not get to travel much. You know, being a provincial lout, a fool farmboy and all.
Sir
.”

He was gratified when he heard a small gasp. The old man went so still that Jurel wondered if he had in fact managed to freeze him in place. A tiny bit of fear crept in as the old man remained silent, followed by guilt. He should respect his elders, after all.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped that way. I'm sure the view is very nice.”

“No no, my boy,” Kurin sighed. “It is I who must apologize for my indiscreet words. Curse my addled old wits. I was not saying that you were a fool. I am simply distraught that a young man as bright as you has never had the opportunity to experience the world and see its wonders. Perhaps some day you will, and then you can forgive an old man his wagging tongue.”

“I doubt it. I'm stuck here on this farm. I imagine I'll be here forever.” He was surprised by the bitterness he felt.

“It sounds to me like you were not completely honest about your feelings of farm life, Jurel. Why not?”

The girls played a game like this. They gripped hands and spun in circles faster and faster, laughing
until they cried, chanting a silly rhyme,
“Round and round we go...”
before they collapsed in a dizzy heap.

“I don't see any reason to moan about it,” Jurel said and again he was surprised by the faint sadness, like dried flower petals falling to the ground. “If I'm to be here the rest of my life, I may as well make the best of it.”

Sour words make for sour work.

“That, my boy, is possibly the most fatalistic thing I've ever heard anyone say in my very long life. Granted, it's a pragmatic view, but have you ever considered that you may not need to remain here all your life?”

Jurel barked a laugh. “And where would I go? This is all I know.”

“Precisely. Isn't the thought of learning more, of expanding your horizons, seeing and doing new things a tempting one?”

It was as though a bell had been struck somewhere deep inside him. Kurin was saying something important, something necessary. What would he do about it? The prospect of adventure excited him and he perked up a little as his thoughts worked feverishly. Until an image of his father materialized, hawkish glare goring, boring into him, shaking his head in disappointment, brought him up short.

“But then what would my father do without me?”

“What he must. What all fathers must when their children grow up. He will adapt. He will let you go. He will always love you and he will worry about you every day. He will hope for those odd days when you reappear and when you do, he will cherish those moments more than any other. When you speak of your adventures or your work or whatever it is that you end up doing, he will be proud of you for taking the reins of your life into your own hands.”

Hearing those last words, almost a mimicry of Daved's own, caused Jurel's eyebrows to draw in on each other, furrowing, creasing his forehead. Had his father told Kurin? Had they discussed Jurel's cowardice? It seemed unlikely; his father looked on the verge of murder when he was sent out of the room. He could not imagine his father would change his mind so easily and ask Kurin's advice on fatherhood.

“Just remember my boy: if you're not happy with your lot now, you will not be happy with it later. It's up to you to decide.”

Surely he had years to think on it, years before any real decision needed to be made. Surely.

Behind him, he heard the rasp of bark scraped and a grunt as Kurin stretched out his arms.

“Well, it's getting late. I think I should retire for the night. I have an early morning and a long road ahead of me.”

The tree trembled again, and there was more rustling and scraping as Kurin gingerly descended. There was a muffled thud and a grunt as the old man jumped the last of the way, and he started off.

“Think on what I've said, Jurel. Good night,” he called quietly and then he was gone.

“Good night, Kurin.”

He stayed a while longer, not entirely prepared to return to his bed yet. He was too busy mulling over the strange conversation with the strange old man. Could he leave the farm? Would he? The old man had a point now that he thought of it: He was not entirely happy here, and now that he admitted it to himself, bared it to the moon and his tree, he wondered why. He had a comfortable home, good food, and plenty of things to keep him occupied. He had his father—at least the man he thought of as his father, and loved as such. Daved was a hard man, unforgiving, and he could be overly rigid at times, almost brutally stern, but for all that he was always there for Jurel. So why was he not content with his lot?

It was often boring, true enough. There was plenty of work, but it was dull, monotonous, often back-breaking labor. He always did it—what else could he do?—but at the end of the day, when he returned home with aching shoulders and a sore back, he never felt satisfied, never felt that he had done anything particularly useful. He had his friends to play with but that too had its drawbacks for it was shallow fun, and mindless. Just a bunch of children running about aimlessly playing silly games in the fields. It was boring but was that enough reason?

Then of course, there was Valik. Always Valik. Every single day, he harbored a knot of dread in the pit of his belly, like a candle in a dry hay barn, because of that bully. That petty, malicious little turd made him miserable at every turn. If Jurel went away, he would never have to think of Valik again. Now
that
might be enough reason.

He watched the moon watch him. It had become more distinct with the gradual dispersion of the cloud cover and it stood at its zenith looking like a gigantic pearl in the night. Perhaps it was time to go in after all. It was late, very late, but the prospect of more drudgery in the morning made him hesitate.