The Path of the Sword (16 page)

Everything was different. He missed his friends. Why had he not just joined in when they had gotten into that fight? Then things would be better. Then no one would think he was a coward. Even his own father! It just was not fair. He tore a twig from its home and broke it into little pieces before hurling them into the night, heard them whisper and skip off the surrounding branches and leaves. Why should he have joined in? His father spoke of defending his beliefs. Well was that not exactly what he had done? He believed in peace. He believed in leaving bad situations be. He believed in not getting a broken nose because some stupid boys wanted to take a stupid bit of water. Besides, the fight had not accomplished much, now had it? Galbin and Daved had accomplished more by simply speaking with the boys's fathers. The fight had done nothing whatsoever. Yet everyone thought him a coward. Valik tormented him. He still did boring work.

Kurin was right. He would have to leave at some point. Because at some point Valik would indeed own the farm. Valik would not let him stay. Or maybe he would. Maybe he would welcome Jurel with open arms and then relegate the nastiest tasks he could think of. It was not difficult to imagine himself cleaning outhouses and shoveling horse shit for the rest of his life.

So he would leave. As soon as he was old enough. Money would not be a problem. He did not have much, but his years of farm experience would surely come in handy. He could find his way from farm to farm, doing tasks to earn a little copper and maybe a place to sleep for a night or two, before he moved on. Maybe he would see that sunrise Kurin had spoken of. Or visit the cities of his father's stories. Cities like Oceanview with its trade ships packed so tightly in the harbor that the masts looked like a floating forest, and Threimes, the kingdom's capital, all domes and spires and palaces for miles in every direction.

Maybe when he was gone for some years, he would return to visit his old friends and regale them with tales of his adventures. Oh, how they would be green with envy! They would not think him a coward then! A smile spread across his face and if his father could have seen it, he would have been surprised that Jurel could look so happy.

With a jaw-cracking yawn that split his grin in half, he decided that he could think more on this another day. It really was time to get inside, to get to his bed. He needed rest. Tomorrow would be a long day of drudgery and boredom but even though that thought was unpleasant, he still walked home with a bounce in his step and a smile on his lips.

* * *

“Good night Kurin,” he heard the boy call from his hiding spot. He smiled as he walked toward the barn and the bed that Galbin had provided for him in the hayloft. Sleeping in a barn did not bother him; he was used to it and things could have been worse. He had spent many rainy nights out in the open, soaked to the bone, shivering as he lay awake waiting for dawn to finally arrive, waiting for enough light so he could move on without worrying that his old mare would snap a fetlock. It was part and parcel to his roaming nature. A hayloft was a far better alternative. Especially the hayloft at this farm.

Had he finally found the one? Could it be? At first, he had not been sure. The boy was kind, thoughtful, well spoken for his age—a testament to Daved's skills as a father—but he was timid and he lacked anything resembling confidence. That, he was not willing to ascribe to Daved's upbringing.

Daved was surly, as gruff as an angry wolf, which led Kurin to believe that at some point, the man had likely been a soldier, probably a sergeant judging by his bearing. Soldiers were not renowned for coddling their children. On the contrary, Daved probably rode Jurel incessantly, tried to pound strength into him at every opportunity but from what Kurin could see, it did not work. The boy was pleasant, but he was too quiet, too apt to turn his eyes down. Kurin liked Daved, respected his forwardness; it was no wonder that even with little farming experience he had risen to second in command of this farm. He was certain Daved did all the right things for the boy.

But then why was the boy so...cowardly? Why did he shrink away every time that little bastard, Valik, looked at him (how a man as good as Galbin could let his son become such an unmitigated ass was another question, one that would have been irrelevant except that it showed Jurel's weakness). Almost, he had dismissed the boy. Almost, he had thought he made a mistake coming here. But something made him stay, made him come out to the tree and talk to Jurel. He thanked the gods that he had. There was something about him that compelled Kurin's attention. It was as if darkness shrouded him, leaving the important bits a mystery. Oh, how he loved a good mystery.

As his steps carried him along the moonlit path toward the barn, the realization struck that a dire event in the boy's life might very well have altered him like a ship blown off course by a storm. The death of his real parents? Yes, that would do it. Especially if it had been a violent death. Especially if Jurel had witnessed it. That would be yet another sign, now wouldn't it? His belly was filled with a familiar sensation like agitated butterflies. His pace was lively, far too brisk for an exhausted old man.

No one but a blind fool could miss that Daved had adopted the boy. Physically, they were nothing alike. Daved was about average height while Jurel, at only twelve was incredibly tall, standing almost nose to nose with him. Daved was dark with hair the color of ebony, and with eyes that were nearly black, while Jurel was blue-eyed and almost blond. Their jaws were formed differently, their noses were as night and day; Daved was definitely not Jurel's real father. For all that, the adoption was total. The bond between them was powerful. Daved was as much Jurel's father as any; his love for his son was easily visible no matter how gruff and stern he was.

Which, once again, brought him full circle to Jurel. If Daved was not his real father, then who was? Kurin needed to know. Everything hinged on that bit of knowledge. All the other signs were promising, mousiness notwithstanding. When the boy had told him his birthday—confirmed it, for Kurin had already had a pretty good idea what the boy would say—he had almost jumped for joy. That would have been a singularly unpleasant experience considering where he had been at the time. A vagrant image of him lying on the ground at the base of the tree, groaning miserably with the gods could only have guessed how many broken bones, made him smile wryly. Oh yes, that would have been unpleasant indeed.

He entered the barn but he did not see it. He was turned inward, going over everything he had learned that day, navigating his way by instinct alone. Jurel was the strongest candidate he ever had. He had been searching for near on thirty years; could this be the one? Would he finally redeem himself in the eyes of his brothers and sisters in the Order?

Promising, very promising. But not certain. Not yet. The boy would bear watching for a time and there were plans to be made. He nodded to himself, having made his decision, and with an agility that belied his age, he scrambled up the ladder to the loft above and his waiting bed.

Chapter 12

Stuffing the last of his roll into his mouth, Jurel sprinted outside into the new day. The clouds had dispersed during the night so the sun, still barely over the eastern horizon was a bright orange ball that promised a warm day ahead, but hopefully not so warm that drought returned. He looked forward to a long day of work and play, hopefully with his friends. Unless his father piled too many chores on his shoulders. Which he would, if Jurel was late to see Kurin off as he had been bidden.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, arriving at Galbin's front door just in time to watch old Kaul lead Kurin's horse, a somewhat bedraggled old mare, around the corner of the house to the waiting group that was chatting idly on the path that led to the road outside the farm and then on to whatever lay beyond. He pulled up, skidding to a halt beside his father and puffed, trying to catch his wind around the remains of his breakfast.

Daved glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “There you are boy. I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it.”

“Sorry father,” Jurel mumbled and he was embarrassed to see crumbs spew from his mouth.

“Well, you made it just in time. Our honored guest,” sarcasm ran thick, “is just preparing to leave.”

“Any idea where you're headed?” Galbin asked the old man who checked his saddle and his bags.

“Oh, I don't know exactly.” Kurin paused and stared at the sky as though Galbin had asked a question of monumental importance. “Riverfang calls to me but I must admit that my old bones are weary and it is a long, long journey across dangerous lands. I have pondered Master Daved's words and I may decide to settle somewhere, open a little shop and stay warm and comfortable beside a fire.” Then he chuckled before adding, “At least until the call of the road lures me away once again. Such is the life of a vagabond I suppose.”

Eyes twinkling, he turned back to his packs, checking and rechecking as though he had mounds of possessions to sort through instead of the meager change of clothes and a few small packs of food wrapped in oilskin that seemed lost in the heavy leather bags.

Jurel found himself wondering, once again, about this old man who had turned his life upside down with no more than a few words. On the one hand, he was most definitely strange; his words and actions—imagine a man his age climbing a tree like he was a boy!—left Jurel bewildered. He was obviously an educated man, and well cultured but he roamed the land as poor as the lowliest peasant. On the other hand, he had an open nature, a warmth that seemed to invite easy friendship. And for all his strangeness, his words rang true. It was quite a conundrum.

“Posh, sir! You are obviously no common vagabond,” Ingirt announced archly.

“I thank you madam for your charitable words.” Kurin bowed deeply as he had the previous night. “We vagabonds must, by need, take all the charity we are offered. Especially when it is offered by one so beautiful that the gods must have blessed her.”

Once again, from the depths of his bow, he caught Jurel's eye and winked and Jurel could not help but smile at this roguish display. Ingirt tittered and fanned her reddening face with a hand.

“I should not tarry any longer. I am keeping you from enjoying this lovely day.”

Taking his reins from Kaul, he swung easily into his saddle as limber as any of the herders on the farm, as limber as his own father who was well known to be the best horseman on the farm and reached down to shake Galbin's hand. “Thank you for your hospitality and your generosity. I pray the gods will smile kindly upon you.”

“It is we who thank you, sir,” Galbin returned, obviously trying to emulate the old man's elegant form of speech, though not entirely successful at it. He was too much a farmer. “It has been our pleasure to open our door to you. I fear a bite of food and a hayloft is ill payment for the news and the stories you have brought to us.”

Kurin extended his hand to Daved, who ignored it pointedly. “And you sir,” he said with a smile that could only be described as mischievous, “I thank you for your refreshing candor.”

“Always a pleasure,” Daved said with a tight smile.

“I'm sure it is,” Kurin laughed. “And you, young man,” he turned to Jurel, “I give thanks for pleasant conversation and much needed exercise.”

His grip was firm, almost as solid as Darren's father's, and his hand felt like dry leather.

“Thank you sir. For the same,” Jurel mumbled looking down to his feet.

“I told you,” Kurin said with an exasperated shake of his head, “to call me Kurin.”

Daved shot Jurel an inquisitive glance. He had not seen the need to burden his father with the knowledge of the treetop conversation the previous night.

Straightening up, Kurin beamed at the small group.

“I bid you all farewell. Perhaps I will have the honor of seeing you again.”

Although he took in the whole group, his eyes seemed to linger on Jurel for an extra moment. With a prod, he urged his horse around and followed the path to the road. Jurel watched until he was out of sight, half expecting Kurin to look back at him, and disappointed when he did not.

“What was that all about?” his father asked.

“He came by while I was in my tree last night. We spoke for a moment and he told me to stop calling him 'sir'.”

He had an urge to say more, to tell Daved all that had been said. After all, they shared no secrets. Of all the people in the world, he trusted his father most and he liked to think that his father trusted him. But something stopped him.

“That's it?”

“Yes father.”

For a moment, Daved's gaze sharpened, piercing Jurel, and he was sure his father doubted he told the whole story. He did not say anything more about it; he kept his eyes on his father's with as much innocence as he could muster and decided to change the subject.

“Is there anything you need me to do father?”

With a laugh, Daved shook his head. “No lad. Go on. Enjoy the day. There are few enough of them left this summer.”

His father's words were still hanging in the air as Jurel ran around the corner of the house to see if his friends could be convinced to let him join in for some shallow, childish play.

Chapter 13

The trees were bare, ragged skeletons that reached up to the sky, stretched out as if trying to grasp leaves, red and brown and yellow, that sped by borne on the wind, trying to hold on to them, to protect them, trying to keep them near a little while longer like a parent tries to hold on to a grown offspring. The sky was a solid gray mass that pressed close, a thick blanket for a world that prepared for a long, cold slumber.

The farm seemed to hunker in on itself, dark, saddened by the passing of an old friend. The fields lay fallow, bare earth prepared for its own protective winter blanket, and almost empty; the hands had other tasks at that time of year: repairs, storing and stocking, and chopping mountains of wood to keep their fires stoked and their homes warm when the winter's chill came.

As he bounded out of the cabin and into the brisk wind, slamming the door behind him, Jurel could barely contain his excitement. He breathed deeply holding the tang of autumn in his chest and shivered, though not from poor garb; he was well dressed for this day. It was anticipation that sent him quivering. He would be sixteen in a few days and on that day, he would be a grown man. But though cause enough for excitement, that was not what he thought of right then. Nor was it the thought of the great feast that Galbin always held on the Day of Shadows that so thrilled him. As an early present Daved, who was going into town for supplies, had agreed to take him along. As far as Jurel could remember, he had never left the farm. It was the prospect of seeing a real live town, and more of seeing something new, that had him in such high spirits.