The Path of the Sword (32 page)

He started to turn, to go ensconce himself in the overstuffed chair—he would make sure he covered it first as Kurin asked. He hesitated when a glitter caught his eye. He eyed the source, gilt print on the wine colored spine of one of the neatly ordered books. He carefully read the title, hesitantly, haltingly, sounding each word out. OF KINGS AND RULERS, it read.
Sounds fascinating,
he thought wryly. He randomly selected another book, this one beige with black lettering, and again carefully read the words: HERBAL USE IN HEALING. Again, not particularly riveting. Another, this one read, SACRED WRITINGS OF THE SALOSIAN FAITH. What was the Salosian faith? The name sounded vaguely familiar, like an ancient memory long forgotten in the mists of time, perhaps a tale told around a fire years ago, but he could not place it. He gazed at the books and saw one that looked more worn, more read than the rest. It was bound in black leather and its blood red letters were flaking with age: ANCIENT PROPHECIES: THE GOD OF WAR. He felt himself grow cold when he deciphered the title, though he knew not why. He reached out, grazing one finger along the lettering and when nothing happened, he snorted. It was just another book in the row, one of many though by the dog-eared corners and myriad lines that cracked the spine, this one seemed to be one of Kurin's favorites. He shivered, turned away deciding he had enough of this game, and went to the chair as he had originally planned, cradling his precious cup of brandy.

* * *

It was not long before the door opened, and amidst a blast of cold air and drifting snow, Kurin entered. Jurel, having just stepped to the counter to refill his goblet, asked if he would like a drop. One must always respect one's elders after all.

“
Well, now, I don't mind if I do,” Kurin said. “There should be another cup around there somewhere.”

Jurel found it quickly enough, poured for both and turned, extending the new cup to Kurin. He took the proffered cup, glanced at Jurel's stained robe, and gasped, nearly dropping it to the floor.

“
By the gods boy! What happened to you?” Kurin breathed, staring, unable to take his eyes away.

With a glance down, Jurel shrugged, but otherwise offered no explanation. The stains had spread; the robe was more red than white.

“
Never mind, never mind. Come, sit down on the bed. Let me see those wounds.”

It was with an air of business that Kurin helped Jurel remove the stained robe, sat on his little stool, and started poking and prodding at Jurel, hemming and humming the whole while. After an inspection that seemed to last an eternity, Kurin's eyes rose to meet Jurel's with one eyebrow lifted.

“
These don't really look all too bad. I'm surprised at how much you've bled.”

Jurel, thinking the old man must be daft, looked to his torso. It was his turn to gasp. The wound from chest to armpit was still ugly, but it seemed narrower than he remembered, and it did not extend quite so far. Confused, Jurel looked at his wrist, the one that had shown him the crescent moon of bone, no more than twenty or thirty minutes before and could not explain how it came to be that he could no longer find the circle of white amid the red meat.

“
What in the name of the underworld is in the brandy?” Jurel asked, and Kurin frowned, his own question in his eyes. “This looks like it's been healing for two or three days. Not a half hour.” Jurel stared at the wounds, could not believe what his eyes were telling him.

Kurin's frown deepened and he shook his head. “There's nothing special in the brandy. It's just that: brandy.”

“
That's impossible! I clearly saw these wounds after you left. I inspected them by the fire. Look!” He stuck out his injured arm, showing Kurin his damaged wrist. “I saw bone in there. Clear as day, I saw the bone. I can't see it now.”

Kurin, bent to inspect the outstretched arm, putting his face close, and searched. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don't know, Jurel, but this cut, nasty as it is, does not appear to have cut to the bone. Perhaps you saw fire light reflected earlier.”

Jurel shook his head, not knowing what to think, knowing only what he had seen. Kurin turned to his drawers again and rifled some more, pulling out bits and pieces he thought he would need, and placed them on the counter above: some thick, black thread; a long, vicious looking needle, slightly curved; some coarse linen gauze; and some finer linen bandaging. He stood, and searched the mess of vials and beakers until, finally, he lifted one from the clutter with a satisfied grin.

“
This will do. Yes indeed, this will do,” he muttered and turned to Jurel. “I need to sew up that large wound on your chest. It will hurt so I suggest drinking a tot of brandy to help mitigate the pain.”

He did not need to be asked twice. He remembered falling out of his favorite tree when he had been a boy. As he fell, his arm had caught on a stub of broken branch, leaving quite a nasty gash. Daved had called on Galbin's healer, a fidgety, finicky little man who went by the name of Pelon, who also served as the farm's chief herb gardener—for obvious reasons—and after inspecting the wound, had told Jurel very much the same thing Kurin had. “It will hurt,” Pelon had said in his clipped, disapproving voice, “I think it would be best to drink this potion that I've prepared to help with the pain.” Thinking back on it, Jurel could not repress a small chuckle. The healer's “potion” had tasted much the same as Kurin's brandy. Or Daved's, for that matter. Potion indeed. The healer had been right on both counts. It had hurt. It had felt like wasp stings along with a sliding, pulling pinch as the thread was drawn through his flesh. And the brandy (potion) had helped.

After downing his brandy with one deep slug, he motioned to Kurin that he was ready. The old man set to work and after a moment, Jurel sighed lightly. It did hurt, but not as badly as that first time on the farm. Whether that was a testament to Kurin's ability or to the potency of his brandy, Jurel could not say, but at least it was less painful than he expected.

“
So, what happened? How did you get these knife wounds?” The question seemed off-hand, conversational, no more than a way to break the silence and distract Jurel as he worked, his steady hand dipping in, then drawing out in smooth, practiced motions.

Jurel ignored the question. He had no intention of revealing that he was a murderer. When the question went unanswered, Kurin hesitated, glanced up from his work, and blinked when he saw Jurel's stony expression.

“
No matter. I suppose it's none of my business anyway,” muttered the old man, returning to his gruesome work. He finished quickly and liberally applied bitter smelling salve from his vial onto the gauze. Then, he carefully folded the gauze in the linen bandaging and wrapped it around Jurel's torso. At the first touch, Jurel yelped and hissed an in-drawn breath. The salve felt like a thousand pins digging into his flesh as Kurin set the bandage and tied the ends together.

“
Oh don't be such a baby,” Kurin scoffed. “It only hurts for a moment and it's to help ward off infection. You'll be fine.”

Easy for you to say. I wager you never had the stuff on your skin before.
Before he could say anything out loud, the old man's words were proven true. The stinging subsided, leaving only a faint trace of coolness, as though Jurel had a bag of ice pressed to the outside of the bandage.

His wrist and arm were quicker to deal with, though the salve was just as uncomfortable the second and third time around, and with a flourish, Kurin tied the last bandage.

“
There we are. All done,” he pronounced and Jurel sighed. Attaining the wounds, he was sure, had been less painful than tending them. “Pour yourself some brandy and go have a seat. I'll be back in a moment,” the old man told him, and disappeared through the door that Jurel assumed led to his living quarters. He sat—threw himself in the chair—when the door opened and the old man entered, carrying a wooden ladder-back chair. He sat across from Jurel and extended his hands to the fire with a contented smile.

“
Now that the unpleasantness is passed, I would ask: what brings you to my door?”

“
Well, I've run into some difficulties and my father...oh!” A slip of memory was shaken free and he looked to the heap of torn, wet clothes he had left in the corner after he had changed. Rising, he found his ragged lump of a shirt and reached into the pocket, carefully extracting the sheet of paper his father had given him that morning. It had not survived the day unscathed. It was damp, spattered with mud, had a blood stain on the corner, and a tear, clean, as though sheared with scissors. Not having been around any scissors that day, Jurel could only assume that it had been Shenk's handiwork. He handed the paper to Kurin, who pinched it distastefully between a thumb and forefinger. “It's from my father.”

“
Really? It looks like it's from the depths of the underworld,” Kurin sniffed with a disgusted look.

Opening the bedraggled page, he read. His brow furrowed as he did, and when he reached the end, he cleared his throat with a loud
harrumph.
Jurel's curious gaze was met with rolled eyes and Kurin handed him the sheet of paper.

“
Go ahead, Jurel. Read it. You won't be satisfied until you do.”

He took the page and scrutinized the orderly block letters. He wondered if it was possible to be reminded of someone by their handwriting; Daved's handwriting was as neat and precise as he himself was. He pushed the thought away. Then he read:

Master Kurin,

Good day, sir. If you are reading this then it means that Jurel has arrived safely. In this, I would rejoice and I would appreciate word of my son's welfare, if you are able and willing.

I write this not out of desire for friendship or courtesy but because my son needs your help. Things have not gone well for Jurel here and he has been forced to leave the farm at once. He knows very little of the world and, as resourceful as I know him to be, I fear he would not survive long. So I send him to you, as the only person he knows outside this farm, and in hopes that you will be able to provide some assistance. Perhaps no more than a bed for a few days.

He is a good man, hard-working, intelligent, and courteous. Perhaps you or someone you know might offer employment to such a diligent young man.

Please, tell my son I love him and will endeavor to see him when next I am in town.

Sincerely,

Daved Histane

After working his way through Daved's words, Jurel folded the page, not knowing what to say, not trusting himself to speak. He was grateful beyond compare that his father had left out the details of his shame, the reason why, exiled from his home, he had appeared at Kurin's. He took comfort in his father's words (
tell my son I love him
) and he wondered if it would be long before Daved found a reason to come into town. He needed his father, that rock of a man, the way a man stranded in a desert needs water. For as long as Jurel could remember, Daved had always been there, had always stood with him—or in front of him, if Daved thought there was danger. If Jurel made a bad decision, a wrong turn (and what boy does not?) Daved was always there to put things right, and often followed up with harsh words. Words offered out of love to see his son flourish, to learn, or at least to see him uninjured.

Always there to save his son. Jurel had joined Trig and Darren for a game of cow tipping.
How long ago was that.
Two, three years now?
It felt like a lifetime ago and more. He and Trig had found the perfect candidate, a cow, sleeping right beside another, in the midst of the herd, and suppressing snickers, they had stalked up, pushed one cow into the other: a bovine game of dominoes. Both cows had toppled, struck a third hapless creature, and awakened. Indignant lows had erupted, causing a general alarm to rush through the rest of the herd. They were almost trampled that day, as they ran for safety as fast as their adolescent legs would carry them, mischievous laughter replaced by heart-pounding fear. Daved had appeared like a wind, riding his horse as if he were born on it, materializing out of nowhere, and grabbed each boy by the scruff, hauled them up, letting his horse take the bit and run. They had thundered off the field ahead of the stampede, and it had taken all the men in Galbin's employ the rest of the day to calm the riled beasts.

Oh, how Daved had berated him! He had thrashed Jurel that day, called him a fool, an idiot, and several other, less pleasant things. He remembered it with a smile, though he did not smile at the time.

But now...

Now Daved was a long way from him, and he felt that absence keenly, like he was being chased by that stampede again, and there was a cliff ahead with no way around. Daved would not ride out of the sunlight to save him the next time.

When he looked to Kurin, the old man was already gazing at him, with a mixture of pity, and sadness in his eyes. He rose, drained his cup, not able to withstand the old man's pity, and stalked to the counter where he refilled his goblet and drained it in one motion.

“
Careful, Jurel. That stuff's potent and it won't really help, you know.”

Jurel growled, his eyes lingering on the scattered flasks and the orderly line of books.

“
What else am I supposed to do? I'm exiled from my life. I have no where to go. It seems I must rely on the pity of an old man to survive.” He immediately hung his head, regretting his callous words, and turned to face Kurin. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.”