The Path of the Sword (33 page)

A look, a mixture of glaring heat and stony mystery, melted to calm acceptance. “No need. I can understand that you're not exactly feeling like yourself at the moment. I remember once hearing a woman screaming at her husband, an old friend of mine.” Kurin chuckled and rubbed his chin, his eyes distant with memory. “She was very pregnant and he had done something rather foolish. I can't quite recall what he did, but I do remember when she finally broke down into tears, he wrapped an arm around her and said, 'It's all right dear. You're just hormonal.' I thought she was going to kill him then.” Again he laughed. His eyes came back to the present and glued onto Jurel's. “Please, come and sit. Bring the brandy with you.” He gestured to the chair, and Jurel complied, slowly returning to plop himself down to stare at the fire, dancing and licking in the hearth.

“
I don't know what to do,” Jurel muttered.

“
Welcome to the real world, Jurel. None of us really know what to do. We just...do,” Kurin said softly, maybe even...tenderly?

They sat, staring at the fire in silence, each pondering their own circumstances until, some time later, Kurin rose, with that air of business-like efficiency he'd had when he'd tended Jurel's wounds and considered the young man sitting in his chair.

“
Well, I think what we should do tonight is simple enough. Some hot food—you must be starving—and a warm bed would probably do the trick. Perhaps with morning's light, things will appear a little less desperate.”

Jurel nodded, rose, and followed Kurin into the back room, hoping, praying, that the old man was right.

Chapter 22

After a hot breakfast, of eggs, bacon and lightly seasoned diced potatoes, Kurin told Jurel that he had to go see a woman about a baby. Jurel was not quite sure what the old man meant, so he simply nodded mutely, and asked if there was anything he could do while Kurin was out.

“Certainly. There's a broom in the pantry, second door on the left. Would you be so kind as to sweep the floors? They're an awful mess.”

With a nod, Jurel stepped into the indicated pantry, barely glancing at the neat stacks of jars and burlap bundles that populated the various shelves, and retrieved the mentioned broom, if the stick with a spray of straw tied roughly to one end could be called such, from the corner by the door.

“Oh, and while you're at it, would you mind cleaning up those dishes? There's a well in the back yard,” Kurin added, closing the door behind him as he left.

Jurel sighed, staring at the heap of filthy dishes stacked so high on the counter that the small window was almost totally obscured. He was not quite sure how any meal for two could accumulate such a mess, but with nothing else to do, he tackled the chores with alacrity, glad to have something to keep himself occupied.
It would not take so long, he thought. Kurin's home was not very big though it was bigger than the wooden facade seemed to indicate. The kitchen in particular was airy, dominated by the oak table in the center of the room, where they had eaten their breakfast. It was a beautiful table, out of place in the plain kitchen with its carved moldings and dark lacquer finish. There were two chairs, one at each end, which did not match the table, rough cedar ladder-backs with only a light stain finish. One of them had been used by Kurin the previous night when he and Jurel had sat by the fire after Jurel's arrival. The long counter,
covered with mismatched pots and plates nearly spanned the room, only allowing enough space at one end for the door that led to Kurin's back yard. Along an adjacent wall, across from the pantry door, there stood a pot-bellied stove, much like the one Jurel had seen every day of his life in Daved's little cabin, though this stove was larger. He had not been through
the other door that led from the kitchen, the one beside the pantry door, but since that was the door Kurin had disappeared through the night before, he presumed it led to his bed chamber.

Stepping from the kitchen to the back yard, Jurel found himself in a small compound. He was surprised to see that there was a small outbuilding a few feet from where he stood, with windows spreading from end to end along each of its walls. Along one side of the windowed building, Kurin had set up a makeshift lean-to that sheltered a garden. Bare earth at this time of year, it was probably where he grew his herbs and maybe some vegetables. He did not understand the reason for the cover; it seemed ridiculous to keep sunlight from hungry plants but since it really was none of his business, he ignored his curiosity and turned his gaze to his destination. He angled away from the building, to the well, made of rough gray stones, and covered with a circular lid. Beside the well sat a bucket tied to a neatly coiled length of hemp rope, and it was this bucket that Jurel aimed for.

After emptying the bucket of as much snow as he could, he filled it from the well, marveling that he was able to draw water at all in the frigid weather; the well must have been deep indeed, to have not frozen. Replacing the crude lid, he re-entered the house, shivering, and sized up, once again the tasks in front of him.

At least it's something to keep me occupied,
he thought and set to work, waiting for Kurin to return.

* * *

For the next few days, he found himself caught in a routine that was not unlike the one he had followed at the farm. They rose from their beds, Kurin's behind that one door that Jurel never went through, and Jurel's, the little cot in the front room where Kurin met his patients. It did not bother Jurel that he slept on a bed that held sick, possibly contagious people for large portions of the day. Kurin insisted on changing the sheet every evening after he locked his front door, so Jurel knew he always slept on an unsullied bed. Where Kurin found so many linens, Jurel had no idea, but they were always
crisp and clean when he pulled them up over his shoulders and they were effective enough in warding off the night's chill that the fireplace, banked low each night, could not quite keep at bay.

They began each day with a hot breakfast, comprised of eggs, ham or bacon, and fresh fruit, buttered rolls and juice. After their breakfast, Kurin went to his office, and waited on patients of all sorts. Jurel was not welcome to join him for obvious reasons, but he could often hear snippets through the door: “Sir, my leg hurts”, or “I have this cough that won't go away”, and sometimes “is my baby all right?”—this last often spoken loudly over the wailing baby in question. Each time, Kurin assured his patients, comforted them with kind words and set about doing whatever he could to help them in that efficient way that Jurel likened to a bird building a nest. He was good, apparently, because it was a rare thing that his office was empty.

While Kurin was ministering to his patients, Jurel contented himself with cleaning their morning mess, sweeping the floor with the ratty little broom and, once Kurin realized that Jurel's grasp of reading was limited—Daved had only had three texts to teach him from after all—poring through the texts that Kurin brought back from the front room. He preferred sweeping to the boring pages that Kurin wanted him to read; he really was not interested in discovering what herbs were best used to salve an open wound—though he had found out that Kurin used Dogspur on his own—or what would best calm a burning throat, but Kurin had insisted, telling Jurel that reading proficiently was an important skill, and if he had to read, then he may as well learn something else that could prove useful. Many people had died no more than an hour from the nearest healer, Kurin had informed him, because they did not have the simple knowledge required to tell which abundant plants could be used to keep an infection at bay.

Besides, it was something to keep his mind occupied.

Each afternoon, Kurin entered the kitchen with the setting of the sun, to the warm smell of dinner cooking, satisfied to find Jurel poring over one tome or other while the young man waited for the chicken, or the ham, or the beef stew to be ready to eat. He motioned Jurel to follow him into his office
where he checked Jurel's wounds, keeping a careful eye out for the angry red lines that would indicate infection, marveling at the speed with which the young man healed. Once satisfied that all was well, Kurin re-wrapped the wounds with new gauze soaked in the stinging, bitter smelling dogspur.

“It's just not possible. Look at this. The stitching is getting pushed out and the wound is almost totally closed. I don't understand a thing of it,” Kurin marveled on the fourth day. He poked and prodded a while longer, hemming and humphing, shaking his head. “How can a wound that should take weeks to heal be almost closed in just a few days?”

Jurel, of course, had no idea though he noted that he had felt no real pain from any of his wounds in the last day or two. He raised his arm, where Kurin had yet to wrap his damaged wrist, seeing that there was barely more than a scar. He was as bewildered as Kurin.

“Well, it's simply remarkable. Most men with your wounds would have been laid up in bed for days and the wounds would persist for weeks, leaving scars that would be visible for the rest of their lives,” clinical observation, almost a lecture. “You, on the other hand, were up and about at sunrise the day after you got here, and I would imagine that scarring will be minimal. And your face...” Kurin trailed off, studied Jurel's face, carefully comparing what he saw with what he remembered, poking at it (rather annoyingly, in Jurel's opinion) with one thrusting finger. The angry welts, and shadowy bruises had faded, leaving barely a trace of discoloration, about the same hue of grass-stains, behind. “You were black and blue, your lips were broken, and your left eye was swelled almost shut. Not to mention the cut that was across your cheek. I see none of that now. How did you do it?”

“I don't know.”

He had always been a quick healer, but this was verging on the miraculous. The last time he had a serious injury, that fall out of the tree, he had healed completely in three weeks and there was no scar to show for it. But this...

He mulled it over until Kurin finished his ministrations, shrugged and squirmed to rearrange the
new dressings comfortably, and with a muttered, “thank you,” decided it was just the strength of his young body that allowed such things to be. What else
could
it be?

The days passed as they had. Jurel cooked and cleaned, and he began to feel almost as if he were at home. In his spare time, he read and learned more about berries and herbs and the procedures used to gather, and prepare them for use in a sick room—“Mix crushed wardwart with boiling water. Allow to steep for two hours. Filter with one ten-thousandth mesh. Dispose carefully of the residue ensuring that none touch bare flesh.” Riveting stuff—while Kurin tended the sick. His reading had improved markedly; he found he did not have to speak the words as he read them anymore, no longer needed to carefully pronounce each syllable of the larger words on the page. By the seventh day, his stitching had fallen out, stuck to the gauze as Kurin changed them and by the ninth, the wound on his chest had completely closed, leaving no more than a small scab where, a week before, there had been a deep, ugly wound that seeped blood and ruined a white robe. The wounds on his arms were barely more than memories; tiny scars were the only reminder of his encounters with Shenk and Merlit in the woods.

“I think we're finished with bandaging, Jurel,” Kurin said on the tenth day after his regular poking inspection. “I just don't understand it. How did you do it?” Jurel had lost count how many times Kurin had uttered those words.

“
I don't know,” was his reply. As it always was, always immediately followed with the unspoken question,
How should I know?

“Well, I think it high time to get you out of that robe and into fresh clothes, now that you're not in danger of bloodying them up. Go look in the bottom drawer on the right, will you?”

Jurel did as he was told, and found a bundle wrapped in plain burlap. He lifted out the soft bundle and glanced inquisitively at Kurin.

“Yes, yes, that's the one. Go ahead and open it,” Kurin said, with a small smile and a twinkle dancing in his eyes.

When Jurel unwrapped the burlap and saw the contents, his confusion turned to surprise. He discovered a linen shirt, simply woven, of dark green. Under that, a gray woolen cloak, and under that, a pair of pants made of soft blue wool. Picking up the shirt, he noticed that it seemed to be tailored to his size.

“I don't understand,” Jurel said.

“I missed your birthday, did I not?” Kurin asked. “Well, consider this a late present.” He smiled and waved at Jurel. “Try it on. Let's see if it fits.”

Jurel changed quickly, discarding the white robe into the same corner he had left his other tattered rags, wondering briefly what had become of those rags—later, when asked, Kurin would respond, “I burned them. And good riddance too for they stank to the heavens.”—and found the clothing was nearly a perfect fit. The shirt was just a little loose and the pants were a little long, but aside from those minor quibbles, Jurel found himself, once again, dressed in normal clothing.

“There's a pair of boots in the corner by the door for you too. Vance—he's the cobbler just down the street—didn't want to make boots until he could get a proper measure of your feet, but he owed me a favor.”

Jurel padded over and found a pair of beautiful black boots shining in the firelight, made of soft leather, and appearing quite comfortable. His impression was a good one; the first one slipped onto his foot as if Vance had indeed taken measurements, and when he had both boots on, he took a few careful steps, searching for any hint of chafing that might cause blisters. He found none.