The Path of the Sword (37 page)

He seemed to recall a small coterie out in that neck of the woods that might do the trick, men who would be happy to serve their god in the darkness of an alley. For proper compensation, of course. No one worked for free these days, not even for a High Priest of Gaorla himself. A quick communication and Kurin would be no more than a heap of moldering flesh and bone in a shallow grave. The Grand Prelate might even thank him for ridding the world of the Salosian heretic. Perhaps he might gain a reward, or at the very least curry favor with the old fool. He was seen as quite the up-and-comer; with a little luck, this turn of events could see him securing a prelacy. He grinned at the thought, imagining himself, a butcher's son as one of the six prelates, answerable only to the Grand Prelate himself. Not even the king would dare gainsay him.

And answerable to Gaorla of course, he added. Because he was a good man. A pious man. A man whose tireless work was only for the greater good. He had done things that might have been considered by some to be terrible, maybe even evil. It made him snort in derision. To those, he would argue that anything done to keep the faith of the people strong was worth the price, even if the price was blood. Which brought him back to Kurin. The price of blood would be paid. He had made it his life's mission to rid the world of the heresy that was the Salosian Order and he would do whatever was necessary. A few strong men with sharp daggers would be a good start.

Yes, I think that will do very nicely indeed,
he thought.
I shall kill two birds.

He picked up his quill again, and shuffled through the mess of parchments, letting his eye follow the line of his stallion's majestic neck, that slight smile still curling his lips.

Chapter 26

Jurel stumbled bleary-eyed out the front door with his bag slung over his shoulder. It was early as Kurin had promised it would be, with dawn still two or three hours away and they were the only two people on the street. The town looked quite different at that hour with only the half moon, hung low on the horizon, to provide pale illumination. No hustle and bustle of townsfolk running errands, no hawkers crying out that their product was of the finest quality—the finest in town, they all bawled, only two coppers—no clanging of a smith's hammer or clopping of hooves. All of it had been replaced by the deep dark of night, impenetrable shadows obscuring the shops and stalls, reaching out, seeking with long fingers of gloom spreading like puddles of oil, giving the town an eerie facelessness that Jurel found unsettling, like he was trapped in a deep canyon between close set cliffs.

“If you're quite done gawking, my boy, then perhaps you would be so kind?” Kurin murmured and Jurel jumped at the sound of the old man's voice by his shoulder. He turned to Kurin just as a heavy sack, containing several hard squares was thrust at him.

“You're taking your books?”

“Of course I am. What, did you think I would leave all my valued possessions behind?” Kurin retorted and sniffed. “Put them in the cart, would you?”

Jurel turned again, lugging the hefty bag, to the small two wheeled cart that waited in the street in front of Kurin's shop. Jurel tossed it over the side rail of the cart, and it landed with a thud, jarring in the stillness, eliciting a hiss from Kurin.

“Are you trying to wake the dead, boy?” the old man snarled. “The point to leaving before dawn is to avoid detection but if you prefer, I can drop you off at the guardhouse on my way out of town. At least you won't wake the entire population that way.”

“Sorry,” muttered Jurel.

Kurin stalked back into his house grumbling about the foolishness of youth, leaving Jurel to stand alone in the dark. He decided to check on Kurin's horse, a roan gelding who snuffled quietly when Jurel patted his nose. The horse nosed at Jurel's pocket and he could not help but smile.

“Looking for a carrot are you? Don't worry, boy. I'm sure your master has something for you.”

The horse snorted as if it understood Jurel's words and turned away, suddenly disinterested in the young man who could not even be bothered to offer it a treat. Jurel laughed quietly, rubbed the horse's sleek neck, thinking the animal had every right to be disappointed. After all, it too had been roused far earlier than was normal. It was probably grouchy. And why not?
He
was.

“All right, Jurel. Let's get going,” Kurin said, materializing from the black maw where his door stood, and waved Jurel to the cart. “Hop on up in back and cover yourself with the blanket I put there. Just in case.”

Without hesitation, he did as the old man bade, clearing a space between the mounds of sacks, though he did not cover himself completely with the woolen blanket he found. It was a rough thing, undyed and coarse, and it immediately caused prickly little pins to stalk across any bare flesh, and even some that was not, which he scratched vigorously. Better than a noose, he supposed. Besides, there was a chill bite in the air that seeped to his bones despite his being wrapped in a heavy cloak and a fur offered to him by Kurin. The blanket itched, but it added another layer of warmth.

After hoisting himself onto the driver's bench, with an agility that seemed wholly out of place on such a frail looking old man, Kurin eyed the shadows where his humble little shop stood, sadness tugging the corners of his mouth.

“I'm going to miss this place, I think,” he said. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he caught Jurel's eye. “This might be a pretty long road we're on. Are you ready?”

With nothing else to say, Jurel simply nodded into the darkness. Kurin apparently saw the gesture, for he turned and flicked the reins lightly and clicked his tongue, urging his horse forward. The shadows started to roll by slowly, like a lazy river, indistinct and flat, and Jurel watched, rapt by the sight that was no sight, overwhelming darkness swirling and surrounding like current eddies when the moon reached its own destination, an unknown bed over the edge of the horizon, and the horse marched forward, its hooves thudding dully in the muddy road.

Time passed, minutes or hours Jurel could not tell in the hypnotized trance he fell into, while he stared at the progress of their passage. He felt saddened, did not really know why, by the fact that he was passing through a part of town that he had never actually seen, like realizing an old friend had kept secrets from him. He had been in this town on only a handful of occasions with Daved, but on those visits, he had never been east of the general store where his father picked up supplies, as if that store had been a boundary to his existence, never to be crossed lest some unknown treaty was broken and war broke out.

Lately, he had stayed at Kurin's small shop, but that, he felt, did not count. He had not stepped foot in the street since his arrival. He had been hiding. Not from the town guard, no. Well, yes but he had not known they were searching for him until the previous day so hiding from them had been a secondary benefit. He had been hiding from himself, believing that if he never stepped foot out into the real world, then maybe the real world would remain separate from him. Maybe then his crimes would remain separate too. Another border. Another war.

And here he was. Out in the real world where his crimes were not apart from him but were instead a part of him, and he passed through this small town that he had briefly called home, leaving another old friend behind, secrets and all.

“Cover up,” Kurin hissed.

After a moment, from under the wool blanket Jurel heard a voice in the distance, ordering them to halt, and Jurel heard Kurin mutter to his horse. The cart rumbled to a standstill and Jurel waited.

“May I help you?” Kurin asked.

“Kurin? Is that you?” the voice called. Irrationally, uncomfortably, Jurel thought that this was the second time in two days that Kurin held a conversation with town guards while Jurel eavesdropped. Secrets indeed.

“Why of course it is. Who else would it be?” Kurin responded.

“What are you doing about at this hour?” the voice sounded jovial enough, but Jurel's instincts stirred, whispered to him that Kurin had better consider his words carefully.

“Why I'm simply going to visit my nephew. I received a note from him yesterday and I was concerned by the young man's words.”

“Interesting,” replied the guard, “Because Aldrig and Benn told me that your nephew was coming to visit you.”

Kurin laughed nervously, and cleared his throat.
The old man is buying time so that he can think up a story. Oh bloody hell.
He lay in the cart, completely motionless, barely daring to
breath, definitely not daring to scratch the pinpricks left by the blanket, thinking that their journey was over even before it had begun.

“Well, yes he was. But not long after they left, a messenger arrived from Merris with news.” A long silence follows Kurin's words, until Kurin spoke again. “Do you mind then, standing aside? I need to be on my way if I wish to reach Merris Town before next spring.”

No answer. Nothing. Jurel shut his eyes tightly, trying to banish all the images that came unbidden to his mind. He saw himself dragged to the guard house, tossed in a dank dirty cell crawling with rats and left for dead. He saw himself hauled to a gallows, noose prepared and sized just right to fit his neck. He saw himself, ears ringing, enraged, attacking everyone around him...no. Not that. He would
not
think of that.

“So what did your nephew write to cause you to go sneaking off in the night?” the guardsman finally asked, and his voice rang with so much doubt that Jurel trembled.

“Well,” Kurin stammered, “that his wife is ill. That he does not think it safe for her to travel. So he has begged me to come to them and do what I can for her. That's what I do, you know. I'm a healer. I heal.”

“Oh, is that what you do? Thank you for that enlightenment.” Jurel could almost see the sarcastic smirk that creased the guard's face.

“Do not get snippy with me, young man. I have healed more people in my life than you have
seen
in yours. Now unless there is something I can do for you, please stand aside and leave me be. Or perhaps I should have a word with Commander Javon next time he drops in for a visit. I imagine he might not be happy to hear that his men are waylaying innocent folk on errands of mercy,” Kurin snapped and Jurel held his breath.

Make or break.

“I apologize, Master Kurin. I was simply ensuring the safety of the town and its folk.”

“By stalling me?” Kurin growled. “What am I going to do?
Heal
everyone to death?”

Oh god, I'm a dead man.
The blanket that had so recently offered an extra level of welcome warmth stifled him. Trickles of sweat worked their way down his temples and he thought he would suffocate for there just did not seem to be a single breath of air under the blanket all of a sudden. It took every shred of willpower he had to resist the temptation of throwing off his blanket and breath deep, refreshing breaths.

“I—I'm sorry sir.”

“Well, I suppose you should be commended for your thoroughness,” Kurin said as though he was forcing graciousness. “I'll let it pass this time. But please remember, man, that these are public streets and not everyone is a thief in the night.” With those words, Jurel felt the cart shudder and jolt into motion once again.

No thieves, but there are plenty of murderers out this night,
Jurel thought.

“Yes, sir,” the guard called as they passed him and, peeking out from a crease in the blanket, Jurel saw the guard standing stock still and ramrod straight looking for all the world like it had been his commander after all who had given him a dressing down.

Jurel let himself sag, the tension oozing from his muscles, replaced by a dull ache as he wilted further into the packs and boxes in the cart. Something dug into his hip and he shifted to get it free.

“Be still,” Kurin muttered. “We're not out of the woods yet.”

The cart trundled on, picking up some speed, and it jostled and jolted, sending tremors sizzling through Jurel. He braced himself as best he could, staring at the blanket above his eyes, trying not to think about their near ruinous run in with the town guardsman, seething that Kurin had almost undone them so early in the game.

After an endless time, Kurin slowed the cart, and called cheerily over his shoulder to Jurel.

“Come on out, Jurel. You'll miss all the scenery under that thing.”

Throwing off the blanket, Jurel sat up, felt his sweat turn to little pebbles of ice on his brow and glared at the old man.

“Well, thanks to you, the only scenery I almost saw was a cell,” he grumbled.

“What, you mean that fool guard? Posh! He was never a problem,” Kurin laughed. “I know him. He's a good enough man but there's a reason his commander put him on the night shift. He's not got enough brains to tell the difference between a mule and his ass. He's on the night shift so that less folk will be bothered by him.”

Jurel decided to let it go. No harm done after all, he conceded.

Looking around, he tried to see where they were, but the moon had set, leaving a blanket of impenetrable darkness that the scattering of stars overhead, a million pinprick holes in night's satin fabric, did nothing to lessen. Until dawn broke, Jurel thought the scenery that Kurin had urged him to view would be awfully boring.

“So where are we going anyway?” Jurel asked. The question popped from his lips, surprising him. He had not thought to ask again if the old man had decided on a destination. The answer was obvious.

“Oh I don't know, I don't know,” Kurin said. “Wherever the wind takes us, I suppose. We'll probably stop in Merris Town for a day or two to rest and resupply before setting out again. Why? Did you have any specific place to be?”

“No, I suppose not. I was just curious, that's all.” He was not sure he liked the idea of constant travel, of just roaming around aimlessly for the rest of his life. With nothing to say and nothing to see, he leaned back and gazed at the stars as he had so many times in his life, losing himself in the silent majesty above.