by Neal Jones
"I suppose it is ordinary."
"Hhmmm?"
"Death." Farak scraped his thumb along the edge of the chipped mug. One of his sons had made it for Jharis many years ago. "It happens every day."
"But it's still something sacred, a loss that is deeply felt. You don't like Brondin's poem because he cheapens the sentiment, makes it as trivial as death itself."
"I suppose." Farak reached down to arrange the petals on a sunburst orchid.
Inedra drank her tea, looking around once more at the garden. She glanced at Farak. "Your wife had a sense of humor."
"Because of her choice in poetry?"
"Well that, and the way she's arranged the flowers in her garden." Inedra pointed. "My father would never have placed aeto next to nykk. The nykk require large amounts of water, and they typically choke and overwhelm anything that's planted next to them. But the aeto has enough stamina of its own to hold its ground, and it requires almost no watering. Plus, it doesn't grow naturally in this region of homeworld."
Farak nodded, his expression rueful. "She had to send away for those seeds. She was very excited when they finally arrived. I remember thinking how silly it was to get so worked up over flowers."
"As opposed to tanta vines?"
Farak gave an involuntary chuckle. "I never got that excited." He blinked, surprised as much by the turn in the conversation as the conversation itself.
Inedra rose and brushed off her pants. "Thank you for the tea. I need to get back to my hostel and pack." She handed him her cup.
Farak stood. "It was nice meeting you."
She smiled. "You as well."
Farak walked her to the door and then he returned to the kitchen to empty the teapot and place the dishes in the reclamator. His stomach growled, reminding him that he'd had nothing to eat since breakfast almost twelve hours ago. He glanced around the kitchen, too tired to make something but not sure what else to do.
"Father?"
Farak turned, startled. Kralin stood in the doorway.
"Have you had dinner?"
"No."
"Sit. I'll make something."
Farak obeyed. "I just made some tea. I wasn't sure when you would be home, so I didn't keep it."
Kralin turned on the stove and rummaged in the cooler unit for a package of meat. "I was with Matok."
Farak nodded. "I assumed so."
"How much seasoning do you want on your meat?"
"What are you making?"
"A syn roast."
"Use the perva spice. It's up in that cupboard there."
Kralin worked quietly, and Farak said nothing more until the meal was ready. While it cooked, Kralin changed out of the dress uniform that he'd worn to the funeral. Farak made another pot of tea, and they ate most of the dinner in silence.
"Matok said there's an offer from Stromm," Kralin said at last. "A rather sizable one."
Farak grunted. "It's nowhere near what my company is worth."
"But it's enough to allow you to keep the house and the portion of the land it's built on."
Farak laughed, startling his son. "Are you sure you and I are talking about the same offer? Two hundred and fifty thousand kril?"
"Yes. Isn't that enough to pay off the two kril-tors on the house?"
Farak nodded. "If there were only two."
Kralin looked up from his meat, pausing in mid-slice. "There's a third?"
"I convinced Gern at the depository to give me a third loan last year. I was in negotiations with the Beldar, and if I had gotten that contract, it would have been enough to pay off all three kril-tors. Gern and I have done business for so long that he was willing to give me the loan even though the contract was not completed."
"How much is the new kril-tor?"
"Fifty-seven thousand."
Kralin laughed bitterly. "So even if you sell the company, it's only enough to pay off the first two loans. The depository is going to take the house."
"Not unless we hold out for a better offer. Stromm isn’t the only other company interested in mine –"
"There's no better offer on the table, father!" Kralin snapped. "Matok told me everything. The last decent bid was offered over two years ago, and right now, Stromm's is the best one. You should think yourself lucky they're offering two-fifty."
"Lucky??" Farak shot back. "What about any of this seems lucky to you??"
"Then don't take the offer! Declare section seven destitution and get nothing. The depository takes it all, and you can come live on Exxar-One with me. Or go live with Chresiff and his family. Or are you still not speaking with him? Yes, Matok told me about that as well. Have you alienated everyone in our family because of your stubborn pride?"
Farak pushed back his plate and stood. "Thank you for the meal."
Kralin sighed. "I can't stay here indefinitely. We have to talk about this soon."
"You have said goodbye to your mother," Farak calmly replied. "What other reason is there to stay?" He didn't wait for a response.
"I don't know," Kralin muttered to the empty room.
( 2 )
"Me first! Me first!" Kralin can barely contain his excitement as he races after his brother.
"Be quiet!" Jran whispers harshly. "You'll wake mother and father."
A few presents are piled around the altar. The boys settle themselves on the carpet, sitting cross legged.
"Which one should we open first?" Kralin has his eye on the large one in the corner.
"We can't open any of them yet," Jran reminds his little brother. He considers himself too old to be getting so worked up about this holiday. After all, there's only three gifts for each of them to open, and mother and father can't afford much.
Kralin gives an impatient sigh. "We should go wake them up."
"No! You heard what father said last night." But Jran is as eager as Kralin to open the gifts, and he glances at the wall clock. "We wait for ten more minutes."
"Go ahead, boys."
Farak's voice startles his sons, and they scramble to their feet. He's standing in the doorway, still in his nightclothes, a mug of steaming queet in his hand.
"Really?" It's hard sometimes to tell when father is making a joke.
"We have to say the prayer first," Jran reminds them.
Farak leans forward conspiratorially. "Just for this year, we can skip the prayer. We'll say it later, after the feast." He sets the mug aside and lowers himself to his hands and knees. "I have a surprise." He points to the big package in the corner, the one that Kralin has been sneaking curious glances toward. "It's for both of you, from me."
Kralin seizes it first, ripping the colorful paper off in frenzied strips. Jran lets him, as eager to see what's in the box as his brother. At first, Kralin can't figure out to open it, and Farak shows him.
"It's a Ong'a'Latu set!" Kralin squeals so loud that Jran winces.
Farak laughs. "Keep it quiet, son. I don't want to wake your mother."
"How many pieces are there?" Jran gushes.
"A lot." Kralin turns the box over and dumps its contents onto the carpet.
"We have to construct the battlements first." Jran points to a large triangle. "Hand me that piece – and the one next to it. No, the other one."
"Did you build this, father?" Kralin has started sorting through the miniature figurines. There's at least a hundred.
"I carved the soldiers. Matok carved the battlements and the playing board."
"It's huge," Jran interrupts. "We're going to have to move the sofa and the table to set this up."
"I'm already on it." Farak clears the center of the room, and then settles into his lay chair, reaching for his mug of tea. He watches his sons assemble the game, babbling excitedly to one another.
( 3 )
Farak awoke for the third time, sobbing. Again. He had thought the herbal medicine he had taken before laying down would have numbed his grief for a few hours at least, but the one pill had apparently not been enough. Farak wiped his eyes, disgus
ted with himself, as if he was a child suffering from night terrors. But as he turned on his side, trying to find a comfortable position again, his hand swept over the empty space on the other side of the bed. Even though it had been several months since Jharis had shared this bed, the ache of his loss bloomed once more in his chest, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to stave off a fresh wave of tears.
Farak threw back the covers and sat up, reaching for his night robe. It was late enough that Kralin should be asleep by now, and Farak's stomach rumbled. There should still be some roast left over in the cooler, and mug of hot tea with another dose of sleeping herbs should be enough to sedate him for the rest of the night. But as Farak arrived at the foot of the stairs, he was startled by an odd glow from the parlor. As he moved closer, he could see that it came from the wall screen. He was even more surprised to see that Kralin was sprawled on the sofa, passed out, two empty bottles of wine on the floor beside his right hand.
Farak sighed and shook his head, and he was about to shut off the screen, but then he thought better of it. His son had the right idea. Farak walked to the pantry and retrieved another bottle of wine, and then he stopped in the bathroom to get another pill. He moved Kralin's feet so there was room to sit, and he pried the control pad from his son's left hand. Farak downed the pill with a swig of wine, laid back, and began channel surfing.
( 4 )
Kralin coughed, bleary-eyed, and sat up. He scrubbed a hand over his face and coughed again. He was hung over, and the wine left a bitter taste in his parched mouth. He glanced around, and then did a double take when he saw his father slumped over at the other end of the sofa. Farak was snoring, his mouth partly agape, the half-empty bottle of wine cradled against his chest. Kralin gathered up the two bottles he'd consumed and then gently pried the third away from his father. He laid Farak down and drew up a blanket around him.
The wall screen was playing an old melodrama, and Kralin shut it off on the way to the kitchen. He glanced out the window above the sink, surprised to see that it was still dark. One glance at the wall clock, however, told him that the sun would be up soon, probably an hour or less. Kralin put the empty bottles in the reclamator, and then filled a pot to boil water for tea. He reached for the half empty bottle of wine that his father had opened and walked out to the garden.
The air was cool and damp, and dew glistened like tears on the broad odela leaves. Kralin sat on one of the benches near the wall and took a long swig of the wine. The liquid was warm, and the taste more bitter than sweet. Kralin grimaced and took another drink. Some part of his subconscious realized that he was finishing the bottle in order to steel himself for the hard choice he had been wrestling with all night. For the past few days, in fact.
Kralin raised his eyes to the horizon where dawn was starting to bleed into the sky, and he sighed. An unexpected memory surfaced, something the headmaster at the War Academy had said during a lecture. Kralin had been a raw recruit then, in possession of nothing more than his grief and rage, and all he wanted was to be given a weapon and placed aboard a gunnery ship. The lecture was an introduction to the recruits on their first day at the academy, and the man giving it was Colonel Major Gaius, a veteran of numerous campaigns, and his thunderous words – as well as his stern gaze – was meant to instill in the recruits a mixture of awe, intimidation and devotion.
"You are not yet soldiers of the empire, but you have taken the first, necessary step by enlisting and putting on that uniform. After your time here at the academy, you will earn the title of Warrior, and you will never be able to go home again."
That last part startled and shocked several of the recruits, and Gaius paused for effect, satisfied by the confused murmuring. He waited for the commotion to subside.
"When you are finished with your training in twelve weeks, you will know how wield a sword, how to fire a gorahk, how to defend yourself and your unit against any enemy, and you will have earned the right to wear a soldier's uniform and rank. And yes, you can return home, but it will not be the same as when you left. You will have changed, and you will see your family and your friends very differently. They, too, will look at you differently, and you can never be one of them. A civilian. Once you have been given the title of Warrior, you cannot be anything else, and there will be some who do not understand this. Only those who have stood with you in battle, who have shed their blood alongside yours, will understand you completely, and that bond will separate you forever from your family and all others who do not wear the same uniform."
Gaius paused again to slowly sweep his gaze across the vast audience, many of whom were now looking a bit skeptical and a little fearful. The headmaster of the War Academy nodded once more.
"Some of you are wondering if you have made the right choice. Some of you don't believe me. And some of you are eager for nothing more than to get on the battlefield as soon as possible. But none of you understand here and now exactly what I'm speaking of, and I do not fault you for that. You will understand at a later time, probably many years from now, and when you do, you will curse this path you have chosen. For the life of a Warrior – a true and honorable soldier of the empire – is a lonely and desolate one."
Kralin remembered Gaius' expression as he said this, a ghost of a smile appearing on his narrow, weathered face.
"But it's worth the price. And our reward is not in this life, but in El'Sha'Lor."
Kralin looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them, the echo of Gaius' words fading. The headmaster had been right, of course. Kralin had never felt as lonely and empty and he did right now, and, in a sudden burst, his grief overwhelmed him.
He bowed his head and wept.
( 5 )
Farak groaned as he forced himself to sit up. He glanced around, momentarily confused by his surroundings, and then remembered that he had come to the parlor in the middle of the night. He cast his gaze toward the floor but didn't see the wine bottles. Nor was Kralin asleep on the other end of the couch. The curtains were still drawn over the front window, but sunlight peeked in around the edges. Farak stood, glancing at the wall clock. It was almost midday, and he cursed at himself for sleeping so late.
"Do you feel like eating?"
Farak looked over his shoulder at his son. Kralin was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, an odd expression on his face. "Yes, I suppose." When he entered the kitchen, he was surprised at the meal that awaited him. A rack of roasted bront, steamed aghiti, and a side of chilled mussk. "You made all of this?"
"Yes. I had some help from Inedra."
Farak nodded, smiling to himself. "She's a...pleasant woman."
"Yes, she mentioned the conversation she had with you yesterday." Kralin poured a cup of tea and set it next to his father's plate.
Farak began slicing his meat. "Is she still here?"
"No. I'm meeting her for dinner later tonight." Kralin paused. "I'm leaving for Exxar-One tomorrow morning."
Farak chewed and swallowed. "I see." He didn't look up as he reached for his tea.
"Matok will be here soon. But I wanted to have a talk first, just the two of us."
Farak sighed. "Kralin, I want to eat my meal in peace. I don't want to argue, and I'm tired of fighting."
"Good. So am I." Kralin slid a compad across the table. "Two years ago I bought a piece of land on Beta Erendii. It was in the same province as the farm where Jran and Tarish lived. I was planning to resign my service commission and live on Beta Erendii."
Farak chewed his meat, watching his son and listening.
"Shortly after I made these plans, there was an incident with a live-fire exercise, and two recruits under my command were seriously wounded. They survived, but charges of negligence were brought against me, and I was forced to leave the War Academy. Did you know that I was once an instructor there?"
Farak nodded. "I heard about that incident. Matok told me."
"I was demoted and transferred to a munitions outpost in the Rynene sector. It
was only a few months later that I was given the Exxar-One assignment."
"Why are you telling me all of this?"
Kralin continued as though his father hadn't interrupted. "When I received your letter about mother's illness, I was already determined to come back home. Not here, on homeworld, but to that piece of land I purchased on Beta Erendii. I was writing my own letter to send to War Command, resigning my commission." He paused.
"Did you?"
"No." Kralin motioned to the pad. "I can't leave now, father. It took nearly everything I had in my savings to buy that land, and when I sold it early this morning, I didn't make much of a profit. Some, but not much. It's enough, however, to pay off one of the kril-tors that you owe the depository. And if you accept the offer of sale from Stromm, it should be enough to cover one of the other loans and most of the third."
Farak put down his fork, stunned by this news. He reached for the pad, glancing over the figures on the balance sheet that was displayed on its screen.
"As I understand the Stromm's offer, from what Matok has told me, you would still be able to work at the vineyards, in a part time managerial position. They're willing to pay you accordingly. Matok said that that was specifically in the contract of the proposed sale. That income, along with a monthly stipend from me will be enough to let you keep this house and its land."
Kralin stood and poured himself a mug of tea while he waited for his father's reply. Farak laid the compad aside and reached for his fork.
"You would do this for me?"
"Why do you sound so surprised?"
Farak swallowed a bite of aghiti. "It's unexpected, that's all."
"Yes, it is. You thought I would just leave without saying goodbye; that I would return Exxar-One, and we wouldn't speak for another two decades."
"Apparently I was wrong."
Kralin winced as he returned to his seat. He reached for the pad. "No, father, you're not. I almost did leave without saying goodbye. I was going to give Matok a letter explaining everything that I just told you."
Farak pushed away his empty plate as he looked at his son. He felt refreshed from his sleep but utterly exhausted as well, and he suspected that Kralin felt the same. The last few days had been tiring for both of them. "I'm glad that you stayed." He meant it.
