The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  Understanding lanced through Jurel like an arrow and he groaned. On some level, he always knew that Valik would one day own the farm. He should, for Valik loved rubbing it in their faces as often as possible. But aside from Valik's boasting, it was an abstract idea, as useless to dwell on as rain during a picnic: what would be, would be. He had always assumed that he would spend the rest of his life here with his father and Galbin and his friends. But the contradictory thought perked itself: Someday, Valik would own the farm. On that day, Jurel would be homeless. He knew that. It was inevitable.

  But certainly that was a long way in the future. Galbin was healthy and strong as an ox. Nothing could bring that man down short of the moon falling on his head. He need not be concerned over an event that would not come to pass for years. Right?

  “By your silence, I take it you understand the ramifications,” Kurin commented. “So how old are you anyway? Your face says twelve, maybe thirteen but by the gods, your size says seventeen. I hate a mystery. It's driving me mad.”

  “I'm twelve. I'll be thirteen in a few months. On the Day of Shadows.”

  Behind him, he heard a strangled cough like Kurin had swallowed his tongue and alarmed, he craned his neck as far around the tree as he could, trying to see what ailed the old man.

  “Sir? Are you all right, sir?”

  He coughed wetly and responded in a wavery voice, “Yes, yes. Just a touch of chill. And I asked you to call me Kurin.”

  A touch of chill. Jurel sweated in the muggy heat and Kurin had a touch of chill. Right. Sure.

  Leaning back, he said nothing, instead content to let the silence draw out again. It gave him time to regroup his muddled thoughts. Kurin kept jumping from topic to topic and it was awfully confusing. An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness, like a warning to the life that scurried in the grasses: “Fair warning: I'm on the hunt. Here I come.” He imagined hundreds of mice scuttling for safety, calling out squeaky rodent warnings, “Git the little 'uns inside! Quick!” or “No time for foraging. There's death in the skies tonight!” “She'll hit when you least expect.” “You'll be dead before you can blink.”

  “You said you were a traveling healer,” he said, more to get rid of the bloody image than anything. “What's it like?”

  “Well my boy,” Kurin mused. “It's a good life. Not easy, but good. I wander wherever the wind takes me and I see new things every day. Why just last month I was on the western shores of the Sun Sea watching the most spectacular sunrise you could ever imagine. Do you know why it's called the Sun Sea, Jurel?”

  Why it was called the Sun Sea? He barely knew where the Sun Sea was. He had only heard of it once or twice in his entire life. If memory served, it was somewhere east and far to the south, near the Kashyan border.

  “No.”

  “Hmmm. Well if you stand on the shore on a clear morning and wait for the sun to rise over the mountains in the east, you're greeted with the most wondrous view. The sun is mirrored on the surface of the sea, you see, and it appears for all the world that the sun's twin is under the surface. The entire sea lights up golden and red and purple and...well, all the colors you can imagine. People from all over the kingdom travel there just to catch a glimpse of the sunrise.”

  “Sounds pretty,” Jurel said without much conviction. He saw the sun rise all the time; sometimes he went out to the pond and the sun reflected there too. He could see no difference except for the scale. Even if Kurin apparently could.

  “Pretty?” he spluttered and Jurel wondered if the man was going to have a heart seizure. “Pretty? It's one of the most breathtaking wonders in the entire kingdom. Why, to some, it's almost a religious experience. Pretty?”

  His voice dropped and he continued his rant in a low mutter to himself. Jurel strained his ears, trying to make out the man's words but all he managed to get was “provincial louts” and “fool farmboys”. Indignation flashed red hot and he sat up straighter.

  “I am terribly sorry that I cannot live up to your expectations. Sir.” The old man had a chill did he? Well Jurel would see him downright frozen! “I do not get to travel much. You know, being a provincial lout, a fool farmboy and all. Sir.”

  He was gratified when he heard a small gasp. The old man went so still that Jurel wondered if he had in fact managed to freeze him in place. A tiny bit of fear crept in as the old man remained silent, followed by guilt. He should respect his elders, after all.

  “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped that way. I'm sure the view is very nice.”

  “No no, my boy,” Kurin sighed. “It is I who must apologize for my indiscreet words. Curse my addled old wits. I was not saying that you were a fool. I am simply distraught that a young man as bright as you has never had the opportunity to experience the world and see its wonders. Perhaps some day you will, and then you can forgive an old man his wagging tongue.”

  “I doubt it. I'm stuck here on this farm. I imagine I'll be here forever.” He was surprised by the bitterness he felt.

  “It sounds to me like you were not completely honest about your feelings of farm life, Jurel. Why not?”

  The girls played a game like this. They gripped hands and spun in circles faster and faster, laughing until they cried, chanting a silly rhyme, “Round and round we go...” before they collapsed in a dizzy heap.

  “I don't see any reason to moan about it,” Jurel said and again he was surprised by the faint sadness, like dried flower petals falling to the ground. “If I'm to be here the rest of my life, I may as well make the best of it.”

  Sour words make for sour work.

  “That, my boy, is possibly the most fatalistic thing I've ever heard anyone say in my very long life. Granted, it's a pragmatic view, but have you ever considered that you may not need to remain here all your life?”

  Jurel barked a laugh. “And where would I go? This is all I know.”

  “Precisely. Isn't the thought of learning more, of expanding your horizons, seeing and doing new things a tempting one?”

  It was as though a bell had been struck somewhere deep inside him. Kurin was saying something important, something necessary. What would he do about it? The prospect of adventure excited him and he perked up a little as his thoughts worked feverishly. Until an image of his father materialized, hawkish glare goring, boring into him, shaking his head in disappointment, brought him up short.

  “But then what would my father do without me?”

  “What he must. What all fathers must when their children grow up. He will adapt. He will let you go. He will always love you and he will worry about you every day. He will hope for those odd days when you reappear and when you do, he will cherish those moments more than any other. When you speak of your adventures or your work or whatever it is that you end up doing, he will be proud of you for taking the reins of your life into your own hands.”

  Hearing those last words, almost a mimicry of Daved's own, caused Jurel's eyebrows to draw in on each other, furrowing, creasing his forehead. Had his father told Kurin? Had they discussed Jurel's cowardice? It seemed unlikely; his father looked on the verge of murder when he was sent out of the room. He could not imagine his father would change his mind so easily and ask Kurin's advice on fatherhood.

  “Just remember my boy: if you're not happy with your lot now, you will not be happy with it later. It's up to you to decide.”

  Surely he had years to think on it, years before any real decision needed to be made. Surely.

  Behind him, he heard the rasp of bark scraped and a grunt as Kurin stretched out his arms.

  “Well, it's getting late. I think I should retire for the night. I have an early morning and a long road ahead of me.”

  The tree trembled again, and there was more rustling and scraping as Kurin gingerly descended. There was a muffled thud and a grunt as the old man jumped the last of the way, and he started off.

  “Think on what I've said, Jurel. Good night,” he called quietly and then he was gone.

  “Good night, Kur
in.”

  He stayed a while longer, not entirely prepared to return to his bed yet. He was too busy mulling over the strange conversation with the strange old man. Could he leave the farm? Would he? The old man had a point now that he thought of it: He was not entirely happy here, and now that he admitted it to himself, bared it to the moon and his tree, he wondered why. He had a comfortable home, good food, and plenty of things to keep him occupied. He had his father—at least the man he thought of as his father, and loved as such. Daved was a hard man, unforgiving, and he could be overly rigid at times, almost brutally stern, but for all that he was always there for Jurel. So why was he not content with his lot?

  It was often boring, true enough. There was plenty of work, but it was dull, monotonous, often back-breaking labor. He always did it—what else could he do?—but at the end of the day, when he returned home with aching shoulders and a sore back, he never felt satisfied, never felt that he had done anything particularly useful. He had his friends to play with but that too had its drawbacks for it was shallow fun, and mindless. Just a bunch of children running about aimlessly playing silly games in the fields. It was boring but was that enough reason?

  Then of course, there was Valik. Always Valik. Every single day, he harbored a knot of dread in the pit of his belly, like a candle in a dry hay barn, because of that bully. That petty, malicious little turd made him miserable at every turn. If Jurel went away, he would never have to think of Valik again. Now that might be enough reason.

  He watched the moon watch him. It had become more distinct with the gradual dispersion of the cloud cover and it stood at its zenith looking like a gigantic pearl in the night. Perhaps it was time to go in after all. It was late, very late, but the prospect of more drudgery in the morning made him hesitate.

  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 indee
d.

  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.