The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  “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.”

  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 thin
g 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?”