by Remi Michaud
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.
“Thank you,” Jurel said, eying his new attire. “I don't know what to say. It's wonderful.”
“Good, good. I'm glad you like it. And it seems that Vance and Winette did their jobs well.”
Jurel did not know who Winette was, but he assumed she had a hand in tailoring the clothing.
“By the way,” continued Kurin, “I took the liberty of putting your duffel in the pantry. You'll find it under the shelf with the conserves. Your sword too is in there.” There was distaste in his tone at that. “I cleaned it as best I could, but I'm just a healer and have no experience with that sort of thing.” With a grunt of satisfaction, Kurin rose to his feet and started for the kitchen door. “Now then, whatever it is you're cooking is smelling awfully good and I'm hungry. Shall we?”
Chapter 23
Jurel stood surveying his kitchen, sleeves rolled up and the neck unlaced in the warmth offered by the stove, as squares of early afternoon sun made golden tiles on the floor, noting with satisfaction that the ever-present heap of dishes was much reduced ever since he took over the cooking duties. He was thinking about what he would prepare for dinner that evening when Kurin walked in. Surprised, he turned to the old man, the question plain on his face. It was early; Kurin never came into the kitchen until late afternoon, when he closed up shop.
“I wonder if I could beg a favor of you,” the old man said, handing Jurel a piece of paper. “Could I ask you to go to the shed outside and get these ingredients?”
“The shed?” Jurel asked. He had still not set foot inside the structure in the back yard; he still did not know what was in there.
“Yes, Jurel. The shed. You know, that wooden thing out back? The one with a thing we like to call a door? That's a shed.” he rolled his eyes. “I would have thought a farm boy would know what a shed was.”
“Well, yes, I know what a shed is,” Jurel rejoined. “I've just never been in there.”
“You haven't?” Kurin asked, eyebrows creeping up on his forehead. “Imagine that. Well, that's where I grow some of my ingredients. I hate buying them from a vendor, especially in winter when they sit in some storehouse for months on end. They go stale, you see, and they lose their effectiveness. I can't grow everything I want in there—not enough space—but at least I can get some of what I need.”
“Ah.” Sounded sensible enough. He scanned the paper, quickly reading Kurin's elegant script: Three stalks of dogspur, six hearthberries, and three winter roses. Simple enough.
“Now you are certain you can identify these items?” Kurin squinted at Jurel. “Hearthberries are quite similar to winterberries, you know.”
With a reassuring nod, Jurel told Kurin he would return shortly and leave the items by the door, and strode briskly from the kitchen, suddenly excited to see something new. It had been a little more than two weeks since he had arrived and he had not stepped foot outside except to get water from the well. He liked the little house well enough, but he was growing bored seeing the same walls every day. Besides, although he had never entertained notions of exploring the shed—it was none of
his business, after all—he did wonder what was in there. Pocketing Kurin's list, he flipped the latch to the tightly sealed door, and pulled, revealing what he considered to be quite a wonder.
The windows that stretched from wall to wall on the outside actually circled the room with two more large ones set into the flat ceiling overhead and sunlight bathed the room. He scanned the interior which was far warmer than he thought it could possibly be with no detectable heat source, panning from one side to the other and back across the long tables that lined both walls with just a narrow path in between to allow access along the entire length of the shed. The tables themselves held a veritable jungle of greenery, spotted liberally with flowers and berries in all the colors of the rainbow. It was like some Aelephim legend come to life, a storybook garden where he might expect to see sparkling sprites and pixies, a gnarled little gnome or a dryad.
From his reading, he was able to identify many of these: Meghan's Bloom, a red flower that seemed to sag under the weight of its own teardrop petals, made a fine tea to control nausea; Sandweed, bristling with vicious purple thistles, was used in salves and helped to soothe burns; Dogspur, which he had personal experience with; and several others, including the ones that brought him here in the first place. He was pleased to see he remembered the tedious text Kurin had made him read.
Not so pointless after all, I guess, he conceded to himself. Boring but useful.
He made his way up the narrow aisle, carefully, keeping his elbows close to his body so he would not disturb the various pots and beds. The shed seemed to be tailored to Kurin's lean form making navigation by one of Jurel's mass difficult. Reaching the dogspur first, he thought back to the book, remembering how to harvest the desired plant without damaging them, and pulled three silky green stalks, careful to get the roots since it was there that most of the medicinal qualities were found, avoiding the tiny barbs that gave a hint to the origin of its name. He stared stupidly at the stuff in his hands when the realization came to him that the book had failed to mention the need of a container. Feeling a little foolish, he deposited the delicate stalks into his shirt pocket, and turned in search of his second objective. The hearthberries were easy enough to identify despite Kurin's warning: fat white orbs streaked with fine red lines that looked like someone had carefully painted the image of a fire on each tiny berry were what distinguished what he sought from the similar winterberries. Grasping each one carefully by its stem, he tugged and they plopped softly into his palm and he placed them in his other pocket to keep the two plants from mixing. He turned and found the winter roses on the other table, white as snow, glowing as though a fine mist wrapped them in the bright light that blanketed the room. Three flowers, three quick plucks, and he was done.
Carrying his harvest, he left the shed where he again marveled at the difference in temperature. It was a chilly day, with a biting wind, yet that shed was warm enough for him to stay comfortable without a coat or cloak. Shivering, he trotted back to the kitchen.
He found a plate to deposit Kurin's requested ingredients and set it down by the door leading to the office where Kurin was surely hard at work, tending to a broken bone, or maybe a dog bite. He froze at the sound of gruff voices, muffled by the closed door, that reached his ears, followed by Kurin's measured baritone response. Placing his ear to the door, the first time he had done so since his arrival, he listened.
“—a fugitive on the loose, Kurin,” one was saying. “Have you seen anything strange?”
“Besides old Hogen ranting his usual nonsense about the fulfillment of some prophecy or other on his crate down the street? No, I don't think so,” Kurin answered.
“This one is dangerous,” a second voice said. “There's two men, beaten bloody and one dead.”
Jurel's heart sank, and his belly twisted itself in a knot.
“Dead?” Kurin gasped. “Well, that's terrible. Who would do such a thing?”
“Aye,” the second voice returned. “Stabbed in the gut out there in Center Wood and left for the wolves.”
“According to the owner of a farm, one Valik by name, it seems this murderer's name is Jarel, or Jurel or some such,” the first man said. “He beat this Valik over some petty squabble and took off into the night. The farmer said he sent two men to go after him and bring him back so they could work out their differences. They were friends, he said, and he did not want their friendship to wither over some pointless argument. Why he attacked those two is unknown.”
Jurel seethed. It was all he could do to restrain himself, to keep from bursting in on them and tell them that it was Valik who had started it and it was Valik who had sent Merlit and Shenk to kill him.
“My, my,” Kurin said. “Sounds like quite the beast.”
“Aye. Are you sure you haven't seen him? He'd be hard to miss. Huge they said, and they got some damage in while they defended themselves.”
“No, no. I've seen nothing of anything. Large man. Injured. Murderous gleam in his eye. No, doesn't ring any bells.”
“Now that is strange,” said the first, “because according to Vance and Winette, you had some rather strange requests for them. Clothing and boots, far larger than you would need them, they told us. Care to explain?”
“Well, you see, I have a nephew that I am expecting to come visit any day now. It was his birthday two weeks ago and I wanted to present him with fine clothes. I hope they fit him, he may have grown since my last view of him,” Kurin said.
Relieved that Kurin had not turned him in, he found himself impressed with the old man's ability to spin a tale so quickly.
“Oh, I see. Do you mind if we see these gifts for...your nephew?”
Impressive or not, these men were experienced guards used to unraveling lies. Jurel tensed.
“Oh no, oh no. I think not. I have them all wrapped up and it took my old aching hands forever to get the packaging just right. I could not bear to have to do it all over again.”
Jurel clapped a hand to his mouth, stifling his laughter. He had never heard Kurin sound as old as he did just then, and that was how he discovered that the wily old man was quite the consummate performer. Perhaps he had been a mummer in another life. There was a pause, a silence in the room beyond the door that stretched and Jurel imagined duelers facing each other, circling, each sizing up the other.
“Look Kurin,” the second guard said, “Are you certain you don't know anything? If you're hiding anything, things would not go well.”
“Why would I hide anything?” cried Kurin and Jurel could almost see the old man throw his hands up in exasperation. “Did I not save your wife's life—and your son's—when complications arose in her pregnancy? How is Em anyway? And Dag?”
“Th—they're fine, thank you,” the second guard stammered.
“Good, good. I'm glad to hear it. Give them my warmest regards, will you? And you, Aldrig? Did I not keep your...issue, let's call it that, your issue left by—what was her name? Sila, wasn't it?—from your wife?”
“Yes sir, but-” the first guard flustered.
“Well then what more is there to say? I have never seen the fiend you seek. If I find out anything, I will be sure to tell you. Now is there anything else? There is much to be done yet today.”
Another silence, this one shorter, and the two guards bade Kurin a good day. A dull hollow clomping of tramping boots signified the retreat of the routed army, and the door shut loudly. Jurel waited for any other noise, still as a statue, when Kurin's voice reached him.
“If you are quite finished polishing my door with your ear, could you bring my things in? We'll talk later.”
Jurel jumped to obey as if he had just been stung, abashed that he was eavesdropping, confused that the old man knew.
* * *
After spending an afternoon of misery, nausea eating at him, Jurel sat at the table, waiting for Kurin's entry. Dinner simmered as usual but the smell was not tempting to Jurel. Not that day. Perhaps it was because he was too wound up, too tense to enjoy th
e aroma and perhaps it was because, in his distraction, he had burnt it a little. Either way, or both, Jurel sat, trying to keep his insides inside and he waited. A book lay open on the table before him, but every time he finished a line, he found he could not remember what he had just read, and had to try again. He gave up, stared blankly at the yellowed page in front of him, saw instead how Kurin would turn him in to the guards after finding out that he really was the murderer they said he was.
Maybe he deserved it, he thought. Maybe he should be locked up. Beating Valik and Merlit, killing Shenk. Unforgivable, and perhaps it was time for a reckoning. He saw Shenk again, in his mind's eye, staring up in shock and pain, blood leaking on the snow. “How?...” He saw the man crumple, fall over and wheeze one last breath. He saw the eyes that stared at nothing. Yes, perhaps he deserved whatever the guards would do to him.
“So, what have you made us for dinner tonight?” Kurin asked, shutting the door behind him.
Jurel started. He had been so lost in thought that he had not heard Kurin enter, and he looked up. Kurin's normal grin and sparkling eyes graced him. He tried for a smile of his own but what he plastered across his face was little more than a quivering grimace. The light of the sun was coppery in the window, indicating the sun's impending doom. He had spent hours sitting there stewing, he realized with chagrin.
“I made stew. I hope it's all right. I was a little preoccupied and I might have burnt some of it.”
Kurin's smile slipped only a little, only to return in full force as he approached the table and sat in his customary place.
“Never fear, Jurel. If I had wanted to turn you in, I would have,” Kurin said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Then he shot a pointed look at Jurel. “I will hear your story tonight, but let's eat first. I'm starving.”
They ate in silence only broken every once in a while by Kurin's exclamations that dinner was delicious, absolutely delicious. Just the thing to hit the spot. His reassurances were so outlandish, so over the top, that Jurel could not quite completely hide the smile that threatened. He ate slowly, trying to prolong dinner, to put off having to tell his story but inevitably, the last bite came and he had no choice. He put down his spoon to await the inevitable questions.
