The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  Instead of asking, Kurin rose and went to his pantry, returned a moment later with two tankards filled to the brim with foamy ale. Handing one to Jurel, he sat and took a long swallow, closing his eyes in contentment. Puzzled, Jurel gazed at the old man over the rim of his own tankard, tasting the mellow brew. He had never seen Kurin drink anything but brandy or water.

  “Nothing quite like cold ale after a hard day,” he said, answering Jurel's unspoken question. “It's not often I drink the stuff, but today has been exceptionally difficult.”

  Jurel did not bother to answer. Here it comes, he thought, staring down into his tankard, watching the foam slowly swish like a cloud on a breezy day.

  “Speaking of difficult days, would you please tell me what happened on yours?” Kurin asked.

  “Well, I didn't do much really,” Jurel said, smiling weakly. “I went and got the things you asked for, cleaned the dishes, then I made dinner-”

  “I think we both know I do not speak of today,” Kurin said, and when Jurel looked up, he saw an expression he had never seen in the old man's face. A piercing gaze, a gaze that looked alien on the amicable features, seemed to open him like a book. “I want to know what you've gotten yourself into. The guards implicated you in some pretty nasty business and I want to know why.”

  He hesitated, not knowing where to start, and decided he had best start from the beginning. He told of Galbin's death, and of how he had remained at the house to stand vigil. He told of Valik's entry and he told of how Valik had accused him of killing his father. He was faintly astonished to find that he still harbored a dull resentment at the cruel man's accusations. After all he had done, surely he should not be allowed any bitter feelings except remorse. He felt that too. He continued his story, relating how Valik had attacked him and how he had felt something break inside him. Telling it brought back the memory, clear as day to his mind. He remembered the discordant ringing in his ears, the ringing that came so seldom in his life, that was always a harbinger of terrible violence. He told of Valik's assertion, “I'm going to hurt you, boy. I'm going to hurt you like never before. You killed my father!” He remembered the feeling, almost a physical rending, that had caused his rage to boil up, volcano hot, and he remembered beating Valik mercilessly though it was obscured by a haze, a red mist. Or by what was left of his own rational mind in an effort to keep him planted.

  Kurin listened, not uttering a word, still as stone.

  The story had dredged the swamp of his memories and he remembered it all, almost feeling that he relived the entire episode over again, as he continued with how his father had found him in the barn the next morning, how they had agreed that Jurel would have to leave. His heart wrenched as he remembered his father's words, “I love you boy. I'm proud of you.” He did not feel the tears leaking down his cheeks nor did he see Kurin's expression soften with pity; he was too lost in his memories, which continued their inexorable march forward, turning from the heartbreaking warmth of his lost home to the bone-chilling cold of the road. He omitted not a single detail to Kurin, even telling him of the sights and smells, of his decision to brave the haunted forest, and of his stop at midday for his simple meal, where he had heard the approaching footsteps. With a growing dread, he told Kurin of his fear and his flight through the forest, and Merlit catching up with him. He told Kurin everything that he remembered and his retelling lasted for a long time, long enough for the moon to rise high in the sky, long enough for Kurin to rise, motioning for Jurel to continue, and refill their tankards. Remembering Merlit was not so hard; he had hurt the man, but at least he had not killed him. Remembering Shenk...Well that was different.

  His story stumbled to a halt when he reached that fateful encounter. He looked at Kurin, praying that the old man would let him stop, pleading with his eyes, but Kurin still did not utter a single word. He sat and he waited. So unlike his father, yet so similar, he would not be satisfied until he heard the entire affair.

  So he continued, a black hole opening in him at the memory, not skipping anything. If the old man wanted to hear about it, if he was so adamant to know of Jurel's depravity, then by the blazes, Jurel would tell him every gritty detail! And he did, right down to the ringing in his ears, the awful words spoken, each individual strike, and the blood pooling in the snow. He told of his desperation to clean the blood from his hands, his last flight through the woods and his arrival in town.

  “And I think you know the rest.”

  When he finally trailed to a halt, the moon had risen past its apex, and had begun its slow descent to its own bed, a mute witness to Jurel's tale. He glared at it, irrationally willing the pale half-circle to forget what it had heard that night.

  “Why did you kill him?” Kurin asked. He spoke evenly, his voice quiet. “Why did you not do as you had with Merlit? Knocked him unconscious, and left him?”

  “I don't know,” Jurel howled. He had asked himself the same question over and over again and he had yet to find a satisfactory answer. “He tried to kill me. I—I just defended myself. Then that ringing, that tearing in me, that terrible searing rage...I couldn't stop myself. I didn't want to kill him. I just wanted him to leave me alone. But that ringing. I couldn't ignore it. It took over and...” Again his words stumbled to a halt and again he stared miserably into his nearly empty tankard. No foam now. No cloud to waft away on; just dregs, sitting sourly at the bottom of a tin cup.

  “Do you think you did something wrong?”

  The question stunned Jurel. It seemed too inane to even acknowledge. “I killed a man, Kurin. I stuck his own dagger in his belly and I watched him die. Of course I did something wrong.”

  “Let me see your hand,” Kurin ordered.

  Confused by the sudden change in topic, Jurel showed him the requested hand, the clean unbroken flesh, the flesh that Jurel could have sworn was still covered in Shenk's blood. Kurin took hold and scrutinized it in silence while Jurel watched, bemused with the old man. What could Kurin be searching for? There was nothing to see. Jurel was about to ask the old man if he was quite satisfied when Kurin let his hand go and cleared his throat.

  “Remarkable,” he said. “And you say this is the hand you caught the dagger with? This is the hand you gripped the blade with?” Kurin stared at him, eyes needle sharp, intent. He appeared to be waiting for something in particular though except for his eyes, his demeanor was one of nonchalance. The way he leaned back in his chair, and took hold of his tankard, the way his lips curved in a casual smile all spoke of a man having a pleasant conversation with not a care in the world, just two friends discussing the weather. But his eyes. His eyes most definitely told a different story. They spoke of a man whose every fiber hung on Jurel's next words, needing Jurel to give him the right answer, like a withered flower gazing up to gathering clouds in silent supplication.

  “Yes,” Jurel said and for an instant, just the blink of an eye, a flash passed through Kurin's eyes, quickly quelled, and Kurin gazed at him blandly once again. Jurel's curiosity was piqued. He was holding something back. “Why? What's so important about it?”

  Kurin snorted. “Silly question, don't you think? You caught a dagger in your hand and didn't suffer so much as a scratch. I'm a healer. I do it because I don't like seeing people sick or injured. The idea that, somehow, you didn't get hurt is important.”

  Something about his words gnawed at Jurel. Kurin's answer, though perfectly sensible, was evasive. The old man was hiding something.

  What is it, old man? What's got you all bothered?

  Before he could vocalize his question, Kurin rose with a sigh. He seemed more alive, more...there; the withered flower had not just gotten the rain it needed, it was now bathed in a shaft of sunlight.

  “Well, lad,” the old man said. “You can't spend your whole life imprisoned in my kitchen and going into town seems a bad idea all things considered, so perhaps it is time that we leave.”

  “Leave?” Jurel asked. “We?”

  “Of course 'we.' You certainl
y can't stay and I was already considering going anyway. I find I miss the open road.”

  He had not considered it. He thought he would stay here, perhaps ask Kurin to teach him the ways of a healer—he had already read that blasted book, after all. A good start. The thought of travel nearly made him wince. He did not want anything to do with adventuring. He did not want anything remotely resembling adventuring. He had decided that at the farm, and after his first bitter taste of the road, his decision had been confirmed. He was perfectly content to let others have it. “Where would we go?” he asked.

  “Oh I don't know quite yet. But I'm sure we'll figure something out.”

  Again, Jurel had the sense that Kurin was being evasive.

  “Tell you what, Jurel. Pack your things and go to bed. It's getting late, and we're going to be gone long before sunrise.”

  Jurel hesitated, not entirely certain he should trust the old man who was most definitely hiding something. On the other hand, Kurin had put him up, fed him and clothed him, lied for him to the town guard. It seemed justifiable to go along with him a little longer. As Kurin had hinted, Jurel could not even cross the street lest he be apprehended and hung as a murderer.

  He shrugged and went in search of his bag. The old man may have been hiding something, but Jurel still found he looked forward to spending time with the old man. After all, he had questions, a lot of them, and for whatever reason, he was sure that Kurin had the answers.

  Chapter 24

  Kurin sat in his bed, wearing his nightgown, his eyes closed, his features slack while Jurel slumbered in the little cot but two doors away. He would sleep soon, but not yet. He had a message to deliver.

  He probed with his mind, scanning the winds for that spark, that light he knew so well. East and south his mind traveled, searching and sifting, careful not to get too close to the million pin points of light, scattered like little stars across the landscape, each one slightly different. He recognized a few of the lights: he saw dear friends, bitter enemies, passing acquaintances. But mostly he saw complete strangers, and he did not stop. He looked for one light, one man. His mind darted back and forth across the land like a gathering bee, ethereal yet wholly substantial in an arcane way, until at last, he saw that light, glimmering dully, softly in the dark.

  Of course he's shielded. He's not expecting me.

  It would make his delivery harder; trying to break through into a shielded mind was not easy. He descended, approached until the dim light filled his thoughts, and he tapped at the shield, testing its strength, searching for a tiny hole he might use to get through to the man on the other side. He pushed, felt a slight give, but he was not heartened. It was not weakness that gave this particular shield malleability. On the contrary, it was strength and experience: too soft and it was easy to penetrate; too hard, it would shatter like crystal. This was like finely tempered steel.

  For a moment, Kurin was at a loss. He needed to report his discovery and the first person he thought of was this man he considered a brother. They had trained together as young men and they had grown close through the years, no matter their physical distance. The Abbot had thought that both men were highly talented, destined for greatness, and Jorge had lived up to that promise, making Chaplain before he was forty years old. Kurin had become sidetracked with his quest, one that many had considered foolish, traveling the land in search of his prize, and so he had become an outcast. Some of the brethren barely even considered him one of their number anymore. He had not risen as Jorge had but Jorge supported him, no matter his personal opinion on the matter, telling Kurin to contact him anytime if he found anything.

  So Kurin tried to establish that contact. He beat at the insubstantial shield with every bit of strength he could muster, picked at it like a seamstress trying to pull a stubborn thread, and searched for any tiny weakness he knew would not be there. Jorge was nothing if not thorough.

  He backed off to consider his next move. There was one more alternative but it was dangerous. He could try Calling to Jorge, but just as a yell in a town square caused heads to turn, Calling could attract attention. There were some that he would rather not inform of his presence or of his tidings. In a rare moment of indecision, Kurin hovered, hesitated. Could he wait?

  No. He could not. This was too important.

  Turning, he carefully scanned the stars, noting most were dim with sleep. When he was satisfied that no one was aware of his presence, he focused his thoughts, aimed them as tightly as he could at the shield and the man underneath, and he let his mental voice out like a whip-crack. He Called. Then he waited.

  He waited for an eternity, although time felt different in this world that was not a world, this plane of existence that lay somewhere between, until a bulge appeared in Jorge's shield, followed by a tiny hole, barely the size of a pin's head to Kurin's senses. It was enough. Kurin slipped in and felt his brother's welcome consciousness envelop him.

  “Kurin? What in blazes are you doing here?” Jorge's voice spoke in his mind.

  There was a flash of light and then Kurin found himself in a forest clearing, bathed in sunlight, sitting in a huge, comfortable chair across from Jorge at an ornate desk, a copy of the one in Jorge's office. Jorge was ensconced in his own chair looking the same as Kurin always remembered him. Careworn eyes gazed intensely from a craggy face over a full but neatly tended, squared off beard, reddish blond with gray streaks. Shorter than Kurin by two or three hands, Jorge was nonetheless imposing, with a wide girth and a barrel chest that stretched his dark ash gray robe, despite being nearly seventy years old.

  There was a crystal decanter on the table, filled with velvet red wine and a beautifully etched glass was in his hand. Kurin took a sip and closed his eyes with pleasure. No worldly wine was this good. No wine had that subtle blend of fruity sweetness and tart bite, like sunshine after a spring rain.

  “This is good stuff,” Kurin said.

  An amused smile split Jorge's beard like an ax coming from the inside. “It's amazing what a man can dream up.” He took a sip himself. “I always wished some inventive vintner would create something like this.” Another sip and Jorge's eyes locked on Kurin's. “But you did not risk a Calling in the dead of night to sample imaginary wine. So tell me, what brings you here.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him.

  Kurin shifted in his chair, adjusting his robe, not sure how to proceed. This was not the first time Kurin had told Jorge that he had found what he sought. They had had this conversation over and over, yet each time, Kurin had been forced to return, disappointed, to report that he had been mistaken. He felt a moment of doubt. Was he right this time? Was Jurel the one? All the signs were there. Everything he had witnessed agreed with his research. He pushed his doubt down, drowning it in all the facts he had gleaned in the last several years—and under another sip of the velvet wine. To think he had been planning to leave empty-handed only the day before Jurel's fortuitous arrival!

  There was nothing for it but to come out and say what he had come to say.

  “I found him.” Excitement welled up as though speaking the words was a key of sorts. He was so certain this time. It had to be him, it had to!

  Jorge did not seem quite so enthused. His brow furrowed, his head canted to the side, and he stared at Kurin.

  “Oh don't look at me like that Jorge. It's him. I know it is.”

  “Forgive me, Kurin, but you've said that before. Several times actually. How do you know for sure this time?” His voice was mild, neutral, but Kurin still heard the doubt, and it pained him to hear it from this man. He pushed it away.

  “Everything works. Everything fits. All the others...there was always a hint of doubt. They were all promising but there was always one little detail that I should have paid more attention to. There are no unexplained details this time. It's him. I know it.” He grew more animated with every word, his eyes taking on a fiery zeal. He raised a finger, “He was born on the Day of Shadows,” a second finger, “His parents, a coupl
e of tavern keepers, were killed during that messy battle with the Dakariin up in Killhern almost fifteen years ago,” finger number three, “he was adopted by a soldier,” and number four, “on his sixteenth birthday, it was cloudy out. He had no shadow.

  “He's had two of the required fathers. The third, the holy one, well, he's taken quite a shine to me. I've helped him, fed him and hid him from the town guard when they accused him of murder. I think I can get him to think of me as a father if I play my cards right. Oh, and did I mention he's huge? I've never seen anyone as massive as he is. He stands well over my height and his shoulders look like they'd be at home on a bull. It is him!” Kurin finished.

  “All right, you seem to have satisfied at least part of the scripts, though you're shoe-horning the one about the three fathers. What about the rest of it?”

  Damn you man! What will it take to convince you? Kurin thought the vicious thought and immediately regretted it. He took a deep breath. Jorge had reason to doubt.

  “All right, listen to this,” Kurin continued. “He took some grievous wounds less than two weeks ago when a couple of fools attacked him. Nasty things, those wounds. One, on his chest needed nearly two dozen stitches.” He paused, savoring the moment. Jorge would be stunned, he knew.

  “All right. And?”

  “He's healed. Completely, totally healed. Barely even a scar,” he crowed.

  “Well that certainly is remarkable but perhaps he simply has a natural bias toward arcanum. We heal quickly, after all. Perhaps we should enroll him at the Abbey. We could make a priest out of him.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But,” at this, Kurin leaned forward, pinning his brother, technically his superior, with his eyes, and let a slow smile spread across his face. He played his trump card. “Are you able to catch a dagger thrust? By the blade? Without injury?”