by Remi Michaud
A knock, soft but confident echoed from his door and he jumped, excitement welling up. Hastily, he darted to his tall chair and sat, carefully arranging himself and schooling his features before calling for the newcomer to enter.
When the door opened, Thalor stifled a sigh, trying to hide his dismay when he saw it was not the agent he had been expecting but instead Calen, a fellow high priest on the council and his bitterest rival, wearing a smile that curdled Thalor's insides. He did not like the way Calen's fat worms for lips curled up smugly. Whenever Calen had that expression, it meant that Thalor had to keep an eye on his back lest a dagger hilt suddenly sprout from between his shoulder blades.
Calen entered the office, shut the door quietly behind him and settled his ponderous bulk in the plain wooden chair facing Thalor.
“You are so formally dressed, brother Thalor,” Calen said in his strangely fluid, effeminate voice. “Morning service has been over for nearly three hours. One wonders what is so important that you have not taken the time to get more comfortable.”
“Matters of Gaorla, brother,” Thalor responded. What does he know?
“Hmm, matters of Gaorla you say? Surely all your brothers—not just your friends—should be aware of these matters? Why I have it on good authority that a certain man will be brought to us for a trial. Surely, this should have been divulged to all of us.”
Thalor's mind raced. Who had spoken? Vernan? No, the man was idealistic but he knew how to keep his mouth shut. Bain was too low in the pecking order to dare cross Thalor so that left Staing. It made sense; Staing had risen through the ranks through treachery and manipulation—Thalor almost respected him for it too, except Staing did it for no other reason than the power he gained. Not a very admirable trait in a priest. He would not hesitate to play both sides in the matter if he thought he had something to gain. He had been a fool to trust the sly old man.
“It is a matter that I fully intended to bring forward at the next council sitting, of course,” Thalor said, hoping the fat fool in front of him would leave it at that, and knowing that his hope was in vain.
“Of course you were,” Calen responded. The blitheness almost covered the scorn. Almost. “And who, pray tell, is this heretic that we can expect to see?”
“Does it matter so? One heretic burns much like another.” His patience was growing thin.
“Ah but we have not ascertained that this man is, in fact, a heretic, now have we? That must be determined by our court.” Calen stared at Thalor, gauging his opponent's reaction before continuing. “Yet you seem certain that this man will be found guilty. So it must be someone whose crimes are well known to all. Perhaps someone of the Salosian Order?”
Astonished, Thalor realized that Calen truly did not know they spoke of Kurin. Staing had apparently not divulged that information, and Calen was simply probing, hoping that Thalor would let slip some clue that would allow him to figure out what Thalor was up to. What are you playing at, Staing? In this case, perhaps honesty was the best policy. Telling Calen the truth would certainly make the man think that Thalor was lying and the irony was too sweet for Thalor to pass up.
“Why, none other than Kurin himself.” He felt a surge of purest pleasure at the shock that passed over Calen's corpulent features.
“Kurin?” Calen gasped. “Surely not.”
“Of course. How else would I be so certain of a man's guilt. His sins are known to all and I have reports that he has resurfaced. I have already dispatched agents to detain him.”
Calen rose from his seat, his face drained pale, sending Thalor's chair tumbling backwards. He knew what it meant if Thalor had in fact been successful in finding Kurin. He knew how Grand Prelate Maten would favor Thalor with gifts and praise and perhaps even a promotion. He knew and Thalor let a thin smile crease his gaunt features.
“Leaving so soon, brother?”
Oh it was too perfect. Well aware was he that Calen worried over whether Thalor told him the truth or not. He could almost see the thoughts tumbling in Calen's head. If he lied, then it would be easy for Thalor to apologize, to say that his man was certain it was Kurin but that it had been a simple case of mistaken identity. Even the fact that Thalor had not immediately told the council of his find would back him up—he was simply waiting for confirmation before divulging such shocking tidings. On the other hand, Calen knew that if Thalor told the truth, it would mean his own position would be seriously weakened while Thalor's would become nearly unassailable.
Calen smiled weakly, looking as though he would sick up right then and there, and inclined his head at Thalor.
“Forgive me, brother, but yes I must go. I seem to recall an appointment with one of my priests concerning a matter of some urgency. Good day.”
He did not wait for Thalor's response as he bolted, nearly catching his robe in the door when he slammed it behind him.
“And good day to you,” Thalor chuckled quietly as he poured himself a celebratory drink, waiting for his agent to arrive with his report.
* * *
“So what do you think?” Kurin asked, swallowing the last of his egg.
“About what?” he asked as he sat gazing pensively into the trees.
“Shall we continue on our way?”
He nodded. After dousing the fire—“You can never be too careful,” the old man said—they repacked their things and, resuming their positions, trundled on.
The hours passed, the two of them only seldom breaking the silence with meaningless words (“Oh look. A hawk.” or “What a strange rock. It looks like a turtle.”) and Jurel found himself growing increasingly bored again.
Another four days of this, he thought. I might go mad.
Kurin spoke less and less; the old man had begun to merely respond to Jurel's words with a distracted nod. Something was bothering the old man, but Jurel could not decipher what it was. Even his demeanor was changing. Kurin's easy smile was gone, replaced by a slight frown that creased his brow, and he constantly searched, eyes darting through the trees, or into the empty farmlands to their left. For what, Jurel did not know. Dinner came and went in the cart; the old man had insisted that they continue on without stopping so they contented themselves with rations of bread, fruit and cold beef. And as the sun dropped in the sky, so too did Kurin's mood.
Jurel found himself emulating the old man, letting his eyes pick their way across the landscape, noting no differences between what he saw then to what he had seen a mile ago, his own mood turning to trepidation. Finally, some time after the sun had extinguished itself, and the moon peeked its way over the horizon, Jurel could no longer contain himself.
“What's wrong Kurin?” he asked. When Kurin did not answer, Jurel reached up and tugged at the old man's sleeve. “Hey Kurin.”
The old man blinked, turned to look down at Jurel, annoyance clear in his eyes.
“What?” he snapped taking Jurel aback. In all the time he had spent with Kurin, he had never heard that impatient, querulous tone.
“I asked what was wrong, that's all,” Jurel said.
Kurin glared, eyes hard for a moment before relenting with a puff of his cheeks.
“Nothing to concern you, Jurel. I just...” He trailed off, and turned to gaze once again to the featureless road ahead.
The moon had climbed high before they made camp under intertwined branches and Jurel was grateful that they did. The ride in the back of the cart was not a comfortable one, jolting and bouncing over the slightest imperfection in the road, of which there were many—it was a rough dirt track, after all. After stretching his sore muscles with a grunt, Jurel went off to find more firewood, happy to be moving again.
When he returned, he saw that Kurin had lashed one end of a large green tarp to a tree, and tied the other end to the ground, creating a makeshift lean-to they could use as shelter. Jurel eyed the structure with admiration; as humble as it was, he was glad that at least they would be out of the worst of the wind before turning to prepare their fire.
&n
bsp; “No fire,” Kurin said, and Jurel turned to him, aghast.
“Are you crazy? We'll freeze!” He really, really hated the cold.
Kurin shook his head, relentless.
“Look, just a small one. We need something to keep warm.” There was a whiny, wheedling tone in his voice, but he could not seem to cover it.
“Fine. A small one. If you can dig a hole deep enough to hide it. I do not want so much as a single spark to be visible.”
An idea dawned on Jurel. All the clues clicked into place and he squinted at the old man.
“Are we being followed?” he asked and Kurin blinked.
“Are you just figuring that out?”
Indignant, Jurel gawked at him, spluttering for a moment.
“What in Shoka's blazing balls is going on? Why would anyone be-” he cut himself off as another realization dawned on him, struck him square between the eyes. “Tack Town guardsmen? Have they figured out that I'm with you? Would they follow us this far?”
“I don't know,” Kurin said, suddenly seeming tired and withered. Turning away from Jurel, he muttered to himself, “I hope it's just them.”
Jurel looked at the old man's back as if it would somehow provide the answers he sought.
“Who else could it be?” he asked but Kurin would not answer.
Hope turned to dust in Jurel. Perhaps a fire would not be such a good idea after all.
* * *
He tossed and turned, trying to get a miserable rock out from under him, trying to find a comfortable position under the thick layers of blankets that Kurin had provided, shivering despite them. Kurin slept on, snoring lightly, buried under his own mound of blankets.
The old man's words gnawed at him. Who else indeed, he wondered. Jurel thought he knew Kurin well enough but there was much he did not know. Perhaps it was not the town guard after him. Perhaps it was someone, unknown to Jurel, after Kurin. That would explain much, he thought as he shifted again to get the bloody rock out of his bloody back.
What I wouldn't give for my bed. Or even Kurin's pallet.
With his back appeased for the moment, he turned back to his previous train of thought. Why was Kurin running? Who was he running from? There was just too much that Jurel did not know. Too many holes that needed to be filled in before he could formulate a proper theory. He said he was naught but an old man, a simple healer, barely more than a peasant yet he obliquely hinted that whoever was out there might be after him and not after Jurel the Murderer. He stared at the black square of tarp above him, musing, but no answer offered itself to him. He still only saw Kurin as no more than a friendly, somewhat eccentric old man who had pitied a fool enough to offer his help.
His thoughts chased each other in circles like a dog angered by its own tail. He knew he was getting nowhere, so he gave up, rolled over, swore under his breath at the persistent rock and closed his eyes.
* * *
“Ah, much better,” Kurin said with a grin, after shrugging out of his heavy overcoat to better enjoy the unseasonable warmth of the day. The sun was out, but only as an indistinct ball, a hazy smudge shining through the cotton thin layer of clouds that rode high in the sky. From the forest came the constant sound of dripping water punctuated every now and then by a raspy thump no doubt caused when a load of snow, too soft to maintain its form any longer, crumbled and fell from the branches. The road had changed through the course of the morning and early afternoon from a pristine white blanket marred only by thin strips of brown, to a mucky morass, a muddy ribbon nearly twenty feet across that cut its way ever eastward. The ground was still mostly frozen so at least the cart did not bog down but there was a fine layer of thaw, slippery and wet, and the horse struggled to maintain its footing as it trod along.
Jurel followed the old man's lead, removed his cloak, and said nothing. He had not slept well the night before and he still felt groggy. His swimming head combined with Kurin's continuing sourness, and Jurel was in no mood for words. Kurin, still concerned of potential pursuit, had not allowed them to stop for breakfast or lunch, seeming intent on getting to Merris as quickly as possible, and Jurel had to content himself with a few mouthfuls of cold, hard rations. That had not done much for his mood either. He sat and he stared at the landscape, the same trees passing to his right and the same farmland dotted with the same barn or silo or country home, noting again that they really all did resemble each other.
Every once in a while he tried for that same sense he had felt the previous day, that intense vision that seemed to open the world around him, but each time he sighed, disappointed by his continuing failure. Then his thoughts went back to the questions of just who or what was Kurin, and just who or what was following them. Again, he was disappointed. This cycle continued for some time as they plodded onward until with a sigh of frustration he fixed the old man with a determined glare, intent on getting some answers.
“So who do you think is following us?”
“That's the hundredth time you've asked me today, and the answer, for the hundredth time, stays the same. I don't know,” Kurin said irritably.
Jurel snorted. The hundredth time? They had barely spoken a dozen words to each other all day.
“I think I have a right to know. Either they're town guards after me, or they're after you and since I'm traveling with you, I would appreciate a little forewarning.”
Kurin sighed, grumbled a few words under his breath that Jurel could not make out. Perhaps that was for the best.
“Look, Jurel. If I knew, I would tell you. But I only have sneaking suspicions. Telling you what I think would do you no good. If I find out I will tell you, all right?” The old man lapsed back into silence and resumed his search.
And try as he might he got nothing more. Frustrated, tired of staring at trees and barns, he decided to read instead. He had not given it much thought since Kurin's interview with the town guard had thrown his already tumultuous life for another loop but he found himself searching through the packs relishing the thought. As long as it was not that dreary book of herbs again.
“You may want to consider reading the one titled, 'Threimes: A History',” Kurin said. “It's not the most riveting read but, after all, you're not secluded on a small farm anymore. It might behoove you to learn a little about the land you travel. And it's more interesting than that dreary book on herbs.”
He found the book (as he suppressed an indignant squawk: dreary? Why yes, in fact, it was dreary.) a large hard-sided thing tightly bound in light brown leather and settling back, he flipped open the cover to the first brittle page of yellowing parchment. The writing was neat, each letter carefully drawn out artfully and in perfectly straight rows as though the scribe had used a ruler.
“In the dark years preceding the formation of Threimes Kingdom and the reign of Threimes I, Kashya and Midworld battled bitterly for control of the western half of the continent and specifically for control of the Western Ocean and the rivers that provided trade routes along the river and the Sun Sea and into the land of Kashya and for control of the great forest of the region comprised of oaks and elms and mahogany and maple and several other types of valuable lumber and of the rich mines of gold and precious stones and...”
Jurel broke off his reading and craned his neck to look up at Kurin questioningly.
“Is the entire book like this?” he asked.
“What, do you mean to ask whether it continues to be so long winded?” Kurin chuckled. “Annoying, isn't it? His first sentence spans three full pages. By about page thirty the writer seems to realize that he is being quite a windbag and changes his style. You'll notice that he goes from one extreme to the other. Some of his sentences are just single words and that might be even more annoying. Not much information can be imparted with one word. He does settle in though, by page fifty I think. I never said it was a well written book but for the most part, it is informative.”
Kurin spoke offhandedly, still distractedly searching, but at least he spoke. Jurel missed hearin
g the old man's banter and even that small taste was a comfort. Kurin lapsed back into silence, so Jurel resumed his reading, plodding through the confusing mess of words until the sun set and, since Kurin forbade the use of a candle, he could no longer see the page in his lap.
Chapter 28
It was late, the sun's warmth long forgotten, the deep chill of night closing in with a vengeance perhaps in recompense for the warm day past, nipping at exposed flesh, when Kurin pointed to an opening in the tree line, to a small indent where they would set up camp. Pulling the wagon up in front of the hole in the trees, Kurin reined in and hopped nimbly from his seat. Speaking quietly, he told Jurel to take out the tarp and lay it on the ground over the muddy snow. It would leave them exposed for the night but the alternative was not very appealing. With that accomplished, Jurel busied himself with digging a fire pit and collecting wood from the surrounding trees—eminently grateful that he had convinced Kurin they needed a hot meal. When there was a cheery, although small, fire burning Jurel gathered ingredients from the cart and prepared a simple stew of beef and onions, with some potatoes and a few carrots thrown in for good measure, mixing them in the small pot with some clean snow. Placing the pot over the fire, he sat next to Kurin and extended his hands to the fire, grateful for the warmth on the icicles that were his fingers.
Everything was quiet; the only sound to be heard was the pop and crackle of their fire, as though the world was in suspense, waiting with pent breath for something to happen. The light of their fire extended out to the closest trees that surrounded their campsite, illuminating them, creating a boundary, a sort of barrier like a fence beyond which nothing seemed to exist in the impenetrable blackness.
“Quiet tonight,” Jurel said and Kurin jumped. “Are you all right?” Jurel peered at the old man bathed in ruddy firelight, noting the shadows under the old man's eyes.
