by Remi Michaud
The king had also called a general muster of his forces and no one knew what his intentions were. At the time of the writing, his own garrisons had filled to capacity with some thirty thousand men. Also not including Grayson where estimates ranged from three thousand to five times that number—not a particularly useful guess.
Not one of their agents had yet determined exactly why armies were mustering throughout the kingdom, but to the three sitting at that table, the reason seemed abundantly clear: the Soldiers of God were a hammer; the king's forces, the anvil; and the Salosians? They were the hapless bit of metal on the forge.
The Salosian forces, led by their swordmasters, numbered somewhere around three thousand and though recruits continued to filter in, it was a slow process. Their best case scenario, drawn up by the entirely thorough little Brother Garvus was that if the Soldiers of God and the kingdom military remained stationary until the end of the year, the Salosians might be able to muster as many as four thousand troops. “Three thousand eight hundred ninety-three by autumn at the current rate of increase,” Garvus had reported, priggishly referring to the clipboard he carried with him everywhere. That was if everything stayed status quo. Plenty of reason, then, for three senior members of the Salosian Order to be sitting around a cluttered table silently brooding, silently drinking.
“And how is our young charge?” Goromand asked, interrupting the solemn crackle of the small fire that did little to alleviate the gloom of the austere meeting room.
Startled by the sudden sound, Jorge nearly dropped his cup, muttering a curse under his breath as brandy sloshed on his robe.
Kurin sighed. “He's still having problems. Before Jurel so unceremoniously relieved him of his duties,” Kurin smirked wryly, “Andrus was working with him daily, but he still can't conjure so much as a lick of flame, let alone come close to what he achieved at the temple last spring.”
“I don't understand,” Jorge said. “Explain again what happened.”
Kurin's eyes rolled as he let out another sigh, this one much more theatric. “Haven't you heard it enough?”
“No.”
The even glare that Jorge shot at him made him swallow the sharper words that came to his tongue.
“As you well know-” a pointed look which was resoundingly ignored “-when we were at the temple, we met Calen. A smug, insufferable fool if there ever was one. Jurel's adopted father, Daved, said some things which did not go over well with the fat bastard and he was executed-”
“Murdered,” Gormand said quietly.
“Same outcome. Fine, murdered then, on the spot. When that happened, Jurel snapped. His divinity flowed forth and a massacre the likes of which I have never before witnessed ensued.”
His eyes darkened, turned inward at the memory of young Jurel, the God of War, suddenly displaying his power in such a spectacular fashion. He told his two friends again, haltingly, the tale of Jurel's rampage through the temple at Threimes, destroying any that stood in his way. Rivers of blood had flowed that day.
He described how, being faced by a dozen and more priests who threw arcane fire at him, Jurel had stridden through the inferno, unscathed by the blazing balls that would have liquefied any other, to cut down most of the priests with a sword he had conjured that had seemed to be made of lightning.
Then came the escape from the temple and from the city. The night that followed had been long indeed for Kurin; he had been ill and near death from his confinement in the dungeons under the temple. Mikal and Gaven had taken turns to support him lest he collapse to the road, where, he was certain, he never would have risen.
Jurel had gotten them through it all and a long way toward the Abbey and safety before he had fallen unconscious from his exertions. At least Kurin thought it was only his exertions that had caused his collapse.
When he had awakened, days later, there was no trace of the power that had held him in its grip. There had not been since.
“I don't understand fully either,” Kurin said after an uncomfortable silence. He pushed away the terrible memories and looked across to the man he had considered a brother for so many years. “It's there. It's most definitely there. I felt it at Threimes. It was more—much more—than simple arcanum. It was...a feeling. A presence. Something. I can't explain it. But there seems to be some sort of mental block barring him from fully coming into his own.”
“He needs to get past it,” Goromand muttered.
“Thank you, O wise Abbot, for that epiphany,” Kurin replied, his lips twisting sardonically. “Yes, he needs to get past it, but to do so, he must discover what is causing it. Until then, I fear there is nothing to be done.”
“We need him,” Jorge said. “The storm is coming gentlemen, and we need him to be whole. If not...” He took in his two friends, Goromand, the Abbot of the Salosian Order, nominally the master of them all, and Kurin, newly raised to Chaplain, and the man he considered a brother.
They nodded glumly, exchanging dire looks.
Kurin downed the rest of his brandy as the rest of Jorge's unspoken thought was completed in his mind.
There might be upwards of sixty thousand troops massing at Threimes. Though they did not know what the king intended, there were still thirty thousand Soldiers of God. Their target: the heretical Salosian Order, and the Salosian Order might, might, be able to muster four thousand men.
Without Jurel, without the God of War, they would be utterly annihilated.
* * *
Bees hummed, flitting from flower to flower, homing in like darts to the center of colorful bull's-eyes to collect their bounty. Birds trilled their tunes of joy and freedom as if they gloated at those bound to the ground, and squirrels skittered and scampered. The arbor was a quiet spot filled with life, gentle and serene. It was the perfect place to think. And more importantly, it was the perfect place to be alone, to get away from the constant bowing and groveling.
He would have thought that becoming a God would have prepared him to deal with the masses of priests that always jolted in surprise when they saw him, always dropped to their knees and lay their foreheads to the stone floors in what they imagined was a fine show of humility. At first, the discomfort had been laughable and he had tittered nervously as he told them to stand up. But as days wore on and his story spread like a wildfire in dry brush through the Abbey, and everyone treated him like fine porcelain, he grew annoyed, then angry. What was worse: no matter how many times he demanded they stop—“A simple hello will be fine,” he had sighed more often than he could remember—they did not listen. They were supposed to listen, right? They believed he was a God, right? They were supposed to follow his commands. Some they did with humble subservience, and most they did not. With humble subservience.
It was enough to drive a man crazy.
It was a comfort then that they had not yet found this spot. He was well hidden with his back to a tree in the overgrown arbor that had not seen another human in who knew how long. It was a minor vengeance that whenever he slipped away, he drove them all mad in their desperate searches for him. Sometimes he could hear them calling to each other, “Have you seen him?” “No. I don't know where he is.” but it was distant, on the other side of the wall that bordered the grove, and each time, he smiled.
When he was not in bed, when Gaven bade him good-bye and bustled off to his duties, or Mikal told him his lessons were over for the day (and as his martial abilities grew, those lessons had become less about learning and more about practicing), he came here. It was his spot, his solace.
He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. It had been a bad day. First, he had upset Goromand. He had refused to allow Andrus to return. The man had wanted him to reconsider; Andrus was difficult, Goromand said, but he knew what he was doing—Jurel decided on the spur of the moment, without knowing exactly why, to hold back what he had overheard in the little used corridor the day before. He then insisted that Jurel pray, to beseech Gaorla for forgiveness for whatever sin had blocked him from his powe
r. He had told the man to do anatomically incorrect things with himself, and possibly with various species of livestock, before storming away.
On top of it all, he could not get images of Daved from his mind. Some days he could get through from waking to sleeping without thinking of him, but the previous night, he had dreamed of his father and the dream had stuck with him, haunted him until he was afraid the memory of the man he had called father for so long would crack his already brittle mind.
It was not supposed to be this way. He was supposed to be tending cattle or checking crops beside Daved, laughing at one of Galbin's jests. He should have wooed, and possibly married Erin, had children, had a life. Instead, he was so far from that home, that life, it seemed a decade had passed, a century, and not just a few months. A million miles instead of a thousand.
“Hello, my boy.”
The familiar voice jolted him. He spun around in his seat. Kurin stood a few feet from him, hip deep in the overgrown bushes, with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.
“How did-?” he asked and the old man chuckled.
“How did I find you? It's no big mystery really. I used to come here when I was an acolyte. It was my place. It let me get away from all the tedious lessons. As a matter of fact, that was the exact tree I used to lean on. Right where you are.”
“So you knew?”
“Of course. But I would never tell. This is your place now.” His eyes lit up further and his lips broadened until they were a wide, mischievous grin. “Besides, I rather enjoy seeing my fellow brothers and sisters running around like there are hornets after them while they search for you. It takes everything I have to keep from laughing out loud.”
Kurin pushed his way through the dense growth until he was beside Jurel, sank down with a sigh and leaned back against the trunk.
“I'd almost forgotten how pleasant this place is. It's been so long.”
They sat quietly as the sun slid downward, and the sky changed from the color of a jay's crest to the color of a robin's breast, not speaking, not needing to. They had been through a lot together. It was enough for them to be comfortable no matter how long they sat in silence. When the arbor was washed in shadow, when all was muted colors that were a thin shade of gray, Kurin finally shifted.
“We need to speak,” Kurin said.
“I'm right here,” Jurel responded.
“Indeed,” the old man said, but there was another silence before he spoke again. “Did you really say that thing to Goromand about strapping himself naked to the underside of a stallion in heat?”
“No! I would never! It was a mule.”
A grunt of laughter and Jurel could not help but smile ruefully in return. Perhaps he had been a little harsh.
“No matter. You two will have to bury the hatchet in your own time.”
“As long as he stops going on about praying and repenting and stuff,” grumbled Jurel. “I've spoken with my father.” I think. “He's told me many things and I don't remember anything about repenting. He doesn't seem to care one whit whether I beg his forgiveness or not.”
“Ah...yes. Well.” Kurin harrumphed. It was difficult enough for him to deal with the fact that Jurel was a God—though he tended to use the term God-in-training—but to hear Jurel speak which such familiarity of Gaorla made him uneasy. “We are getting a little far afield. For now, try to be kind to Goromand,” Kurin pleaded as he rose. “He's a good man—I dare call him a friend—but he's trying to deal with some very difficult concepts, you know, and I think he's a little frazzled by it all. It's not often he plays host to a god.”
“I'll try,” Jurel said. Flashing a toothy grin, he added, “After all, I have a hatchet to bury.”
“Gods help me,” Kurin moaned, stretching his arms out and looking to the darkening sky.
“Next time I see dad, I'll ask him what he can do,” Jurel retorted.
“Er...yes. Anyway.” The casual blasphemy rattled him. If it had been anyone else who spoke those words, Kurin would have spoken at length—and not gently. Rubbing his temples, Kurin cleared his throat loudly. He gave Jurel a pointed glare. “That's not the reason I'm here.”
“You asked,” Jurel shrugged.
“The reason I'm here is to discuss your little falling out with Andrus.”
Sullenly, Jurel brought his knees up to his chest. Unable to meet Kurin's look, he muttered, “I don't want to talk about it.”
Clicking his tongue, Kurin turned to face him. “Jurel, we have been through this already. You need to be educated and Andrus, as stodgy as he is, happens to be one of the finest teachers here. Now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened and exactly why you can't just let it go.”
What was he to do? When Kurin set his mind to something, he tended to dog it until he had all the answers he sought. He had sought Jurel for more than forty years after all. Jurel heaved a sigh. There was nothing for it but to just come out and tell him. Grudgingly, he told his tale, but he left out the conversation he had overheard in the abandoned corridor.
“So you're angry because he neglected to mention some of the dangers inherent in summoning arcanum?” Kurin asked, eying Jurel sharply.
“No, I'm angry because we've been trying for months and we've made no progress and he continually hints that it's my fault.”
“I see.” Kurin said, nodding his understanding. After a pause in which it seemed Kurin was busy gravely pondering this new information, he asked, “And whose fault would you say it is?”
With a snort, Jurel glanced askance at Kurin. “He's the teacher.”
“Ah.” That slow nod continued. Jurel began to get the uncomfortable idea that he was being baited.
“I wonder,” Kurin drew it out as though thinking deeply, “What were the names of the head delegates who met with Threimes, the first to draw out the borders?”
Confused, Jurel stared at the old man before answering. “Jalal from Kashya and Saeth from Madesh.”
“Oh?” Kurin's eyebrows rose. “How do you know this?”
“Well, Andrus told me.”
“Hmmm. Yes, now I remember. Who is the current baron of Icetown?”
“Drogas, I think. The king awarded him with the position after he took command of the city's defenses and repelled a raid from Madesh that killed the previous baron.”
“Oh. And you learned that where?”
With light dawning, Jurel answered more slowly. “Andrus.”
“I see. And how does one go about accessing his or her arcanum?” Now Kurin's bright, angry eyes were riveted to Jurel's.
“Well...” He did not want to complete the thought but Kurin urged him relentlessly forward. “First, you need to meditate and float within yourself. Then you need to find your center. Once you've found it, you should see your source. It's different in appearance to each person; for me it looks like a star. Then you-”
“Needless to say,” Kurin interrupted, “Andrus taught you that as well.”
Breaking eye contact, Jurel stared at a dandelion between his feet and shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“So let me get this straight: you have learned history, politics, current events, geography, mathematics, science and alchemy, your reading is vastly improved as are your skills at analysis and logic—so I thought!—and philosophy. In a few short months, Andrus has managed to turn you from nearly total ignorance of the world around you to at least a semblance of educated understanding. This is a process that takes our novices years to complete. And you would blame him for your mental block?”
Jurel's sullen obstinacy had evaporated early during Kurin's tirade. Now guilt threatened to choke him.
“Jurel, be sensible,” Kurin continued, more gently as he crouched in front of Jurel. “I think I can convince Andrus to give you another chance. Be ready for him tomorrow.”
Though guilt gnawed at him, still he turned stony eyes to Kurin. “No.”
“No?”
Perhaps he had been too hard on Andrus. Perhaps he should have bee
n more studious, more willing to delve his own mind, more...willing. And perhaps if that had been all, then it could be solved right there, right then. But now there was the added complication of his illicitly overheard conversation.
Jurel told Kurin the rest, thinking rather wryly as he did that Kurin had, once again, proven remarkably adept at getting all the information out of the situation. This time, when he reached the end of his account, Kurin's expression held no trace of mock thoughtfulness. He glared darkly at Jurel.
“I see,” he rumbled. “This does indeed pose a problem.”
Kurin rose quickly to his feet—Jurel was often astounded by the ease and agility with which the old man moved—and, clasping his hands behind his back, began pacing in the tall grasses. Jurel watched like a cornered animal as Kurin muttered under his breath. Some moments later, Kurin came to an abrupt halt and locked eyes with Jurel.
“All right, my boy. You won't see Andrus again. I will find you another tutor. And I hope you will treat this one a little better.”
Relieved, Jurel nodded. “And what about-”
“Never mind that. I will take care of it. Good day Jurel.”
So Jurel had managed to get rid of Andrus once and for all but now he was to be saddled with someone else. He could not help but wonder what the next tutor would be like. Knowing Kurin as Jurel did, he imagined the old man would find someone particularly unpleasant in one fashion or another, someone who would drive Jurel even crazier than Andrus had. Kurin had a strange sense of humor.
