by Remi Michaud
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Jurel snorted. “That's what I thought too. But it just keeps going like that.”
In truth, as Jurel had sat in the library, reading further and further, as the gray light faded from the windows set high up the walls and he had pulled a three-candle holder near to keep reading, he had grown more and more frustrated. He had hoped that the poem would end at some point and he would find the text becoming more informative. At one point, he had even flipped ahead, but he saw nothing but lines of verse. Never much one for poetry, Jurel's mood had soured. It worsened even more because the words themselves, on top of being poesy, were vague, and almost impossible to understand.
“I mean, take a look at this.” Jurel flipped pages quickly, and settled his finger on a verse.
“'Twixt boiling orb and bitter shade/The course is set, a candle's blade.'” Gaven looked up, his face screwed up in confusion. “I don't understand.”
With a snort, Jurel threw his hands in the air. “Neither do I! It's as useful as pig slop. There are some parts that are almost understandable. Like this one here.” Again he flipped pages, again his finger settled on a verse.
“'Battle's son, publican/Child of God, thou be a man.' I don't get it.”
Pacing now, Jurel shook his head. “I think it's describing my fathers. First there was Gram, 'publican', then there was Daved, 'battle's son', and finally 'child of God': I'm Gaorla's son.”
“That's stretching it, don't you think?”
“Well, it's poetry. It's always stretched. But you're right. I may not be much of a judge but even I can see it's badly written poetry. I think it's out of order too. Look how far in that verse happens. There are parts nearer the beginning that seem to tell of events that haven't happened yet. Or, at least not that I can decipher.”
Disgruntled, Jurel stared out at the sky in flame. Mist clung like gossamer to the ground; earth seemed to merge into sky, seemed to end as though he stared at the featureless nothingness beyond the edge of the world.
“So this is useless then.” Gaven closed the book resolutely and laid it on top of the cards littering the table.
“I don't know. That's the worst of it. I don't know. I've been thinking about it ever since I read the damned thing. Sometimes I think that if I just let it sit in my head, things will come clear. Other times, I think it's wasted effort.”
“What does Kurin say about it?”
“Kurin?”
Thinking of the journey here Jurel couldn't help but remember Kurin's reticence every time Jurel asked about himself. Turning back to face Gaven, he smiled wryly. “I haven't spoken to Kurin about it. I think it would be as useful as, say, beating my head against the wall. Besides,” his expression soured as Gaven chuckled, “I haven't seen him much lately. He's been busy.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Turning back to the window, Jurel stared sightlessly at the ephemeral fields. “I don't know Gav. I really don't know.”
As he stared out the window that sparkled like crystal, Jurel had an idea that he would find out soon enough.
Chapter 7
With nothing else to do—and having spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, unable to get that blasted useless book out of his head—Jurel again found himself, sandy-eyed and muddle-minded, in the courtyard watching Gaven's platoon go through their drills. Gaven himself sat beside Jurel on the bench and watched critically as practice swords flashed jeweled shards of sunlight and fighters grunted with both exertion and pain. Gaven's sergeant, a veteran with a temper to match the scars on his face, stormed up and down the line bawling orders and insults in equal doses.
It was perhaps for this reason that he did not notice why first one, then a few, then almost all the training soldiers stopped and gaped in Jurel's direction, blunt edged swords dipping. In the sudden silence Jurel squirmed, wondering what was going on. Had he sprouted horns? Did he have a bit of his breakfast in his teeth? A few of the soldiers whispered words and one pointed at Jurel.
Or, as he looked more closely, beyond him. Ah.
He turned his head. He drew a sharp breath.
The first thing he noticed was her beauty. Long raven black hair framed an alabaster oval. Eyes the color of a thunderstorm held a mystery that he itched to solve. Full lips like roses formed a natural moue as though she was perpetually prepared for a kiss. Though she wore the same sort of shapeless robe that was common here at the Abbey, hints of curves suggested the figure underneath.
The second thing he noticed about her was her demeanor. She strode with a purpose only achievable by the gravely insulted and the explosively irate. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides. Her eyes were not only the color of a thunderstorm but seemed to rage like one too. And they were locked on him. The expression, “If looks could kill...” barely scratched the surface.
“Uh-oh,” murmured Gaven. “I've heard of her. That's Metana. Possibly the single most beautiful and sought after lady here. Most definitely one of the worst tempered.”
“What does she want with me?” Jurel choked. He had a sudden, nearly overpowering urge to flee.
“I don't know but she looks pretty upset. Did you kill her brother or something?”
Jurel gave Gaven an outraged glare. “That's not funny! What do I do? She's getting closer.” He turned again to watch the imminent arrival of his doom.
“I don't know but here's a piece of advice: do whatever she wants as quickly as you can and then be gone.”
Jurel drew a breath to ask another question but Gaven was already gone. Presumably to meld in with his platoon. Safety in numbers, thought Jurel wryly.
When she was perhaps a dozen paces from where he sat, she raised a hand and pointed one finger accusingly at him. It looked like a dagger aimed at his heart. He rose, putting the heavy bench between them. It was not much of a barrier but it couldn't hurt.
“You!” she snarled halting herself just short of driving her finger into his chest. Her head came well short of his shoulders. The fact that she had to crane her neck to glare at him did nothing whatsoever to mitigate how intimidated he felt.
“Hullo,” Jurel said, trying to smile. He was privately mortified how watery both his voice and his smile were. “I don't believe we've met.”
“Do you have any idea what you have cost me? Do you?”
Her breasts heaved in the most distracting way as she drew ragged breaths, glaring murder and mayhem at him. No one had ever called Jurel a genius but he was not stupid; he kept his eyes glued to hers.
“It's...um...a pleasure to meet you...ma'am. Is there anything I can do for you?”
It was honest. It really was. He had intended no sarcasm, no veiled insult. Daved had raised him to be polite. But she stopped breathing and somehow her eyes widened ever further as though he had delivered a fatal blow. He began to worry.
“Follow me,” she growled from between clenched teeth and spun on her heel.
Jurel turned, seeking assistance. What he found was Gaven grinning, and giving him an encouraging thumb's up. Responding with an altogether nasty gesture of his own, Jurel followed the stalking woman as though he were being led to the gallows.
She dragged him through the Abbey, down several corridors he was familiar with and a few he was not before entering a nondescript door in the north wing. Jurel thought they might be somewhere near the alchemy laboratories reserved for acolytes and novices.
Quite large and airy, the room was undecorated, almost barren; its drab, unbroken gray walls were not mitigated in the slightest by the sun shining through large window. The only furnishings in the room were a lectern with a slate on the wall behind it, and a rickety chair against a small desk.
Pointing imperiously at the desk, she strode to the lectern and waited until he seated himself. Which proved quite a chore; the desk was small and he was not. When he managed to force his massive frame into a semblance of the correct position (which he accomplished as Metana glared her disapproval
) and stilled, Metana spoke.
“My name is Metana. You may call me ma'am.”
Sometimes, the mouth works before the brain can inform it not to. He tried to smile. “Pleased to meet you, Metana. My name is Jurel. You may call me Jurel.”
Those twilight eyes flashed dangerously.
“Uh...ma'am?”
“You will speak when I tell you to. I have been assigned, much against my will, to be your tutor. I do not know why I was selected and I do not care. Seeing as I have been ordered to perform this function by my superior I have no choice. But we will do this quickly and efficiently and I will not tolerate any foolishness. Are we clear?”
Jurel swallowed, his throat clicking audibly as he nodded.
“Are we clear?”
“Yes, Met—ma'am,” he replied meekly.
Metana's smile was as glorious as a sunrise in spring. His heart nearly stopped in his chest.
“You see? You're learning already,” she said, and her smile fell away. “I expect you here at sixth bell every morning. Do not be late.”
Introductions and expectations out of the way, she opened a heavy book on her lectern and began reading to him.
Oh gods. What had he gotten into? Andrus had been pompous and as interesting as an old shoe but at least he had been civil. Now he understood Kurin's joke. Jurel had not wanted Andrus to teach him anymore and sent him away. So Kurin had given him time to understand just how boring life was here at the Abbey with nothing to do. Then, when Jurel thought he would die of boredom, Kurin had sent the meanest, nastiest replacement he could find. But he knew Jurel well: Jurel could not treat a lady, especially one as beautiful as Metana (which made him frown inwardly; why exactly did his behavior toward her depend upon her beauty? He was not certain he would like the answer very much, for it seemed to hint at something not entirely pleasant about his fundamental nature), the way he had treated Andrus.
Very fine joke, Kurin. Very fine indeed. Lesson learned: never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or maybe, the lesson was that no matter how bad things seem, they can always get worse—especially after a rash act. He vowed to have a few choice words with Kurin the next time he got his hands on the old man.
He yelped when a streak of pain ran across his back at shoulder level as though someone had switched him. He felt the lingering crackle of arcanum in the air.
“Pay attention, Jurel,” Metana growled, glaring at him.
What had he gotten into?
Chapter 8
If he had thought for an instant that life under Andrus's tutelage had been difficult, then life with Metana was nigh impossible.
Each morning, he rose before sunrise—to avoid being awakened by any more dousings with ice water; Metana was not shy in the enforcement of her demands—washed from his basin of water, dressed, and hastily made his way through mostly deserted corridors, yet unlit for the day, carrying his satchel of blank parchments and quills to Metana's classroom. Most days he made it before her. Some days he arrived at the same time as her. He had learned early to make sure he never arrived after her. Aside from the watery waking, she had ways of making things unpleasant for him when he displeased her. Arriving after her most definitely displeased her—along with almost anything else he did.
What followed was an eternity of grueling lessons delivered in a fast-paced staccato tone and accompanied by accusing glares as though he was somehow being willful though he listened raptly and studiously took notes. The lessons always ended with an assigning of work that he was expected to have done the following morning. And no matter how much the after hours work rankled him, he did it. He was wise to do so. Like waking late, he had only committed the crime of neglecting to do his homework once; she checked his work first thing every morning—and she had ways of making things unpleasant for him if he displeased her, after all.
Between the lessons with Metana, and the work she piled upon him to complete after class, he soon found he was effectively isolated from everyone at the Abbey. He no longer had a chance to visit with Gaven or Kurin. He never had a chance to spend time in the training yards with Mikal and his troops. As exhausted as he was from the constant studying, he found himself restless and edgy as time wore on.
During these months, he tried to draw Metana out. Or at least thaw the glacier that existed between them. He had a continuing suspicion that if he could break through that barrier he would find Metana to be a warm, vibrant person—albeit one with nettles—underneath the granite surface. He was polite, friendly, studious and courteous. In short, he was as charming as he could be, but no matter what he tried, she remained cold as though he had grievously insulted her and she had as yet not forgiven him.
Yet still, throughout the grueling months, he had no success in touching his source. That too seemed to insult Metana.
On the Day of Shadows, Jurel entered Metana's classroom with a lightness of step and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was his nineteenth birthday. Surely, he thought, surely she would give him a reprieve to enjoy his birthday.
Sitting at his desk with his work prepared in front of him, he looked up when she entered with a bright smile. “Good morning, ma'am,” he said.
She glared at him. “You have finished your assignment?”
He nodded earnestly and handed her a sheaf of parchments which she snatched from his hand on her way to the lectern. He sat patiently watching her as she began poring through the treatise he had worked up the previous evening to explain the shifting temperatures of the various seasons. As always, she held a quill ready to correct any mistakes she found. She usually found many.
Soon, she sniffed and laid down her quill. “It will do, though there are some issues you and I will discuss.”
“Does that mean I can go?”
Her eyebrows crept up her forehead and her beautiful lips opened to form a wide O of surprise.
“Go? Go where?”
A little flustered, he hemmed and hawed for a moment before he was able to respond. “Well, it's the Day of Shadows and I thought you might let me have the day off.”
Her expression closed up. She regarded him with bafflement. “Why would I do that?”
“Because...well, it's the Day of Shadows.”
“And?”
“And it's my birthday.”
“Happy birthday. And?”
This was not going as well as he had expected, though in retrospect he did manage to wonder why he thought it might have. His smile curdling, he lowered his eyes and muttered, “Never mind.”
And of course, she did not mind. Not in the slightest.
On Galbin's farm, Jurel had often worked himself to the bone and fallen into a deep restive slumber as soon as he touched his bed. He knew what it meant to be tired. But these months under Metana's tutelage, though not physically strenuous, were some of the most grueling times in his life and though he fell into bed exhausted and generally with a pounding headache, he was often too restless to find sleep.
* * *
Metana was a demanding taskmistress. She heaped work on him during the day and if he did not manage to get it complete by the time Metana called a halt to the day's session, she demanded that he have it complete the next morning along with the regular homework she assigned. When she found errors in his work, she upbraided him loudly for not paying close enough attention. When she found no errors, she glared accusingly as though he had cheated. Though it was brutally difficult to keep her pace, he did. He still harbored hopes (foolishly, he castigated himself if the day had been particularly strenuous) of breaking through the shell he was certain she hid behind. He had to admit too that he had learned a great deal in a few short months.
But as difficult as learning all the mundane minutiae that made up the world could be, none of it came close to how she pushed him when they practiced arcanum.
“Close your books,” Metana ordered.
Jurel stifled a groan; Metana hated groans.
She sat across the table from him and gripped
his hands roughly in hers. She glared into his eyes. Her hair fell in ebony waves to her shoulders; her lips, though pursed in perpetual irritation, appeared to him at that moment to be pursed in preparation for a kiss; her twilight eyes glared as though daring him. Only a man with ice in his veins would not think to try. Only a man with rocks between his ears would try.
“Now let go,” she commanded.
He sighed quietly, then closed his eyes.
He let his mind open and immediately felt Metana's dominating presence. She pushed her way in with all the subtlety of a raging bull; she was never gentle. She insisted it was a lesson of sorts. He had to learn to protect his mind from unwanted invasion. He wondered wryly on occasion what would happen if he resisted her entry.
As always, flickers of light emanated from her presence. Vague images winked in and out of existence like birds passing through a thick fog. She had explained that these were vagrant memories that leaked from her own subconscious...and they were to be ignored at all costs.
“There.”
Though they were merely mental presences inside his skull, there was still a feeling of physical presence; she seemed to point.
“I know.”
Ahead in the vaulted distance, he saw a flickering pin-point of light. Slowly moving toward it, he evaded the vagrant memories and turmoils that passed his way. He silently thanked Andrus for his final lessons on avoiding these pitfalls. He ignored the voices that floated in as from a great distance though one always sent a thorn through his heart, always left him feeling as though he betrayed the memory of the man who had raised him. The pin-point light grew to the size of a melon, then a barn, and soon, he was facing a vast wall of blazing energy, as though if he reached out he truly would touch the surface of a star.
But, as always, it remained just out of reach.
Once again, with Metana's harsh urgings, he beat ineffectively at the invisible barrier that blocked him. With an urgency brought on by months of frustration, he beat at the barrier with every bit of strength he could muster and let out a mental howl of such power that even Metana's presence faded as she backed away. But the barrier did not so much as waver.
