by Remi Michaud
She spoke not one word until they reached their classroom. She held the door open for him, pointing at his chair. He sat. She slammed the door and stormed to her lectern.
He did not bother looking at her. In truth, he barely cared. She could rant and rave all she wanted and, for the first time, it did not matter to him. He had other things to occupy his thoughts.
Her hands were white-knuckled claws as she gripped the sides of her lectern; she continued to glare at him silently. Her breath rasped in and out of her nose as she tried to rein her anger, but still he did not pay much attention. The memories continued to wind through his mind and coil around his thoughts, constricting them, suffocating them. It was as though the overwhelming power of his recollections left him empty now. Left him cold.
“What did you think you were doing?”
It was barely more than a rasping whisper but it carried the force of an avalanche; Jurel, jerked back to the present, flinched.
“Do you think I'm here for the fun of it? Do you think I wake up before the crack of dawn champing at the bit to get here to try and pound a modicum of education into a boorish oaf of a pretender?” As her anger gained fervency, so too did her tone, until she was screeching. “I'm only doing this because I was expressly ordered to. I have other projects that I was working on. Things that actually interest me.
“And then, just when I start thinking you're actually starting to make progress you go and insult me by not even showing up. You overgrown, callous, selfish, unthinking...oaf!”
As her ire increased, his did too. As she screamed her last words, he shot up from his chair with enough force to send it skittering across the floor. He slammed his fists on his desk; it cracked and fell to the floor in two pieces. It was Metana's turn to flinch, the first time since he had met her that she had shown him any reaction other than annoyance or outright anger.
Trembling, Jurel managed to curb the first words that tried to leap from his tongue. But not by much. Instead, he took a deep breath, finding it did little to cool his seething rage.
“Since the first day I met you when you dragged me away from one of the very few friends I have as though I was a recalcitrant child, I have done my best to treat you with nothing but courtesy and respect. I have taken the work you shoveled at me and I did it all with a smile on my face. I sat here silently as you belittled me. I sat here and didn't complain even when you wouldn't let me enjoy the New Year's feast or even my own damned birthday.
“I don't know what I pulled you from but whatever it was, I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't ask for you. Hells, I didn't ask for anyone. And let me tell you something: whatever little pet projects you were working on that you were pulled away from, you cannot begin to compare your loss to mine. My entire life has been ripped out from under my feet. Everything I knew, everything I was is gone!
“You asked what I thought I was doing today. You know what? I was mourning. My foster father, the man who rescued me when I was newly orphaned—I watched my parents murdered by Dakariin, by the way—from a battle torn city and raised me from childhood was himself murdered before my eyes nearly a year ago in Threimes.”
This, the actual saying of his troubles, finally had the effect of stemming his surging anger, dulling it and cooling it. It left him numb. It did not really help that for the first time since he had met her, she finally showed a trace of human empathy when her eyes softened. He did not need or want her pity.
He continued, “So if you want to think that me not showing up today was intended as an insult to you, then go ahead. I really don't care. What I needed was some time to pull myself together.
“As for who I am, or who I am supposed to be, I guess you would be one of the disbelievers. I understand. I've noticed that many here don't put much stock in Kurin's claims.” He smiled weakly as she snorted quietly. “Most days I don't really believe it myself. Except for what happened in Threimes, I can't seem to do anything I'm supposed to be able to.”
At that, Metana's brow drew down and she canted her head inquisitively. She spoke calmly and mildly. “What did happen in Threimes? There are rumors, but no one who knows will talk about it.”
Jurel still had no desire to discuss it. Like the others who had shared the experience with him, it still left the sour taste of horror at the back of his throat to even remember it. She was honestly curious though, expectant without expectation. He had the impression that she did not want to know for the sake of satisfying some base bloodlust and fuel the fires of vengeance like so many others but because she truly wanted to understand him a little better by knowing what he had gone through the previous spring.
As wind gusts rattled the rapidly darkening windows in their casements, Jurel slowly and quietly began to tell the tale, starting with the harrowing running battle and subsequent capture by Salma's platoon of Soldiers of God. He had intended to tell a heavily edited version, but as his account wore on, he found himself telling the whole thing, every painful detail. By the time his story petered to a halt, Jurel was panting as though he had run ten miles and tears were coursing unabashedly down his face. His sight was a blurred, dirty window onto a reality that was unrecognizable and undecipherable.
He had, during the course of his telling, retrieved his chair and now as he sat with his hands clasped between his knees, he felt warm arms envelop him. It made him weep all the harder as he felt a soft hand gently smoothing his hair.
“It's all right, Jurel,” she crooned. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. It's all right.”
And he wept all the harder.
* * *
In time, his weeping subsided to sniffles and the occasional hiccup. He was surprised to realize how drained he was. Not just emotionally—that, he would have expected—but physically as well. He was certain that if he could lie down and shut his eyes, he would sleep for days.
And a strange paradox: though he felt like he weighed a thousand pounds, he also felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
He was surprised, then—physical and mental exhaustion notwithstanding—to realize that he felt better. It was as though he had lanced a painful boil and was getting all the infection out. He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in weeks, perhaps months, as Metana disentangled herself and crouched to be at eye level with him. After a brief inspection of his features, she winced.
“You look like you fell off a mountain,” she said softly.
“I feel it,” he responded, chuckling.
She rose and stepped to her lectern. Jurel, not particularly interested in listening to any lectures, nonetheless settled in wondering what exactly he would do for a desk. But she stood silently for a moment, gazing down thoughtfully at the sheaf of parchment she had there. Then she nodded, apparently making a decision.
“Tell you what,” she said, turning to face him. “Tomorrow, you and I will go for a picnic in one of the arbors. I will still give a lesson, but it will not be here—like we have a choice; you have no desk, oaf.” The words did not sting; her eyes were soft, and she smiled gently. “Instead we'll be under the sun and I promise it won't be quite so arduous.”
He could not help it; he breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled wryly.
“Yes, yes. I think for today, there is nothing here for us. Let's get some sleep and meet here in the morning. Say one hour after sunrise?”
* * *
For the first time in months, Jurel walked with a buoyancy in his step. Through corridors that were beginning to show evidence of the Abbey waking, he whistled tuneless ditties to himself until he reached the classroom.
When he entered, Metana looked up from her lectern and smiled, greeting him shyly. With no further ado, she gathered up a ream of parchment, a thin book and a large wicker basket which she handed to him, and motioning him to follow, walked from the classroom.
Soon, they were in an arbor much like the one Jurel used as a refuge on occasion, though this one was much more frequented by the denizens of the Abbey, as evidenced by
the neatly trimmed grass and pruned hedges. The sun had not yet broached the top of the wall so they were still deeply shadowed, but the spell cast by the Salosians ensured that even at that time of morning and even though it was only a month past midwinter, it was pleasantly warm. The flowers were always in bloom here; as the sun peeked over the wall, the arbor transformed into a dazzling oasis of tranquility sprinkled liberally with lush, velvet colors.
They settled on a bench in the middle of the arbor where the path widened, creating something like a glade, and sat in silence for a time. Jurel enjoyed the idyllic scene while Metana, with her head bowed and her hands held loosely in her lap, seemed to be praying. He wondered, briefly, to whom? Valsa? Perhaps, but it did not feel quite right to him. Certainly not Shomra. There were plenty of brothers and sisters who worshiped the God of Death but they were all dour, somber people who shambled about the Abbey silently with their heads bowed. Metana was anything but somber and she did not shamble anywhere. With the amount of knowledge she had stuffed between her ears, probably Maora he decided.
Soon, she roused herself with a shake and flashed him a tentative smile.
“Well then, Jurel, do you want to start the lesson now or eat first?”
He gave her a sheepish look after his belly answered for him, grumbling impatiently. She grinned and began laying out their picnic.
Soon they were munching on soft rolls, still warm and slathered in fresh butter, tart yellow cheese wedges, and apples, and sipping water from flagons. Neither said anything for a time. Though they both made an effort to appear comfortable and simply too busy eating, Jurel kept casting nervous glances, wondering if this new, more amicable Metana was here to stay. Every once in a while he caught her eyes just before she snapped them back to her food.
Soon, they were licking butter and fruit juice from their fingers and leaning back with sighs of contentment. They gazed silently into the depths of the arbor, ostensibly enjoying the view but Jurel knew that they were each trying to figure out a way to begin a conversation that would not be awkward. It was Metana, unsurprisingly, who broke the heavy silence.
“Shall we begin then?”
He stifled a disappointed sigh as she reached for her sheaf of work. It was not quite how he wanted to start but he followed her lead and pulled a blank sheet to his lap. He poised a short stub of lead near the top left corner, waiting to begin taking notes. She opened her book, leafed through a few pages then halted. For a moment, Jurel thought she was referring to her own notes but her eyes held a far away look. She unconsciously fingered a wayward lock of her ebony hair back behind her ears, her brow drawing down, her lips pursing just slightly. She drew a deep breath which had a most diverting effect on the front of her robe.
Gods but she was beautiful!
“I...I'm...” she stuttered without looking up from her notes. “I...this is hard for me. I rarely ever apologize and I certainly never apologize to a student.”
Jurel, being Jurel, was embarrassed (though somewhat gratified, he would not lie to himself) and tried to ease her. “No. No Metana. It's fine. Really, I think...”
But he trailed off as the more familiar glare caught him like a shovel in the face.
“Jurel, I'm trying to do something nice. Shut up and let me finish.”
He nearly swallowed his tongue.
Relenting, she sighed again and he had to work hard to keep his eyes up. “I've been unfair to you. I've been so concerned about the upheaval in my life that I did not think of yours. That's a very unsisterly attitude,” she smirked. “I've forgotten one of the cardinal rules. I may be a teacher, but it doesn't mean I can stop learning. Look, I don't know who you are, I don't know if I believe master Kurin's claims, but I do know that you have caused me to ask some interesting questions. I think, if you wouldn't mind, that I'd like to stay and continue to help with your education.”
A part of Jurel wanted to shout for joy, another part cringed in fear. Up to this point, she had been brutally hard on him, quick to anger, and never satisfied with anything he did but he still had the feeling that this was a woman he would enjoy getting to know better if he could break through her armor. He was not sure he could keep up her pace much longer though.
She must have seen only the latter because she smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I promise to let up a little on you. You'll have some days off, and some evenings with little work. There will still be plenty of work, but I think you will find it manageable.”
She stared at the book in her lap for a few moments and seemed to reach a decision. With a decisive nod, she snapped it shut and said, “How about we do that today?”
At first, there was a great deal of silence interspersed with only a few words. But as the sun rose to its zenith, they began to open up more, until even Metana told Jurel some small stories from her past. Soon, they were laughing and speaking like long-time friends and the tension of earlier was forgotten. As the light hardened to a late afternoon glare, they packed up their things and headed off to share dinner.
By the time Jurel found himself back in his own room, he was electrified and enchanted by this new young lady that he had only begun to get to know. Things were looking up. They were looking up indeed.
Chapter 10
“Damn,” High Priest Thalor muttered, righting his goblet. He glared at the offending pool of red wine that spread like blood across the paperwork on his desk. Then, he glared at the door where he kept the knocker as yet waiting.
With a perfunctory twirl of his fingers, the wine lifted from the desk, and delicately poured back into his goblet, leaving his desk pristine and dry once again.
Taking a deep breath, he faced the door once again.
“Come in,” he barked.
His door opened just enough to allow the man to enter, then silently swung closed again.
Dressed in dark leathers, Kerr was not the type of man one might expect to see occupying the halls of the great temple, and certainly Kerr and his type were rarely seen. Tall and lanky, the man scanned Thalor's office with quick flicks of his eyes; his type were always suspicious, always alert. It kept them alive.
Members of the Eyes of God, a secret sect within the prelacy, were charged with the quiet accrual of information. They were, as the name suggests, the eyes of the temple. Along with those duties, they were also efficient assassins when the need arose. Kerr was among the best of them; Thalor often tapped him to further his purposes.
Thalor did not offer the man a chair or a drink, knowing full well that Kerr would refuse both. The man would make his report and disappear back into the woodwork until the next time he was called upon.
“What news do you bring, Kerr?”
As quietly as his steps, the man answered, “They are to the south, along the northern coast of the Sun Sea. They occupy an old fortress. It is, by all account, easily defended, but they do not have enough manpower to do so effectively. They rely mostly on spells woven into the stonework to prevent detection. It was difficult to retain the knowledge but we managed.”
Kerr's dark eyes continued to rove. Thalor had told him countless times that his office was heavily warded against eavesdroppers, but Kerr always responded with a perfunctory “Yes sir,” even as his eyes continued to search and his answers remained curt.
“What are their numbers?” Thalor said.
“Approximately forty five hundred total sir. Three thousand soldiers.”
Thalor let those numbers sink in and he let a gloating grin spread across his face. There were more than thirty thousand Soldiers of God here in Threimes alone and that did not count the Grayson garrison or any of the other smaller garrisons in between. He was certain that he could get Maten's approval to muster all the garrisons. With as many as fifty thousand troops and perhaps a few hundred priests, they would stamp out the Salosian Order once and for all. His grin widened as he thanked Kerr who slipped from the room like a phantom.
* * *
Gixen rolled off the pallet he shared with his newes
t conquest, a pretty young thing with arousingly slender legs and a perky cherub's face mostly covered by a splay of ebony hair, and disgustedly yanked his breeches on. He glared at the pale figure of the girl and spat in her face. She did not care. She was too busy staring at something far distant, something no living eyes were ever allowed to see.
Stupid bitch. She had not even had the courtesy to let him finish before she died. There was always the bright light of fire in his back when fingernails cut at him, a fire whose heat always stretched down, oozed into his own loins; his back was crisscrossed with mementos. There was always that last look, that final understanding as he reached his climax, the realization that he completely dominated them, owned them. She did not give him that last pleasure even when he wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed, urging her to fight back, begging her to show that she understood what he was doing to her. She had died and he had to finish staring into lifeless eyes.
After, he always enjoyed listening to them weep as they curled up into little balls; some people enjoyed a pipe, some people smoked that terrible tama weed, some snuggled close, reveling in the lingering glow. He liked the crying. Even that was robbed from him. If she was not already dead, he would have killed her for it. He did not always kill his girls. If they pleased him, if they truly reached their potential with him, he let them live so that they may forever remember the honor of being chosen by him.
He kicked the lifeless body and it tumbled from the bed, landing to the muddy ground with a muted thud. Then he strode from the tent into the cool air that passed for summer that far north, letting the wind bite his naked chest, trying to put the girl from his mind. Stupid bitch.
“Herkan! Where are you, you worthless shit?”
His lieutenant came running from around one of the tents and pulled up short, saluting him crisply. Not too bright was Herkan and it showed in his eyes that were almost as lifeless as the tramp he left behind. He stank too; bits of rotting food stuck in his beard like infected nodules and his clothes were weeks beyond the need for a cleaning. But he was a good lieutenant who followed Gixen's orders without question.
