Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  Jurel and Metana rose swiftly to their feet. He bowed, abashed at having been caught out for their trespass.

  “Our apologies ma'am. We meant no harm. We were simply footsore from walking all day and when we spied your cottage, we thought to rest a while before our return.”

  As Jurel spoke, a smirk creased her face further and her eyes grew amused. “And do ye then come from a place where tis couth to wander into any home unannounced and uninvited because ye're feets is sore?”

  His abashment grew. He stared at his toes. “No, ma'am. We're sorry. We'll go.”

  “Ah! And I see twas ye who pilfered old Ursula's rose bush.”

  Beside him, Metana drew a sharp breath. A slender finger grazed one of the silken petals. He prayed silently that she would hold her tongue, that she would not lash out at the old woman. He need not have bothered. A surreptitious glance showed him that she looked just as contrite as he; her cheeks were nearly the color of the flower in her hair.

  Ursula glared at them a moment longer. She drew in her breath and Jurel tensed, waiting for the next volley. Her head flew back and she emitted a cackle like a dozen crows.

  Once again surprised, Jurel glanced up and the old woman was holding her quivering belly as she wheezed and renewed her cackling.

  “Tis no matter,” she wheezed when she had finally regained at least some mastery over herself once again. “Me flower is put t' good use though p'raps its beauty pales in comparison to its wearer. Please sit. Be not afeared o' old Ursula. I be just pullin yer leg.”

  As they slowly resumed their seats Ursula bustled for all the world as though she was a woman half her age, or a third. She set a pot on the hearth and she swept the floor—grumbling about inconsiderate strangers tracking mud in. She went to a chest and returned with an armload of food: fresh rolls that still seemed warm, a jar of honey, conserves, strawberries, raspberries, a basket overflowing with nuts, and a dozen other victuals that all smelled as fresh as if they had just been harvested and prepared that day. Somewhere, she managed to find some plates, a knife, and some cups, though neither Jurel nor Metana could have said where. And when she joined them at the table, sitting in her chair with a grunt, she gestured impatiently.

  “Well then, dig in. Twon't eat itself, y'know.”

  But though Jurel was ravenous, his mind had caught on one little discrepancy: never minding the table full of food that should not have been able to fit in the small chest she pulled it all from, where exactly had Ursula found a third chair?

  “So tell me then what brings ye two out so far from yer camp?”

  Metana choked on her mouthful.

  “You know about our camp?” asked Jurel.

  “Well o' course I know. How could I not? I'm old, not blind or deef. Tis a noisome bunch who tramp about causin such a ruckus that old Ursula can barely get her beauty rest.”

  “But it's hours away from here.”

  “No matter. There be not much that happens here about that old Ursula don't ken.”

  “I'm sorry, ma'am. We'll be gone tomorrow morning. We didn't know we were unwelcome.”

  “Now I never said ye were unwelcome. Tis a rare thing that there be visitors outten this way. And stop yer apologizin.”

  They fell to silence. Finally managing to push aside his wonder, Jurel sampled the feast laid out. The berries were so plump they exploded into sweet juice almost as soon as they were behind his lips, the honey was sweeter than any Jurel had ever had, the rolls were soft as clouds and indeed still warm as though they came from the oven just before their arrival. He set to with a vengeance.

  When everything was gone down to the last berry, they munched on nuts from a bowl she produced and sipped mulled wine.

  “So where are we anyway?” Metana asked. Her voice had a dreamy quality, content, almost blissful.

  “Why yer at my place.”

  My place. Jurel sat up straight, his eyes widening, his guts churning.

  “I think we gathered that,” Metana said with a laugh. “But where is your place?”

  The old woman cackled. “I spose ye could say ye're in the Great Forest. Twould be three or four hours back to the road as the crow flies.”

  “What did you call this place?” Jurel asked.

  “Why tis my place o' course. What else would I call it?”

  He did not know why it struck him so hard. After all, this was her cottage, her home, her place. Yet the use of those specific words, and a strange inflection when she spoke them had more than piqued his curiosity. In fact, he desired the answer with an urgency that bordered on necessity.

  “Who are you?”

  Her brow furrowed; the crags became crevasses. She tilted her head sideways in the universal gesture that said, “Huh?” It was a gesture that was not at all convincing. She was not a good actress.

  “Ye be none too swift, be ye boy? I tole ye, I be ole Ursula.”

  “I heard that. But who are you?”

  “Jurel,” Metana murmured, nudging him in the ribs with an elbow. “Don't be rude.”

  He shot her a sharp look and trained his glare back to the old woman. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't mean to seem boorish and you have been nothing but hospitable. But who are you?”

  The crevasses smoothed back to crags. Her eyes took on a sly twinkle and the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile. “P'raps I miscalculated. It seems ye may be worthy after all. But me story is long and tis not the time to be startin on it. Tis enough to say that I be, in fact, ole Ursula and I be on yer side. It may be that some day ye will get to hear me tale.”

  “May I ask then, what this place is?”

  “Alas an that be part o' the story.”

  “And the circle of stones outside? And the strangeness of your cabin?”

  She chuckled. “Ye noticed did ye? Aye this cabin tends to take on the aspect of certain visitors. As for the circle, well tis many things an fer now ye may call it an alarm. Ye see, ole Ursula knew as soon as ye'd stepped into her glade that ye be here. An now me children, tis time to say farewell. I have no wish to seem rude but tis time ye be on yer way.”

  So Jurel and Metana rose, gathered their meager belongings, and thanked old Ursula for her hospitality. When they reached her door, she had a few more words for them, and they rolled from her with the force of an oracle:

  “Be wary, young Jurel. Yer trials have only just begun. There are many dangers on yer road. Some o them will be obvious and others will be couched in mystery an shadow. Step carefully and remember yourself always.

  “And ye also, Metana, must be wary. Soon there will come a day when a seemingly innocent choice must be made. If ye should make the wrong one, all will be lost.”

  * * *

  When the door shut behind them, they stared at each other. Neither had any idea what to make of the visit. Neither had any idea how to decipher her words, or even where to begin.

  Neither had any idea how, after spending what had to be two or three hours conversing and sharing the old woman's table, they stepped out into the same early twilight as when they arrived as though they had only been there for a few short moments.

  Chapter 16

  His old bones were just not what they used to be. Grand Prelate Maten grunted when he knelt before his king, groaned when he straightened up. His heavy robes, all satins and velvets, weighed him down and they made him sweat copiously. He worried he would faint if he was not soon offered a place to sit.

  But so far the king was satisfied to let him stand there in his great office covered in gold, satiny woods, bookshelves and silk pillows like he was an acolyte being reprimanded for some transgression or other.

  “Grand Prelate, so good of you to come,” Threimes said. Though the words were outwardly warm, they carried an underlying chill that made Maten's sweat cold. “I have heard disturbing reports.”

  “Your Majesty, it is always an honor to have audience with you.”

  He supposed he knew what was coming. He had prepared his defense
. Thalor was only doing his job after all, if a little over-zealously. If Threimes had listened to him in the first place, then this meeting would not have had to take place.

  “Yes well, let us hear what you have to say first, then we shall decide if it is an honor or something a little more serious.”

  Speechless, Maten gaped. How dare he? He may be king, but Maten was Grand Prelate and had been since this man was in his swaddling, spitting up on his nanny's shoulder. He was not some lowly noble that the king could walk all over. They were almost equals damn him!

  He had to restrain himself. He schooled his expression to benign smoothness, and bit his tongue with such force he thought he tasted blood, though the king saw it. He was well versed in reading the subtleties of expression and stance, was the king.

  “Calm yourself. Now. I have had several reports of villages being burned by your Soldiers. Entire villages put to the torch. Hundreds of innocent people are dead. Why?”

  “Your Majesty, the church is highly motivated in their search of some very dangerous fugitives. I am certain you have considered what we discussed those months ago? We must find these men. We must stop them at any cost.”

  “No, Maten. The cost is too high. You're killing good people. Innocent people. Farmers, traders, millers. Those people keep this kingdom running smoothly. Your explanation is lacking.”

  His eyes were cold, so cold, as he regarded Maten. Once, not so long ago, Maten had been one of his closest advisors. Once they had been friends. As friendly as their positions allowed them to be, at any rate. That had all changed with the princess. Foolish. All of it. The king knew it had to be done. His daughter was meddling in matters she should not have been. Maten had been required by law to put a stop to it.

  “Sire, please understand, we do not take this matter lightly. We are striving to stop evil, and dare I say, insurrection. You did not heed my words and that has forced us to take extreme measures. At the time, my Soldiers were spread too thinly to effect a proper search so they resorted to more direct methods in flushing the vile criminals out.”

  The king shot from his seat like a stone from a catapult. He leaned across his desk, fists resting on it, and he shivered with barely restrained fury. His eyes glinted in the candle light and for an instant Maten thought the fiery glow came from within.

  “My people, Maten. My subjects. You do not have the authority to burn entire villages,” the king roared. Spittle flew from his lips.

  Maten glared back. “If I deem them to be heretics, then I do. Your Majesty. And anyone who would harbor such fiends as we seek is a heretic. Your Majesty.”

  They stood eye to eye, old man to young, master of the church and master of the realm, glaring at each other as if they were no more than dogs vying for territory. The world fell away, time stopped, seemed to reverse itself. And suddenly, they were back in the past, much younger versions of themselves, glaring eye to eye over a different matter. Different matter, same argument.

  “She's my daughter,” Threimes had said.

  “She has been found guilty of subversion and of practicing dark arts,” Maten had replied. “You know the consequences.”

  “But she's my daughter!”

  Same old battle, same old arguments. Oh different words perhaps, but it all amounted to the same thing; in the end it was all semantic. In the end, it was all a pissing contest.

  “I will not allow it, Maten,” the king said. “You will cease these activities immediately. If there are any more such reports, you will be arrested on charges of treason and your Soldiers of God will be disbanded.”

  “Then help me, Threimes. Let us put our differences aside. Let us work together as we once did. I truly fear what will happen if the Salosian dogs gain too much power. They will split your kingdom in half even as they destroy my church. They will make any damage caused by my Soldiers seem no more than a single drop in a storm.”

  Threimes glared, muscles taut as a ship's rigging under a heavy wind. Then, as though the wind went still, the king slumped and sat heavily in his chair. Maten regarded him and saw the tired man the king was becoming. It seemed the pressures of court were trampling this man who was once so fine, so generous. Maten had once marveled at this man's vitality, his life. Now Threimes was tired, crushed under the weight of his throne.

  With a wave of his hand, the king indicated a chair and gratefully Maten sat. It was a close thing; sweat crawled down his back in rivulets, his legs were rubbery and he was beginning to feel faint. Another moment and he would have sat, chair or no.

  “What do you propose?” Threimes asked.

  “Just as I have said, sire. We join forces and work together to rid ourselves of this dire threat. We lead a search to find these men. I leave it to you to find a commander for the combined forces but in turn, you listen to Prelate Thalor. He is the one to whom I have assigned this task. I have a church to run after all and I do not find myself with the time needed for this.”

  The king's eyes narrowed. “Impossible. I told you before my forces are gathering to face a threat from the north. Certainly you've heard the news from the land of the Dakariin.”

  Maten nodded. He had heard and he was as troubled as the king. According to his scryers, thousands of Dakariin had massed. It was unheard of. The Dakariin were a splintered race; they lived in tribes, battling amongst themselves ferociously and constantly. Somehow, someone was managing to bring them all together. It was, at the very least, cause for concern.

  “Yes sire. It's all the more reason for us to rid ourselves of the menace within our borders as quickly as possible. Then we will all be free to face this new challenge.”

  Slumping back into his plush chair, the king glared at him, considering.

  “I will allow use of the Grayson garrison. I will inform the Duke and he will be at your disposal. Do not overuse him. I may need him soon.”

  He wanted more, he wanted to have such a force as to utterly annihilate the Salosians, to grind them into the dirt. He had harbored a hope that the force would be a combination kingdom and prelacy men; perhaps through shared trials and victory, he and Threimes may have mended fences. But it was the best he could have hoped for.

  Maten was no tactical genius but he understood the king's position. Threimes could certainly not commit all his strength so far to the south. If the Dakariin moved during that time, then the armies of Threimes would be seriously out of position, and completely incapable of responding. The kingdom would be gutted like a downed stag by the wolves of the north.

  He rose from his chair reluctantly, thought he should have stayed standing after all, his old bones creaking, his guts roiling with too much heat. It was a long way back to the temple from here.

  “Thank you, sire. Do I have your permission to withdraw?”

  Another wave, a jerky motion, though the king still did not look up from his pondering, and Maten turned to depart. He made it as far as the door, before the king brought him up short, calling his name. He rolled his eyes but when he turned once again to face Threimes, his expression was smooth even as Threimes's was sharp, his eyes knifing into him.

  “Your Majesty?” he asked mildly.

  “This does not make us friends. Only allies and only for so long as this task remains. Do you understand?”

  He lowered his eyes, hoping he portrayed sadness and regret when in fact he tried to hide his annoyance. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  * * *

  Leaning in his saddle, Jurel strove to listen to Metana over the hiss of the rain. It was difficult; the entire forest vibrated with the weeping of the sky. He endured it stoically. He had lived on a farm a long time. Farmers tended to pay close attention to the weather and they tended to abide rain with uncommon fortitude. After all, crops did not grow without rain. He only wished the rain would do more to banish the heavy, breath-sapping heat. Instead, the rain joined forces with the heat and the entire forest drooped, sagged like boiled wool in the relentless humidity.

  Metana was chattering abo
ut her first days at the Abbey and Jurel, though distracted with glum thoughts, did his best to listen. In truth, he enjoyed Metana's stories, enjoyed just hearing the sound of her voice. A sideways glance showed a wistful smile teasing her lips and that made him smile. He found himself wishing these stories could be shared in private, perhaps while they shared dinner. Or a bed.

  He jolted at that, and quickly suppressed the foolish thought. He knew it was possible. The Salosians did not swear vows of celibacy as the members of the prelacy did—he had seen plenty of evidence every time he looked to the fields beyond his window and saw the children gamboling. But he had to be honest: possible it may be, but probable? No. He had considered it but though she had never said so, she had made her stance very clear: he was a student, she was his teacher.

  Though lately, ever since he had given her the rose, especially since then, he had caught her peeking at him when she thought he would not notice. Her scrutiny was, he thought, considering. It made him squirmy though it was not altogether discomfiting.

  His musings, and Metana's chattering trailed off when they spied Gaven approaching through the trees. He was scowling.

  “Sister,” Gaven muttered and bowed from his saddle. Then, turning to Jurel, he said, “M'lord, your presence is requested.”

  With a pained expression, Jurel hunched his shoulders. “'M'lord?' Really Gaven?”

  Gaven flashed him a grin. “Well, seeing as I'm your aide, I thought we should observe the proper forms.”

  “Please. Don't.”

  “As you wish, m'lord.”

  Gaven chuckled as he scampered ahead of Jurel's fist.

  “You coming, Metana?”

  With a shrug, she nodded.

  They followed Gaven past several squads of armsmen, Jurel's swordmaster guards melting through the woods at a discreet distance behind them, until they spied Mikal and Kurin through a break in the trees. With them was a wiry man that Jurel had never seen before.