by Remi Michaud
Astride his old gray mare, Kurin smiled. “There you are, my boy.”
With a nod to Jurel, Mikal spoke to the newcomer. “Repeat what you just told us, Gulgan.”
Gulgan was a lithe man who moved with a sinuous grace that spoke—no screamed—danger, that this was not a man to be met in a dark alley.
He threw a contemptuous glance at Jurel, a slight twist like a half grin, to his lips, and asked, “Who is this young ox then?”
He doesn't know me. And strangely, Jurel found a grain of disappointment in that thought. It was, of course, utterly ridiculous to think that everyone should know him as if he were the king or the Grand Prelate. Or a god. God in training, as Kurin said. Completely and totally foolish. But there it was. Even more ridiculous since it was Jurel himself who had wished on countless occasions that people would treat him like a normal human being.
“Have you not met Jurel then?” Kurin asked mildly. Then, turning to Jurel, he said, “Gulgan has been out in the land for the last few years or so maintaining our network of contacts and gathering information. I imagine he missed hearing about what's been going on at the Abbey. Namely, you.”
Jurel tensed, waiting for the inevitable response. Not everyone knew Jurel but they knew his name. And he was right. Of course he was. Jurel had gotten the same reaction at the Abbey a hundred times. Every time someone new learned his name.
Gulgan paled noticeably, his eyes widened, and he suddenly developed a nervous twitch in his left cheek. Sweat popped out on his forehead as if someone had wrung him like a wet cloth, and he backed his horse away a step as though he was afraid Jurel would suddenly take his head off with one mighty swing of his hand. Which was possible. An image of a fat high priest named Calen popped into Jurel's mind.
But Jurel had been under a lot of pressure that day. Jurel found a smirk somewhere. Chances were, Gulgan was safe enough. Gulgan hesitated, looked as though he was about to fall off his horse and drop to his knees, but instead he just sat there and his mouth moved silently. He swallowed with an audible click.
“My-My Lord. Your Holiness. Forgive me, please. I-Forgive me. I did not know.”
What? Did he expect a halo? Maybe a roll of thunder whenever I take a step?
“Of course not. How could you?” Jurel reassured the trembling man and though he tried for joviality, he knew that his exasperation shone through bright and clear. Even worse than the disappointment of not being recognized—fool, he thought, I'm a vain fool—was the reaction he got when he was.
The sinewy swordmaster blanched even more.
“It's fine. Really,” Jurel said and held his hands out in the universal gesture of calm down. “Can we get back to the issue at hand?”
“My Lord? I don't understand.”
Oh boy.
“The name is Jurel. Please. None of that 'my lord' stuff. You were about to repeat something for my benefit?”
Even Mikal appeared to be suppressing a smile.
“Ah...yes. Ah...well, you see My Lo—uh, Lord Jurel, I've been out with a few of the other swordmasters trying to get a feel for the common folk. Everyone's got wind by now of what's been happening. But you see, the villagers don't want to be involved in what they're already starting to call the Church Wars—though I heard a few name it the Unholy War. Quinn was near run from Caltown. Resik went to Soldier's Rest and he had an easier time of it before catching up with me. I guess the mayor, Pondil I think, is sympathetic to us. But even so, no one's real interested in raising arms against the prelacy.”
“Yes, I know Pondil,” Kurin said quietly. “He's one of ours.”
“Is anyone having any success?”
“I didn't stay long in Thurston. A quick bite and a tankard while Resik told me what he knew and I was gone. I rode hard to catch up with you. But before I left, Resik said a couple of the younger men had approached him, all secret-like.”
“I don't understand.”
“He means that you have some support out here,” Mikal growled. “But not much. What are you doing with the one's who approach you, Gulgan?”
“We're sending them down to the Twins as we do with any new recruits.”
“Any numbers?”
“Combined total, maybe a few hundred.”
Mikal nodded. “It'll help. Even if all they can do on the day of the battle is run supplies back and forth. It would free up more experienced hands. What other information do you have, Gulgan?”
The man shrugged. “Not much. I did manage to pick this up at Thurston before leaving.”
He handed a ratty piece of parchment to Kurin who, after scanning the contents, whistled low. Ashen faced and wide-eyed, he handed it to Jurel.
It had about the same effect on Jurel as it did on Kurin. A short missive, in bold, black letters filled with curls and swirls as though rendered by an artist, read:
PROCLAMATION
WANTED: Jurel Histane for the crimes of murder, heresy and sedition
Tall, broad of shoulder, light brown hair and blue eyes, young.
REWARD: 1000 GOLD PIECES
WANTED: Kurin Makentyr for the crimes of murder, heresy and sedition
Tall, thin, gray hair and blue eyes, decrepit.
REWARD: 1000 GOLD PIECES
The color drained from his face as he read and though the day was warm and the forest was heavy with humidity, he felt a chill. He should have expected something like this, but seeing it, actually holding it in his hands, it was a surprise.
“And lastly,” Gulgan continued, “it seems the burning of villages has stopped. I heard tell the king put a stop to it right quick. Beyond that, as you know, a huge force is marching south. A vanguard of about two thousand, followed by the main body some days behind of nearly forty thousand. There seem to be near a thousand priests with 'em too.”
He had heard the numbers before but it still affected him like a punch in the gut. The priests were fairly evenly matched, but forty thousand Soldiers of God marching to face an army of a little over four thousand. How, oh how, would he manage to bring them victory in the face of that? Victory? Posh. How would he keep them all from utter destruction?
* * *
Threimes sat at his desk sorting through yet another stack of parchments. He was weary of the stacks; there never seemed to be an end to the things. Sometimes he thought that he was no more than a glorified clerk, that he could spend all day every day in this chair and still the stacks would grow and grow. He covered his face with his hands, rubbed his eyes. He had a headache but that was quite normal. It was late, well past midnight, and he wanted nothing more than to go to his bed.
The demands of his station kept him there.
Picking up a sheet from the top of one of the piles, he eyed it, sighed. “Activity at the temple. Grand Prelate preparing for something. No word yet on what. Will advise as soon as possible.” What was the old man up to now? He seemed such a pleasant man, a good god-fearing man. Threimes knew better. He knew the old man was as sly as a fox, as treacherous as a scorpion. Did he suspect the truth? Threimes hoped not. Not yet.
The next sheet from the top: “News from the south: Movement of armed men. Neither king's men nor temple men.” That would be the Order. Good. He pondered this one for a time. The news from the temple the previous year had been disturbing. Stories of a young man showing more arcane abilities than any ten priests—a hundred—combined. If the stories were to be believed (and he did not see why not; there were plenty of witnesses, many of them missing various bits of their anatomies) then this young man was worthy of being feared.
The king had a book stored away in a secret place, a place known only to him, passed down through the centuries by generations of kings. The book was called Sacred Writings of the Salosian Faith. It was outlawed reading, even for him. If it was found in his possession, he could be removed from his throne. Perhaps even executed, burned on a pyre for heresy. But something had kept him from destroying it all those years ago, long before his daughter, long before that, when it
had arrived on his desk—the very one he sat at—so mysteriously along with a cryptic note detailing how and where to hide it. Obviously, someone other than the kings knew of it, but who it was, he did not know; no one had claimed credit.
...the day will be as night. The righteous will be as demons...
He had read that book countless times, could recite entire pages from it. And something niggled at him. The young man in the dungeons. The young man who destroyed one hundred ninety-seven Soldiers of God and thirty-two trained priests single handedly.
And lo, there will come a time when...
But perhaps he was just a prodigy like that little girl who had been brought to his court the last spring. The dirty little peasant waif who, at the age of four, had been able to make his composer's harpsichord sing like the stars and the sun. It had brought tears to his eyes and he had given her family fifty gold pieces to ensure they enrolled her in his university. Or perhaps, the young man had tapped some hidden faith, some hidden reserve in his terror, would have made a good priest as it were, if it had been harnessed properly, and that was what had allowed him to nearly shake the temple down.
...he shall walk among us...
Certainly it could be no more than that. Certainly. But something niggled, tugged at the edge of thought like a loose thread.
...and wherever he shall step, it will be as thunder, and he shall leave behind him...
It had to do with that book. He was sure of it. He thought of rising, of going to the secret compartment behind his bookcase. He thought of picking up the book and reading it again. It was such a strong thought, it was more like an urge, like having to eat, or drink, or urinate. But he had work to do. He was the king after all.
He picked up the next sheet from the top of the stack. “Report from Colonel Tercibel: the company is nearing Merris Town. Will proceed south.” Fine, fine. Let them do whatever they needed. As long as the sacking of villages was done with. He wondered, briefly, if there was a way to slow them down. Perhaps the army in the south could be of assistance. The Order needed time. He needed time.
He realized what it was he was thinking. He understood his own heresy. Or at least what Maten (that sly, treacherous old bastard) and his lackeys would call heresy. A crime that some of his own nobles would be glad to pin on him. Grayson was an ambitious one, and powerful enough to cause real problems. He realized that, and he fully acknowledged that he walked a very fine line and if he stumbled, strayed even a little, he would fall.
...the blood of a thousand men times a thousand.
King Threimes sighed and covered his face with his hands again, rubbing his eyes. He did not intend to fall. He intended that someone else do it for him. And the niggling sensation that the young man was the key to it all persisted.
He rose after all, abruptly as though pulled on strings, and stepped to his bookshelf. Third row from the top, eight books over. He lifted out three books, two of them so old their titles were no more than a shadowy outline with thin flecks of gilt. They almost fell apart in his hands as he set them aside. Reaching into the new space, he felt around until his fingers found the small dent and he pushed. With a barely audible click, a board at the back came loose, revealing his illicit treasure.
He removed the book from its place and returned to his desk, sat down and with a sigh, he ran his fingers over the black leather cover. What was he doing? He could lose everything because of this book. He had already lost a daughter. And his wife. The queen had gone off to their summer estates and would not return until he had satisfied this dangerous obsession of his. At least she had not run directly to Maten's door when she found out; she was not yet beyond his reach.
He opened it. There was something that flitted at the edge of thought. Some idea, some knowledge that he knew he was missing, like an elusive name; it was there, he could feel it, could almost see it. And he thought this book, this illegal, heretical book, would shine light on it.
He read long into the night and back out again into the dreary morning. He read until the sun was little more than just a hint in the sky to the east, and on until it cast long bars of light across the dark mahogany floors and the richly woven carpets. And as he read, he began to feel a burgeoning excitement. The answer was not there, not exactly, but it was close enough. Yes, perhaps that young man was the key.
He read longer, and as he read, he did not notice the eyes that observed him from a barely visible crack in the wall.
...and a new age shall be ushered in, striding atop the blood of the fallen.
Chapter 17
“Just shut up and close your eyes,” Metana said, her eyes sparkling somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
Jurel huffed a sigh, looked up at the trees, wishing they could get something to eat. Even the forest reminded him that he had not eaten in several hours; a stiff breeze made the foliage sound like bacon sizzling in a pan. He dropped his eyes and found Metana glaring at him. Their knees were almost touching as they sat cross-legged on the ground, and Metana was holding his hands in hers.
“We've been trying this every day for weeks, Tana,” Jurel complained. “It never works. I just can't do it. Besides, Gaven wants to spar. And I'm hungry.”
“Stop whining. It'll work. We just need to keep practicing.”
“You know, it wasn't so long ago that you didn't want to help me at all.”
“That was then. This is now.”
That seemed to be truth enough. In the past weeks—and even though, since he was so fundamentally different from the other novices, no one was sure exactly what, if anything, she could teach him—she had taken to her role as tutor like a duck to water. Every day, she found them a quiet spot and they sat this way and she took him into the recesses of his own mind. Every day, they found that light shining in the darkness like a star, and every day, they ran into that invisible barrier. As frustrated as he had become with the whole mess, she had become more intent. She even managed to ignore the imagery of her that his mind conjured up; once in a while she sniped at him that her hips were not really that round or that her breasts were not really that big, but beyond that, she left his thoughts alone. And to his credit, he tried to suppress those images, though he had difficulty suppressing the emotions that came with them. The lust was tolerable, understandable. He was young and young men tended to think things like that, Kurin had assured him. It was the other ones, the deeper ones. Ones he had felt at one time—but to a lesser degree—for Erin.
And sometimes, some few times while their thoughts were melded, he thought he felt something similar in her.
But that was probably just his imagination.
When their efforts invariably failed, they would stay and talk. She tried to teach him more history or art or mathematics, but inevitably, as the pall of failure dissipated, their talk turned into fits of jesting and laughter. And the next time they would try, he had even more difficulty hiding those emotions. He did not want to scare her away. He almost had once and if he was to be honest, he had not liked it much. It was almost enough to make him weep.
She clicked her tongue and shook his hands like he would shake reins to make a stubborn horse move faster. “Would you stop dawdling?”
So he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He pushed all the thoughts from his mind, left a blank black canvas. He felt her presence joining with his and he pushed aside the inevitable images that tried to encroach (after she swatted him on the leg). Then he turned himself and floated in the darkness toward the light that appeared in the distance.
There, her thought came to him.
I know, he thought back.
They drifted closer and the light, blue-white as though someone had taken lightning, balled it up like an old piece of parchment and deposited it there, expanded, spread across his vision until he could see nothing else. They drifted closer and closer. Somewhere, he felt a stab of hope. He was not sure if it was his or hers, but it was there. Certainly they had never gotten this close before.
&nb
sp; The light expanded further and somehow he felt the hair on his arms raise, felt an itchy sense like ants were crawling all over him. He exulted. They would make it. They were almost there.
Not that way. Not for you.
He slammed into the invisible brick wall no more than a hand's breadth from the light. Exultation fell away, dumped like spilled water—not sure if it was his or hers; probably both—and he let his mind drift back. He stared at the light, so close. So close they could feel it.
Something caught at the corner of his vision, the other light that led to his place. He ignored it, focused all the harder on the problem in front of him. He would get to that light.
Take your time, her voice came to him as quiet as a feather.
He regarded the light, puzzling it out, trying to find a crack in the invisible barrier. He did not know exactly how he could search for something that was invisible but he did. If this had been a thing on the outside, if this had been his real body instead of just a figment of him in his own mind, he would have been leaning on one foot, with one arm across his chest, and a hand rubbing his chin. His eyes would have been narrowed in intense concentration as he bit his lip.
Like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, the more distant light in the corner of his vision made itself known again, made him turn, annoyed at the interruption. He was about to dismiss it again, and resume his search when it flickered, flashed. He had a sudden idea. He wondered if Metana knew it as he thought it. He turned toward it.
Hold on.
No. Jurel, wait. He felt panic in her voice. Not there.
Too late. He was already drifting toward the light. This one was much fainter and it twinkled more sporadically like a star behind a veil of clouds. It was not blue-white, but greenish, like grass. Like...
This light expanded more quickly than it should have, and like the first time, he felt as though he was suddenly galloping at break neck speed. It expanded, filled his vision, and there was another flash. One so bright that both of them cried out in the silent stillness.
