by Remi Michaud
Shivering, she pulled her cloak tighter around her. Autumn was full on the land; the Day of Shadows only a few days away, cool and blustery winds scoured the earth under a quilt of gold and scarlet and brown, amidst the musty sweet scent of trees preparing for the long slumber.
It felt like just yesterday that they were toiling under the punishing heat of the brutal midsummer sun. Maybe it was her sense of time that was off. It seemed the last weeks had all welded together into one long, incomprehensible blur.
And no wonder either. First, she had tramped out with an army to fight a battle that had not only ended badly but spectacularly badly, then the great oaf had gone off all sulky, and lately she had been feeling under the weather. Not just the silly sadness of a lovelorn girl, but nausea and cramps and fatigue. Which was understandable. This little adventure was the longest she had been out of doors since she was thirteen. She was bound to catch something. What was not understandable, what frightened her and warmed her all it once, was that several weeks had passed since she had lain with Jurel in his place and she had yet... No. Best not to think of that.
With a curse, she stuck her finger in her mouth and glared at the thorn bush that had pricked her. Stupid thing. What was it thinking going and jumping in front of her like that? She pushed her way through the underbrush, feeling the morning dew seeping through her trousers. Over a small ridge, more a berm really, of crumbling soil and jutting roots, she climbed, grunting softly when a root she used for leverage pulled free almost causing her to fall back. It was only with a quick, desperate snatch at another part of the twisting network of roots that she managed to find a more solid hold.
At the top, she glanced back down. A flutter, a dash of vertigo, passed through her because though the berm was not really particularly high, from her vantage it seemed she stood on a cliff overlooking nothingness. She snapped her eyes away before she tumbled—with her luck, she would not fall back onto the berm but over its edge and into that empty nothing that seemed to go forever, and that would just be perfect. Maybe it was a good idea to step away from the edge.
She continued through the hallowed halls of the ancient arboreal temple, passing between its timber pillars, running her fingers on rough bark, or smooth, along gnarled limbs and velvety, or parchment-dry foliage. Where was she going? Nowhere, really. Just away for a bit. She would be back before anyone missed her.
And why did he have to be such a stubborn, pig-headed fool anyway? He had to understand. Why could he not understand? In the span of just a few days, she had gone from the height of perfect bliss, to the deepest dankest terror she could ever have imagined. Gods, when she had been in his place that very first time, she'd had no idea, not even the faintest clue, the drastic twist her life had been about to take. She felt her face heat up as she took a moment and thought of how he had enveloped her, heart and soul, thought of her body pressed against his, thought of his lips pressed against hers, thought of...well, she felt the chill of the day a little less.
Though in a way she was secretly glad he was gone. She loved him, she had admitted that much to herself weeks ago. But he frightened her. The weeks preceding the disastrous battle had been some of the most trying of her life. Every day that had passed, Jurel seemed to grow. Not physically—his height and his girth remained constant—but in an impossible-to-explain-rationally kind of way. Somehow, his presence had grown; every day, he had been...more there, more real, more solid, until he had become like a lodestone and they had been the human equivalent of iron filings. Every day, she'd had to fight with herself, to restrain herself from running to him and desperately begging him to spend more time with her, until she had pretty much started to avoid him lest she lose herself in his being. It was not difficult to stay away; for those last few weeks, he had been so busy that he had barely had time for more than a quick meal with her or a very rare short walk. Bloody oaf. It was all his fault. If only he did not have that bloody presence like he had his own gravity, that bloody natural way he had of drawing people to him while simultaneously seeming larger, more solid than everyone else. Now that he was gone, she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
She grimaced; it shamed her that she should feel that way. Because even as she felt lighter, so too did she feel incomplete without him; he was as important to her as her right arm...no, more than that. He was as inseparable a part of her as her heart. How she had so easily and completely succumbed to him, she did not know, but there was no point in worrying over it; it was already done. What was important, what filled her thoughts, was what should she do about it?
She entered a small clearing where she saw a rock formation, jutting from the ground at an angle, one atop another so that it looked like a shoulder high staircase that had fallen. Beyond that, she heard a stream gurgling quietly, somberly, sluggishly as though it too was preparing for a winter nap. And why not? It was already in its bed. Haw haw.
Carefully, she climbed the side of the formation and she sat on the very top where she was met with quite a pleasant little surprise.
At the opposite end of the clearing from which she entered, the trees thinned, and there was a gap through which she could see, well, everything. There was the stream she heard, angling toward the gap at the end of the clearing and disappearing over a cliff. From her vantage, she could not tell how high the cliff was but it must have been high because the landscape beyond opened up; it seemed she stared at the world's most detailed map. A broad valley stretched outward hazing into the distance, bordered along one side by dense forest whose trees were glowing with nature's autumn fireworks and on the other by a craggy, barren hill that dropped precariously on the other side into the Sun Sea. The stream meandered through the center of the valley, curving this way and that, like a glittering ribbon of diamonds dropped by Gaorla. Above that, as a backdrop, rose the dark spires of the Eastern mountain range.
Her breath caught at the beauty of it, and she smiled, drinking it all in greedily. It had been too long since she had felt wonder. Too long. And it was all that bloody great oaf's fault. She had felt something like this when he had taken her to his place. Oh it had been far more intense that time, the difference between holding hands and a deep kiss, or the difference between a light kiss and running her hands through his hair while she gazed up into his eyes, into the connection that ran so deep that she could not even begin to understand it but just let it take her on its wild journey, their bodies slick with mingling sweat, their...well.
She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She was not some teenager experiencing her first crush. She was a woman grown, damn it. On top of that, Jurel was not the first man she had been with. There had been two others. Nice boys too, with plenty to recommend them. For example, neither had been the God of War.
Niklas had been twenty-two at the time and though he had not been the handsomest man she had ever seen, he had seemed so grown up, so worldly. He was a rival merchant's son and the first time she had laid eyes upon him—how long ago had that been? She had been sixteen? No, fifteen, the year she had left for the Abbey (and what was wrong with her memory anyway? She found herself forgetting plenty of little details these days, details that not so long ago had come so easily to her). She knew she had loved him, and she knew he felt the same. She smiled wryly. Their fathers had hated each other. She remembered that. So Metana and Niklas had snuck to secret, preplanned spots to meet for illicit trysts. It had been such a grand adventure.
Thinking back on it, she had to admit that the thrill of doing something her father would so adamantly disapprove of was more exciting than her co-conspirator had been. And of course, when she had finally agreed to share herself with him, she had been clumsy and frightened. She had blamed herself when he never called on her again.
Of course, she had learned a thing or two since; apparently, it was the wont of some men, she had heard, to hunt and capture. To take what they wanted and move on to the next challenge. Fishermen call it catch and release, she thought.
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br /> Then there was Pols. Such a quiet young man, so unassuming. She had found him so charming as they served their novitiate year together at the Abbey. They had quickly become friends; his shyness had intrigued her from the beginning. She had courted him, and then seduced him with wine and sweet words. At the time she had thought she loved him. But after, when they lay amid the damp sheets, the pungent scent of their sex lingering heavily on the air, they had wordlessly rolled away form each other. Before sunrise, as he slept, snoring lightly, she had snuck away, and ever after, until he left the Abbey seven months later to begin his life as an itinerant brother (much like Kurin had decades before), their relationship had been strained and awkward. The last she had heard, he was in the employ of some landholder far to the west.
Neither of them came close to what she felt for Jurel. Not anywhere close. Not a mile, or even in the same kingdom. It was an odd thing; when she had first met the big oaf, she had shied from him, pushed him away. Especially after she saw his thoughts while they trained. But Abbot Goromand and Kurin had been unyielding and she had been forced to continue in her role as tutor.
That had irked; she had been in the middle of some interesting research. She had found an ancient scroll in the library detailing the actions of Saint Jerome by a scribe who supposedly had been there to record the events as they happened. The problem was that the scroll had been written in an ancient form of Kashyan, one that looked intriguingly like an old form of Dakariin she had once seen. She had managed to translate nearly half of it before being called to her tutoring assignment.
As the weeks had worn on, she realized that, perhaps inevitably, she was being drawn to him. She did not know if it was his natural charisma, a magnetism that he seemed to exude unconsciously, or if it was some divine influence that he had. Perhaps it was a little of both; maybe the one stemmed from the other. Which ever it was, the distance between them had closed. Until that day. Until that wonderful, terrible day when they had become one.
She could not deny it. She could not ignore it, but still no matter how hard she tried to distance herself, to save herself, her emotions rebelled. She had not wanted to fall in love with him. But she had, and every day without him was a trial even as it was a relief.
It was all his fault. It was all him. If he had not been so charming, so provincially naïve, she never would have given him the time of day in the first place. If he had used glib words, been pretentious even a little, or just a touch too sure of himself, she would have been able to turn her back, to rid herself of him as she would rid herself of horse shit on her shoe.
But instead, she had gone and fallen in love with him. More the fool her: when he was around, his presence, his very essence was terrifying. And now he was not around. And he might never be again.
As time wore on and the sun began to dip toward the mountains in the distance, Metana allowed her emotions free and she wept softly.
“Oh Jurel,” she muttered. “Please come back. We need you.”
She stared sightlessly into the deepening sky, seeing his eyes, his smile and she allowed herself to admit the truth. Without realizing it, she rubbed a hand on her belly.
“I need you.”
Chapter 44
“He continues to harden his heart,” said the willowy beauty. Her voice lilted with a sadness that was alien to her.
“I know, my dear,” the ancient said and turned his head to regard another. “Will you help?”
“What you have asked of me is done.” The voice, grating like tombstones, had a tight edge as though the speaker were tired or saddened. The black cloak, blacker than a moonless night, hung limp.
The two flanking him breathed sighs of relief, while the ancient ensconced on the majestic throne leaned forward and smiled.
“Thank you, Shomra. I know it was not easy.”
Shomra bowed his head in agreement. His gate had eternally been a one-way portal. To reverse the direction, even for so short a time, could have had dire consequences and Shomra had worked tirelessly to quell them.
But he had succeeded and now it was done.
* * *
Golden light seemed to glow from everything, and everything seemed to be just out of focus. To his right, a small brook burbled merrily. Beyond that, stately trees of a kind he had never before seen stood tall, with broad flat leaves shaped like diamonds, and colored a deep satiny green. To his left, pressing close to the path, more trees, each one with a straight, perfect trunk. Ahead of him, a narrow dirt path disappeared around a bend, following the bank of the brook and the lazy contour of the land.
For a moment, he was confused. Where was he? He had been in his place thinking. It had been very late—or possibly very early; all he really knew was that he had been exhausted—and he had been working through some rather difficult questions. Now, without knowing how, he was here, staring at the trail in front of him.
Then he knew. It was not as he had left it, but the feel was there, hidden underneath this new patina. The blasted wasteland had been replaced but not by him. By whom? He wandered slowly down the path, wondering why he did not feel more for the beauty that surrounded him. At one time, he had loved woods like this. The little forest on Galbin's farm had always been a place of quiet wonder for him. Here, now, he only felt cold, and maybe a little angry, that his blasted wasteland had been replaced by this trite little scene of idyll.
As he walked, a prickle of unease rode his spine. The scene seemed so peaceful, so perfectly pleasant, that he ignored the feeling. But the feeling grew until it became an urgent warning whispered in soundless words at the back of his thoughts.
He slowed, stopped, scanned the trees. Silence. All seemed as it should for a remote glade. The trees rose tall and proud, their high branches melding overhead in a dense canopy. Shafts of golden light leaked through, sparking motes of dust to tiny flames in the air. The reeds and grasses that edged the brook glowed with health.
But the smell...
Wrinkling his nose, Jurel blew out, trying to purge the stench that, though faint, cloyed. It was as if there was an open grave somewhere up wind.
More slowly and with all the stealth he could muster, Jurel resumed his walk, but his hackles were up; he scanned the narrow spaces between the trees for...for what? Well, anything. His hand gripped the thorny hilt of his sword, held it before him. Ignoring the sharp pain of his torn flesh, he scanned the trees. The comfortable isolation of a few moments ago became a stifling dead end with no escape route.
A short distance ahead, he heard words muttered followed by uproarious laughter. He stopped dead, his eyes widening. His mind ground to a halt, gone stunningly, completely blank. The prickle of unease turned to an icy sheet that blanketed him. His sword fell from suddenly nerveless fingers.
How could he not know that voice? That laugh? He had dreamed one or the other—heard them in his nightmares—for years. They were as much a part of his memories as his own name.
Splintered memories tumbled like broken glass through the void that was his mind. A bright smile; laughing and the giddy sensation of being tickled during a mock wrestling match; a voice crooning softly as he rocked, enveloped in a tight embrace; vaguely remembered sounds, smells and textures resolving for brief instances into stark yet charged imagery.
His faltering, halting steps became a sprint and when he rounded the trees that obscured the path ahead, he once again stumbled to a halt. There, sitting on a bench, facing the brook, were two men. Both men were faces from the past. Both men were...
“Ah, Jurel, there you are,” Daved said, pinning him with his hawk glare. “Gram and I were starting to wonder if you'd ever get here.”
Gram smiled, his eyes twinkling just the way Jurel remembered.
As far as he knew, he had never been one for fainting. But this, apparently, was a special occasion.
* * *
Cold water is a marvelous thing. This seemingly innocuous liquid, clear and nearly tasteless, can revive a man from the edge of death. It can co
ol a body on the hottest day; it can cleanse wounds that would otherwise spread poisonous infection and kill. It keeps crops alive, it can make a green wonder of a blasted wasteland.
Splashed on a fainted man, however, cold water is the equivalent of a slap in the face.
Spluttering, Jurel bolted to a sitting position. Blinking owlishly, he gathered the stray threads of his mind and focused on the silhouette in front of him. Slowly, the silhouette resolved into a face Jurel knew too well—how could he not? Daved glared at him, as he had a thousand times, with those hawk's eyes, yet Jurel knew Daved well enough to detect the concern under the hard exterior.
“You all right, lad?”
Gods, but Jurel had missed that voice. Bearing a trace of command left over from his days as a cavalry sergeant, it was gravelly, yet the years he had spent on Galbin's farm had taken some of the steely edge from the man. It seemed, by the look of him, that death had softened him even more. He looked almost serene.
Beside him, Gram crouched. Jurel remembered little of this man. What he did remember brought an aching sort of nostalgia. Somehow, all his memories of his father seemed to be summed up by his last sight of him: a pristine white apron with an expanding circle of blood seeping around the blade lodged in the center of his belly—good memories sullied.
“I-I'm fine,” Jurel croaked. “What...? How...? What are you doing here? Am I dreaming?” A bittersweet thought struck him. “Am I dead?”
The two men laughed.
“No,” Daved said. “You're not among us.”
“Well, you are, but you aren't,” Gram supplied helpfully.
The two men wandered slowly back to the bench and sat, but Jurel remained rooted to the spot. After a few moments, the two men turned their heads and shot Jurel a beckoning glance. As he took a hesitant step, he heard Daved mutter to Gram.
