The Path of the Sword (42 page)

Jurel screamed.

Chapter
30

Calen knocked quietly on the door, trying not to let his jubilation get the better of him. He was a high priest after all, and there were forms to observe. He waited as patiently as he could until he heard a muffled voice from the other side curtly ordering him to enter. Raising an eyebrow, Calen pushed open the door.

Kerwal's parlor was austere, utilitarian, with a simple round table flanked by two wooden chairs, a plain oak desk pushed up against the far wall, and a sideboard being the only furnishings in his outer room. There was not even a rug on the floor, though at least it was polished to a high sheen. On the wall hung several implements of war; two broadswords hung crisscrossed between a two-handed war ax with a cruelly curved blade and a three-headed mace, each iron ball adorned with several nasty spikes. Each weapon was highly polished but had the appearance of having been used at some time in the past. They were probably, Calen thought, the weapons that Kerwal had wielded before his promotion to High Priest, during his days as a Soldier of God. The coldness of the room was barely mitigated by a welcome fire crackling in the brick hearth.

Kerwal himself, a tall, handsome man—he had had quite the reputation with the ladies before joining the priesthood, by all accounts, and apparently still did though, of course, he was more discreet about it—filled the door to his bedchamber with his muscular frame, his rugged features a thundercloud. Despite his martial past, he hated being awakened at dawn.

“What is the meaning of this, Calen?” Kerwal barked. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Calen walked to the table and carefully negotiated his bulk onto one of the chairs, which creaked alarmingly as he settled his weight, before answering.

“Good morning to you too, Kerwal,” Calen said, smiling brightly up at Kerwal's deepening scowl. “Aren't you going to be a good host and offer your guest some wine?”

“Bugger that,” he growled but nonetheless stepped to his sideboard where he poured two goblets of red wine. He stalked to the table and shoved one glass into Calen's hand, nearly sloshing the stuff on his white robe. Taking the other chair, he glared. “What do you want?”

“Tut tut, my friend,” Calen chided. “I come bearing wonderful news and you treat me like some interloper.”

With a sigh, Kerwal rolled his eyes. “Fine. I'm sorry. Now, what do you want?”

Leaning forward confidentially, Calen smiled.

“It would appear that Thalor's plans have fallen apart.” He could not hide the triumphant tone but it did not matter. “Kurin still walks free with his newest project.”

Eyes widening, Kerwal stared at Calen. “What do you mean? What has happened?”

Calen sipped his wine, savoring the robustness. Unlike most soldiers, Kerwal had good taste. He closed his eyes and smiled again.

“Mmm. Good. This is a fine vintage. Is it Kashyan?”

“Would you quit stalling and spit it out?”

Blowing out his breath, he glared at Kerwal. The man had no sense of humor whatsoever.

“His ambush failed. Three Soldiers are dead and the one that survived—Markens, I believe. Captain Markens—barely escaped.”

Kerwal sat back in his chair, silent and mournful. The man may now be a high priest but he had never forgotten his roots. He had never forgotten his time with the Soldiers and he still held a deep loyalty to them. To Calen, his loyalty was inappropriate. He was no longer a Soldier of God, had not been for years, he was a high priest and should act accordingly. The Soldiers of God were no more than a tool, a hammer to be used when necessity dictated, to achieve their goals. Kerwal would do very well to remember that, in Calen's opinion.

“Three Soldiers dead. Life needlessly wasted to further a vain man's ambitions,” Kerwal said, downing his goblet in two thirsty, throat-bobbing swallows. “How did this happen?”

“Is it relevant?” According to Markens's report, Kurin's companion, a young man who was no more than a peasant, had bested two of the Soldiers, tearing through their armor like so much parchment. He pushed the implications aside for the moment, suppressing a shiver. God help them if Kurin had, in fact, found the one he sought. It had to have been luck. That was all it was. “Yes, Soldiers are dead. But they are, after all, soldiers. They know the dangers they face. It is their duty to do as they are commanded.”

“Do not lecture me, Calen,” hissed Kerwal. “I know exactly what it means to be a Soldier of God and I know any one of them will gladly lay down his life if he must. Thalor is a fool.”

Calen, thinking quickly, changed tactics. “A good reason to keep him from realizing his ambitions, no? We must put behind us the unfortunate deaths of the Soldiers and take advantage of this turn of events. If we can be the ones to bring Kurin to Gaorla's justice, then Thalor will be disgraced.”

Kerwal nodded pensively, eyes staring at the empty goblet in front of him.

“We need to send our own men. Twenty or thirty should suffice to bring Kurin and his whelp to heel. But more is always better. Once we have them in our grasp, Thalor will not dare try anything.”

“Twenty or thirty? Why so many?”

“They've already shown that they are not willing to submit to Gaorla's judgment. They fought four of our men with tragic results. They would surely think twice before attacking a force so large,” Calen spread his hands in a gesture that indicated it was the obvious solution. What he did not mention was that with twenty or more men loyal to him, Thalor would be hard-pressed to wrest his prize away. He wanted to see Thalor's expression when it was he who received Maten's blessing and favor. The prospect of a prelacy certainly did not hurt either. Kerwal seemed to be deep in his own thoughts, his lips twitching mysteriously, but finally he nodded.

“I think I know just the man for the job, Calen. Leave it to me,” Kerwal promised.

“Excellent. I am glad we have been able to have such a fruitful discussion, you and I. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

Calen rose, draining the dregs of his own cup. With a pleasant smile, he turned to leave. At the door, he stopped.

“Oh Kerwal,” Calen said, as if just remembering, turning back to the still sitting man. “I received a message from someone by the name of Maranda—actually it was addressed to you though I did not notice until after I'd opened it, since it somehow ended up in my office. Our messengers can be so fuddle-headed at times.” He sighed dramatically. “She wrote to inform you that your son was born alive and is healthy. He is, according to her, quite a handful. Of course, I scoffed at such a thing. Imagine! A high priest bearing children? It is just unthinkable. I'm certain it is nothing more than a case of mistaken identity.”

He watched Kerwal's expression carefully, and suppressed a smile when he saw what he hoped for: the man's eyes widened a notch and he paled visibly. Calen was now absolutely certain of Kerwal's loyalty to him. As a Soldier, he had been free to pursue any dalliance that took his fancy, but he was no longer a Soldier. Maten would not look kindly on one of his priests breaking their vows. Of course, his was not an isolated sin. There were always rumors circulating about the priests and their appetites but most were at least discreet about it, taking steps to ensure that unsubstantiated rumors remained just that. Now that Calen had proof, Kerwal would do exactly as he was told or he would face charges of misconduct and, if Maten was in a bad mood, censure.

“Good day to you, Kerwal.” And with that, Calen strode through the door, leaving Kerwal to stare at his back.

* * *

Jorge strode down the bright corridor, ignoring the colorful, deftly woven tapestries, and the fine sculptures, masterfully wrought, that lined both sides, not responding when a brother or sister bade him good morning, not even seeing them as he passed by lost in his thoughts. He turned a corner, almost bowling over a young acolyte who barely had the time to jump out of the way with a startled squeak, nearly upending the mound of fresh linens the girl carried, and stormed out a door that led to an atrium.

It was warm and green, as it always was no matter how bitter the winds blew outside the walls, and Jorge slowed his pace, breathing deep the scent of roses and peonies that grew in neat rows along the path. Halfway across the arbor, the door leading back in visible just beyond a slight bend in the path, he stopped completely, closed his eyes, and let his senses drift. He felt the determined flitter of bees darting back and forth between the flowers, and the flighty scampering of squirrels in the trees, and he felt a sense of calm. It was soothing, a much needed oasis of serenity after the news he had received a short time ago. His Sending with Kurin—no Calling had been needed this time—had been exhausting, both for the sheer physical effort needed to maintain such a long distance link for so long, and for the content of the discussion.

Kurin's latest candidate—Jaren? Jarel? No, Jurel. That was it—worried Jorge. Kurin had told him of his astonishing transformation that morning and he had difficulty believing that the meek young man Kurin had described could be capable of such violence.
Two
trained Soldiers of God slain by a farmer who barely knew what end of a sword to hold? Almost three, he amended, remembering that it was only through an act of desperation that the captain of the squad had managed to escape. Jurel had fought like a demon possessed, Kurin said, moving so swiftly that, at times, he was no more than a blur, punching his blade through plate armor and nearly cleaving one of the men in half.

Has Kurin done it?
Has he found the one?

Kurin had been so sure in the past when others seemed to fit the conditions laid out by the ancient scriptures but there was always something, some detail, that disqualified them. But this Jurel was different. So far, he met all the requirements.
Salvation or damnation?
Jorge shuddered at the thought and strode on, refreshed by the spell laid over the atrium, yet uneasy by the spell Kurin's words seemed to have on him.

Back inside the palace, he continued, trying not to break into a run, trying to keep some modicum of decorum, before finally reaching his destination. He knocked perfunctorily and entered without waiting for a response. He took in the chamber with a single glance. Frilly pink drapes hung open in the two little windows, allowing the light of day to bathe the chamber in warmth. A feather of amusement brushed the borders of his worry at the sight of all the little bits and pieces that cluttered every spare bit of shelf and table; dusty little statuettes depicting animals, people, buildings, and landmarks lined the hearth with no discernible sense of organization, and it was made more so by the mirror, framed with mother-of-pearl, that hung over the mantle. As cluttered as the room was, it somehow did not look messy but rather comfortable, welcome, a pleasant little nest that made him think he had stepped out of the Abbey and into a country home.

His attention turned to the plump woman sitting hunched over at her desk. She raised her gaze from the scatter of parchments to focus owlishly on him. Salena was a reflection of her room: her hair, disheveled as always, sprayed out in all directions with only a loose bun tied in a futile attempt at keeping it out of her eyes. Her brown robe, though spotless and made of the highest quality linen, was rumpled, and did not seem to fit her quite properly as though she had slept in someone else's clothes. If this room was a country home, then this room's occupant was a farmer's wife.

“Jorge, what a pleasant surprise. I didn't even hear you knock,” she said, scratching her face and leaving a smudge of ink on her cheek.

“Salena, my dear, we have some things to discuss,” Jorge said, taking a chair from the table and sitting across from her.

She eyed him briefly, her brows furrowed, but she remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I've spoken with Kurin. He found him, Salena. He found him.”

Salena leaned back with a smirk.

“Has he, now? How many times has Kurin found his prize now, hmmm? Six? Seven? No, it most surely is more.” Her eyes hardened. It was an incongruous expression on such a soft face so used to vacant smiling. Jorge had to constantly remind himself that behind the eccentric veneer was a woman of unparalleled intellect and shrewdness.

“Oh come now, Salena,” he scoffed. “Besides me, you've been his staunchest supporter.”

“He has proven himself unreliable. He makes his promises and he always ends up empty-handed. I have no more patience for it.” She sniffed, looking back to her paperwork. “If that is all you came to say...”

“No Salena. This time it is different. He's described to me this young man. He's reported some remarkable feats. I think you should listen.”

With a sigh, Salena lifted her head once again and impatiently motioned for Jorge to continue. He began to speak, trying to recall every detail of his conversations with Kurin, becoming more animated with every word until, without conscious thought, he rose and paced. His hands were alive, waving through the air of their own volition to stress various parts of his story. As he spoke, Salena's eyes began to widen, her lips pinched until they were no more than a white line, and by the time Jorge trailed off into silence, she was standing with her fists resting on her desk, and she trembled.

“Are you certain?” she whispered. Her face was pale, her eyes haunted by Jorge's report.

“It is what Kurin has told me. I have no reason to doubt it. He may have been wrong in the past, but he has always been honest. You know that.”

Salena stood still, shock rooting her in place. Jorge cleared his throat, tried to work moisture into his mouth before stepping to the side table where he saw bottles. He was not entirely sure that, given the need to keep his wits, wine was a good idea but he was absolutely certain that, given what he knew, wine was a necessity. He poured two goblets and handed one to Salena. She stared at the glass in his hand like it was something alien, before she took it and downed it in a single swallow. Sinking back into her chair, she dropped her head into her hands. Jorge could hear deep breaths; she was trying her level best to keep from weeping.