Blood of War (7 page)

“How did I find you? It's no big mystery really. I used to come here when I was an acolyte. It was my place. It let me get away from all the tedious lessons. As a matter of fact, that was the exact tree I used to lean on. Right where you are.”

“So you knew?”

“Of course. But I would never tell. This is your place now.” His eyes lit up further and his lips broadened until they were a wide, mischievous grin. “Besides, I rather enjoy seeing my fellow brothers and sisters running around like there are hornets after them while they search for you. It takes everything I have to keep from laughing out loud.”

Kurin pushed his way through the dense growth until he was beside Jurel, sank down with a sigh and leaned back against the trunk.

“I'd almost forgotten how pleasant this place is. It's been so long.”

They sat quietly as the sun slid downward, and the sky changed from the color of a jay's crest to the color of a robin's breast, not speaking, not needing to. They had been through a lot together. It was enough for them to be comfortable no matter how long they sat in silence. When the arbor was washed in shadow, when all was muted colors that were a thin shade of gray, Kurin finally shifted.

“We need to speak,” Kurin said.

“I'm right here,” Jurel responded.

“Indeed,” the old man said, but there was another silence before he spoke again. “Did you really say that thing to Goromand about strapping himself naked to the underside of a stallion in heat?”

“No! I would never! It was a mule.”

A grunt of laughter and Jurel could not help but smile ruefully in return. Perhaps he had been a little harsh.

“No matter. You two will have to bury the hatchet in your own time.”

“As long as he stops going on about praying and repenting and stuff,” grumbled Jurel. “I've spoken with my father.”
I think.
“He's told me many things and I don't remember anything about repenting. He doesn't seem to care one whit whether I beg his forgiveness or not.”

“Ah...yes. Well.” Kurin harrumphed. It was difficult enough for him to deal with the fact that Jurel was a God—though he tended to use the term God-in-training—but to hear Jurel speak which such familiarity of Gaorla made him uneasy. “We are getting a little far afield. For now, try to be kind to Goromand,” Kurin pleaded as he rose. “He's a good man—I dare call him a friend—but he's trying to deal with some very difficult concepts, you know, and I think he's a little frazzled by it all. It's not often he plays host to a god.”

“I'll try,” Jurel said. Flashing a toothy grin, he added, “After all, I have a hatchet to bury.”

“Gods help me,” Kurin moaned, stretching his arms out and looking to the darkening sky.

“Next time I see dad, I'll ask him what he can do,” Jurel retorted.

“Er...yes. Anyway.” The casual blasphemy rattled him. If it had been anyone else who spoke those words, Kurin would have spoken at length—and not gently. Rubbing his temples, Kurin cleared his throat loudly. He gave Jurel a pointed glare. “That's not the reason I'm here.”

“You asked,” Jurel shrugged.

“The reason I'm here is to discuss your little falling out with Andrus.”

Sullenly, Jurel brought his knees up to his chest. Unable to meet Kurin's look, he muttered, “I don't want to talk about it.”

Clicking his tongue, Kurin turned to face him. “Jurel, we have been through this already. You need to be educated and Andrus, as stodgy as he is, happens to be one of the finest teachers here. Now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened and exactly why you can't just let it go.”

What was he to do? When Kurin set his mind to something, he tended to dog it until he had all the answers he sought. He had sought Jurel for more than forty years after all. Jurel heaved a sigh. There was nothing for it but to just come out and tell him. Grudgingly, he told his tale, but he left out the conversation he had overheard in the abandoned corridor.

“So you're angry because he neglected to mention some of the dangers inherent in summoning arcanum?” Kurin asked, eying Jurel sharply.

“No, I'm angry because we've been trying for months and we've made no progress and he continually hints that it's my fault.”

“I see.” Kurin said, nodding his understanding. After a pause in which it seemed Kurin was busy gravely pondering this new information, he asked, “And whose fault would you say it is?”

With a snort, Jurel glanced askance at Kurin. “
He's
the teacher.”

“Ah.” That slow nod continued. Jurel began to get the uncomfortable idea that he was being baited.

“I wonder,” Kurin drew it out as though thinking deeply, “What were the names of the head delegates who met with Threimes, the first to draw out the borders?”

Confused, Jurel stared at the old man before answering. “Jalal from Kashya and Saeth from Madesh.”

“Oh?” Kurin's eyebrows rose. “How do you know this?”

“Well, Andrus told me.”

“Hmmm. Yes, now I remember. Who is the current baron of Icetown?”

“Drogas, I think. The king awarded him with the position after he took command of the city's defenses and repelled a raid from Madesh that killed the previous baron.”

“Oh. And you learned that where?”

With light dawning, Jurel answered more slowly. “Andrus.”

“I see. And how does one go about accessing his or her arcanum?” Now Kurin's bright, angry eyes were riveted to Jurel's.

“Well...” He did not want to complete the thought but Kurin urged him relentlessly forward. “First, you need to meditate and float within yourself. Then you need to find your center. Once you've found it, you should see your source. It's different in appearance to each person; for me it looks like a star. Then you-”

“Needless to say,” Kurin interrupted, “Andrus taught you that as well.”

Breaking eye contact, Jurel stared at a dandelion between his feet and shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“So let me get this straight: you have learned history, politics, current events, geography, mathematics, science and alchemy, your reading is vastly improved as are your skills at analysis and logic—so I thought!—and philosophy. In a few short months, Andrus has managed to turn you from nearly total ignorance of the world around you to at least a semblance of educated understanding. This is a process that takes our novices years to complete. And you would blame him for your mental block?”

Jurel's sullen obstinacy had evaporated early during Kurin's tirade. Now guilt threatened to choke him.

“Jurel, be sensible,” Kurin continued, more gently as he crouched in front of Jurel. “I think I can convince Andrus to give you another chance. Be ready for him tomorrow.”

Though guilt gnawed at him, still he turned stony eyes to Kurin. “No.”

“No?”

Perhaps he had been too hard on Andrus. Perhaps he should have been more studious, more willing to delve his own mind, more...willing. And perhaps if that had been all, then it could be solved right there, right then. But now there was the added complication of his illicitly overheard conversation.

Jurel told Kurin the rest, thinking rather wryly as he did that Kurin had, once again, proven remarkably adept at getting all the information out of the situation. This time, when he reached the end of his account, Kurin's expression held no trace of mock thoughtfulness. He glared darkly at Jurel.

“I see,” he rumbled. “This does indeed pose a problem.”

Kurin rose quickly to his feet—Jurel was often astounded by the ease and agility with which the old man moved—and, clasping his hands behind his back, began pacing in the tall grasses. Jurel watched like a cornered animal as Kurin muttered under his breath. Some moments later, Kurin came to an abrupt halt and locked eyes with Jurel.

“All right, my boy. You won't see Andrus again. I will find you another tutor. And I hope you will treat this one a little better.”

Relieved, Jurel nodded. “And what about-”

“Never mind that. I will take care of it. Good day Jurel.”

So Jurel had managed to get rid of Andrus once and for all but now he was to be saddled with someone else. He could not help but wonder what the next tutor would be like. Knowing Kurin as Jurel did, he imagined the old man would find someone particularly unpleasant in one fashion or another, someone who would drive Jurel even crazier than Andrus had. Kurin had a strange sense of humor.

He did not see the mischievous smile that tugged at the corner of Kurin's mouth or the gleeful glint in his eye as he strode purposefully from the arbor. If he had, he would have
really
worried.

Chapter 6

After a few days with nothing to do, he grew bored and restless. He had imagined Kurin would hastily rectify the situation; he had awakened early the day after his conversation with Kurin in the arbor, certain that his new tutor would soon arrive. But several days had passed and there was still no one to teach Jurel. Either no one wanted to be burdened with a stubborn, short tempered young god, or Kurin was making him suffer for his previous impertinences—the suspense was killing him.

He took to exploring more, but quickly realized that there was not much else for him to see; he had haunted these corridors for months. He stopped his wanderings but not before noticing a schism among the denizens: half of those he passed bowed and groveled, while the other half barely deigned to notice him as they sailed by. Andrus, it would appear, had been busy.

He decided to seek out Gaven, but Gaven was a lieutenant under Mikal's command. He had a great many duties to see to. It was difficult for his friend to find spare time and even when Gaven did have some time to himself, it was never more than just enough to sit down to a quick meal and share a few hasty words before Gaven was again pulled away.

About a week after sending Andrus away, Jurel stood in his room staring aimlessly out the window. The gloomy overcast seemed to wash away substance from the land leaving a vista of muted dreariness.

Too rainy to venture outside, Jurel decided to visit the library. He made his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Abbey, not paying attention to the tapestries and paintings that lined the walls, the statues that looked out upon passers-by from their niches, barely paying attention to his steps so that he had to backtrack on occasion when he ended up somewhere other than the library—at which point he would curse softly under his breath; the third time he had lost his way, he had muttered a particularly nasty oath and an acolyte, who had been in the process of prostrating himself jumped as though stung by a very large wasp. For such a long, narrow building, he thought, there were an awful lot of corridors.

When he finally did arrive, he stood at the door with a sinking heart. Bathed in gray light from the windows set high on the walls, with islands of gold from the candles liberally dispersed at the tables and from the torches hissing merrily in their sconces, the library was not the oasis of peace and quiet he sought, but was instead teeming with brothers and sisters populating the research tables bent over books and manuscripts, quills scribbling furiously, or wandering the long lines of shelves like window shoppers. Acolytes rushed into and out of the long stacks bearing armfuls of tomes and scrolls at the behest of their respective masters. A hum filled the air from the dozens of quiet conversations, the crinkling of parchment, the scritching of quills.

Dust and must, the scent of old knowledge, colored the air and made his eyes water. He sneezed. Instantly, all motion ground to a halt, changed into a tableau of startled expressions, wide eyes staring at him. He suppressed the image of a deer staring down the shaft of an arrow. With a tremulous smile, he raised a hand and wiggled his fingers.

“Hullo.”

As though that one word was a brusque command, everyone, every single person, either rose from their seats or came out of the stacks, and rushed for the door, bowing hastily at him on their way by, each one holding their robes close, very careful to not touch him. He watched a single page flutter to the floor in the now empty library as the door shut behind him with a firm click of the latch. Resentfully, he wondered if he was so distasteful to them, as though maybe he had the plague or something. Really, did they all have to rush from his presence like rats abandoning a sinking ship?

With a sigh, he shrugged. At least it was quiet.

He wandered the rows, staring vacantly at the shelves, vaguely amazed that so many books existed. He was not certain what it was he searched for, or if, in fact, he searched for anything at all, instead preferring the quietude to think.

And think he did. The time he had spent here in the Abbey had begun to grate on him. When he had first arrived with Kurin, Mikal, and Gaven, he had been welcomed as a hero. There had been a grand feast and a ball afterward and he had been the guest of honor. He had felt no small amount of discomfort at all the attention but he was well treated and besides being nervous under so much attention, he had rather enjoyed himself.

As time wore on, as spring had given way to summer, the denizens of the Abbey distanced themselves from him. Or, more precisely, raised him ever higher above them. Between his continuing failure and having no idea what it was they expected of him, he quickly became shamed by the pedestal they had put him on.

And of course, rumors of his lack of ability raced like wildfire through the Abbey so that every time someone bowed to him—which happened less and less—in the moment before their heads lowered, he saw the cloud of uncertainty draw like a veil over their eyes. It did nothing for his own confidence; who was more aware than he of the difficulties he was having? Who better than he knew what was at stake?

He slid a finger idly along the spines of the books, feeling the smooth almost oiliness of some, and the ancient grittiness of others, feeling the bump and ridge of embossed script, gilding made fragile by countless years flaking at his passing touch. A season had passed since his arrival here and he still felt lost, he still felt apart, that he did not belong.

He was not sure why he should have felt otherwise when he thought about it. His life was in tatters, his father—fathers—dead, his mother a hazy memory, his home so far out of reach that it may as well not even exist. The brothers and sisters of the Abbey treated him, by turns, with awe as their leader, a God, and a crippled man deserving nothing more than pity and strict education. And why not? In a strange way, he
was
a cripple. He could wield his sword well enough, he could pierce a fleeing pheasant in the eye at a hundred paces with an arrow. But where was the torrent of power that had inundated him at the temple in Threimes earlier that year? He could feel it just outside his reach when he strove for it. Sometimes, he thought he could just touch it, brush his fingertips against it before it receded like a drowning man whose fingers breach the surface.