The Path of the Sword (20 page)

“I was going to save these for later but I think you might like to open them now.”

Jurel received the first, a small lightweight bundle without much interest.

“Happy birthday son.” His father beamed from ear to ear like a boy.

He tried on his own small smile. “Father, you shouldn't have. Thank you,” Jurel said but it felt wooden, like words spoken more out of ritual than honest sentiment.

He tore away the paper, listless at first, but with eagerness building when he saw a fine linen shirt, bleached snow white. Lifting the shirt, revealed the pants underneath, wonderfully soft to his touch and dyed deep green, or perhaps blue. It was difficult to tell in the dim light of the single candle. He looked up to his father with wide eyes, genuinely grateful.

“Thank you father. They're wonderful. I'll wear them tonight.”

Daved laughed, delighted, and reached into his coat pocket. “You're welcome. But there's more.”

Withdrawing his hand, he tossed something to Jurel, a small satchel.

“That's from Galbin. He didn't like the fact that you returned empty-handed from our excursion into town the other day so he berated me and told me not to let it happen again,” he smiled.

Jurel carefully pulled the drawstring on the leather pouch apart and looked inside, not quite able to hide his anticipation. Silver. There was silver in the purse. Five of them.
Five.
It was a veritable fortune. He goggled, amazed at his newfound wealth while Daved threw back his head and roared his laughter at his son's expression.

“Now don't you go spending that all in one place, mind,” he lectured still chuckling.

“No sir. I won't. Thank you,” he crowed and he did not even realize that his earlier melancholy was forgotten.

“Don't thank me for that one,” Daved said. “I told you. It's from Galbin.”

His face went deadly serious then and he watched his son carefully, as if expecting Jurel to flee for some reason. He turned and reached behind him where he had lain the last package. When he handed the long narrow box to Jurel, his smile was wan, maybe sad.

“This one is from me too,” he said quietly, seriously. “I know what you'll say, but I think it's time.”

Oiled paper glistened in the orange light as though it was wet, and when Jurel took it, he was surprised by the weight. He glanced a question to his father and with his own voice quiet, asked, “What is it father?”

Daved shook his head slightly and gestured toward the box. He still wore that sad smile.

“You won't know until you open it. Go on.”

It was with trepidation that Jurel complied. Tearing away the paper showed a plain cedar box, rough and bare, but expertly crafted, probably constructed by Fergus, the farm's carpenter specifically for this purpose due to its unusual size and shape, tied shut with coarse brown twine. He could not imagine what was in the box, and judging by his father, he was not sure he wanted to. With a last glance up, he worked the knot loose and removed the lid.

What he saw left him stunned. His breath left him in a whoosh, as if he had just been punched in the gut. He blinked, and again, but no matter, the sight in front of him did not change. Dimly, as though from an incredible distance, from the moon perhaps, he heard a ringing, a faint clamoring buzz that seemed to convey equal parts horror and exultation. The room dimmed from his view until all he could see was the contents of the box: the deathly steel gleam of a sword. By the barely visible scratches, the blade had obviously been used in the past but it was sharpened and polished until he could see his own horrified reflection, distorted as though some malevolent beast glared back at him from inside the shimmering steel. Its hilt had been re-wrapped and the sheath that lay beside it had been made from the same cocoa dark leather. He stared at it and his emotions came and went so fast that he could not find the will to move.

“That was my sword when I was a soldier,” Daved said and somehow his voice seemed to merge with the ringing in his ears. “It's not a fancy thing, but it has good balance and with proper care, it'll last you forever. I got the hilt redone and a new sheath made so it's ready to go. Go on. Take it out.”

Take it out? I don't even want to touch the cursed thing!

Tentatively, he reached his fingertips toward the blade but at the last second he jerked his hand away as though afraid it might reach up and bite him.

“Father, I...I-I don't know what to say,” he breathed.

Why this? Why would you do this?

All his previous thoughts of earlier crowded back into his mind, clamoring, jeering at him.

Coward! Whiner! Mewling baby!

What has gotten into you father?

“Why father?” he whispered as tears formed in his eyes. “Why?”

“A man's gift for a new man. That's the easy answer.” He sighed, leaned back. “You are a man now Jurel. I've watched you grow up and I am proud of you. You've a strength of character that others on this farm would be wise to emulate. I know you won't misuse that weapon.” He laughed wryly. “I'd be surprised if you used it at all. Take it son. Keep it with you. It might come in handy one day.”

Jurel stared. He heard his father but it was like he spoke a different language.

“Forgive me, father. I cannot accept this. I will not ever use a sword. Ever.”

Gingerly he lifted the box and held it out to his father. Inanely, he wondered where his father had kept a sword. There were not many places to hide such a thing. At some point, he should have happened upon it.

A flash of anger so fleeting Jurel was not sure it was ever there passed in his father's eyes then was smothered again by sadness. Gently, as though he held fine crystal, Daved pushed the outstretched box back to Jurel.

“Look son, I've thought long and hard over things you and others have said lately. I believe there will soon come a day when you'll strike out on your own, leave the farm. I don't hand this over lightly. I hand it over with the knowledge that there is danger out there and you may face situations where the only choices available to you are use that thing, or die. Keep it for now and think on what I've said. If you'd like, I can show you how to use it properly. Won't do you any good if you cut off a finger or something, eh?”

Light-headed with anger, sick with betrayal, Jurel jumped to his feet, dumping the box to the ground. The sword clattered against the floor, ringing like death's bells, strangely harmonizing with the wretched ringing in his ears, and Jurel suppressed an urge to kick it as far away from him as he could like one might kick at a hissing viper.

“Learn to use it?” he shrieked. “Father, are you mad? I will not fight. I will not have a sword. I can't believe that you, of all people, would give me such a thing.” He panted great lungfuls of air that tasted bitter and he glared at his father with wild eyes. “How could you?”

Now it was Daved who jumped to his feet, fists clenched at his side and shaking with suppressed violence. “Fool boy! I thought you were a man. Perhaps I was mistaken. I have tried to be patient with you. I have tried to show you right from wrong, to stand up and defend yourself against bullies. As much as Valik is a vicious bully, at least he has spirit!

“Can you find no courage in you? No strength at all? No! You're nothing but a sniveling coward. You don't deserve this sword. You are not a man!”

He reached down and picked up the weapon and Jurel suddenly found himself staring at the gleaming, deadly point only inches from his eyes.

“This need not be the evil murderous demon you think
boy
,” Daved hissed through gritted teeth. “This is no more than a tool. It is the wielder who decides how it will be used. Like one of Jax's hammers. You think they wouldn't be deadly if he swung one at someone's head? Does he? How about an ax, boy? Eh? You think an ax wouldn't cut a man in half? Believe me, they can. I've seen it. Have you seen anyone on this farm use one that way? Until you learn to understand that, you are nothing but a fool child.”

With serpentine grace, the sword swung a tight arc and slammed home in its sheath.

“Do what you want with it,
boy,
” Daved spat and tossed the weapon onto their table, and spinning on his heel, he stormed from the cabin, slamming the door with such force that the entire structure trembled as though struck a mortal wound.

“
I WILL NOT FIGHT!
” Jurel screamed at the door.

Numbness wormed its way up his limbs as though he had been out in bitter cold for too long, until he felt he was a disembodied spirit, flickering in and out of existence like a guttering candle flame. A sob tore from his depths, wracking him painfully and he collapsed limply to his knees. His father knew what he had been through, knew what had happened. He had been there too. How could he say those things?

The room seemed to spin slowly about him, and from somewhere he thought he heard laughter. A boy's laughter. An image of a tavern that he had known at one time so long ago came to his mind but it was insubstantial, ethereal and he could make out no more than that it was a tavern: tables and a bar. People had died in that tavern. People he had loved as...as...family, as a child loves parents. It was long ago. He did not remember that day very well and what he did remember (
blood blossomed like a poppy on the pristine white, sad eyes gazed at him. A form inert in the corner. Mama?
) he tried to push away, to bury as deeply as tree roots lest it leave him cored like a rotten apple.

He did not want anyone to go through what he had been through. Was that such a terrible thing? His father should have been proud of him, should have been proud that he was not some fiend, some violent beast. But the truth was out; he respected Valik, that vile, petty lout more than his own son.

His eyes were drawn up as if on a string until he gazed at the offensive weapon on the table. Just a tool, his father had said. Just a tool, like a hammer, or an ax.

I'm sixteen damn you! I'm a man!

But a hammer was designed to
build
, to
create
. Not murder. And an ax provided firewood to
keep warm in the winter, or lumber for shelter. What use did a sword have beyond killing? What
else was it designed for?

As he knelt, an image of the barely remembered tavern floated across the tableau in his mind. An image of Daved with that cursed sword drawn. An image of his father standing in defense of a helpless child with blond hair and blue eyes (somehow the child was vaguely familiar though Jurel could not quite find a name) facing an unseen enemy. The sword flicked out quick as a serpent's tongue, and when it returned, it was red. It flicked out again, and then his father knelt beside the boy. He did not know if the image was real or just his imagination but it seemed real enough. The significance was not lost on him. His father was a good man. Hard, stern, often angry but good. He had used the sword. He had killed.

In an odd flip-flop of emotion that could only be explained by the violent churning of his mind, his weeping stopped and he grew still, calm as a summer breeze. His eyes remained glued to the thing on the table. His father was a good man. No matter that he had used his sword,
this
sword, to kill, no matter that he had almost killed Jurel with mere words. He was a good man.

And then the intensity of his own self-hate rolled over him like an avalanche. If his father was a good man, then Jurel was a coward. He knew that already. He had not needed his father's confirmation. He knew. His father spoke of defense, of protection, of standing up for himself when no one else would.

Could it be? Even with a sword?

Slowly, he rose on shaky legs. Hesitantly, he reached out for the gift his father had thought would be important enough to risk jeopardizing his relationship with his timid son. His fingers grazed the hard leather of the sheath and he recoiled lest the weapon...

Lest the weapon what? Attack him? Chuckling darkly, softly, he gathered his nerve and picked up his sword. He was surprised by its heft, but though heavy, it was not unwieldy. He did not draw the blade. He simply raised the sheathed weapon before his eyes and stared fearfully, distastefully at it for a time.

As he stared, he came to a realization that surprised him with its clarity. His father loved him. He would not try to subvert him into something evil, press him to some malicious purpose. He had been trying to help his son in the only way he knew how. After all, his father was right: Jurel had thought to leave the farm at some time. Daved was doing no more than providing Jurel with the best chance to survive in the outside world. The strange incongruity struck him that his father would teach him how to kill out of love.

He dropped into his chair, letting out the breath he had not known he held in a great gust, and let the sword point fall to the ground. Holding the hilt loosely, he lay his head back and closed his eyes, mourning the heated words that had passed between father and son.

He owed Daved an apology, that much was certain. But, he decided—rather wisely, in his opinion—that he would wait for the man to cool off a bit. With a sense of purpose, he knew he would take his father's advice. He still wanted nothing to do with the sword—he certainly would not take lessons in its use, not yet anyway—but he would keep it for a time while he worked through the confusion of thoughts, ideas and emotions that threatened to unhinge him.

Up in the loft, he knelt beside his cot and carefully concealed the weapon under the flimsy mattress. It would keep there, he thought, and then made his way back to his seat to, for the second time that day, await his father's return.

I am sixteen and I am a man.

* * *

The candle he had replaced was nearly a third spent when his father stumped back into the cabin, his features still dark, and guarded in a way that Jurel had never before seen.

“Come on boy. Galbin wants you there too,” he grunted and waved Jurel up before turning to leave again.

Jurel surged to his feet. “Father,” he called before his father could get out the door. “I'm sorry, father. I think I may have...I think I understand. A little.”