The Path of the Sword (36 page)

There was a crystal decanter on the table, filled with velvet red wine and a beautifully etched glass was in his hand. Kurin took a sip and closed his eyes with pleasure. No worldly wine was this good. No wine had that subtle blend of fruity sweetness and tart bite, like sunshine after a spring rain.

“This is good stuff,” Kurin said.

An amused smile split Jorge's beard like an ax coming from the inside. “It's amazing what a man can dream up.” He took a sip himself. “I always wished some inventive vintner would create something like this.” Another sip and Jorge's eyes locked on Kurin's. “But you did not risk a Calling in the dead of night to sample imaginary wine. So tell me, what brings you here.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him.

Kurin shifted in his chair, adjusting his robe, not sure how to proceed. This was not the first time Kurin had told Jorge that he had found what he sought. They had had this conversation over and over, yet each time, Kurin had been forced to return, disappointed, to report that he had been mistaken. He felt a moment of doubt. Was he right this time? Was Jurel the one? All the signs were there. Everything he had witnessed agreed with his research. He pushed his doubt down, drowning it in all the facts he had gleaned in the last several years—and under another sip of the velvet wine. To think he had been planning to leave empty-handed only the day before Jurel's fortuitous arrival!

There was nothing for it but to come out and say what he had come to say.

“I found him.” Excitement welled up as though speaking the words was a key of sorts. He was so certain this time. It had to be him, it had to!

Jorge did not seem quite so enthused. His brow furrowed, his head canted to the side, and he stared at Kurin.

“Oh don't look at me like that Jorge. It's him. I know it is.”

“Forgive me, Kurin, but you've said that before. Several times actually. How do you know for sure this time?” His voice was mild, neutral, but Kurin still heard the doubt, and it pained him to hear it from this man. He pushed it away.

“Everything works. Everything fits. All the others...there was always a hint of doubt. They were all promising but there was always one little detail that I should have paid more attention to. There are no unexplained details this time. It's him. I know it.” He grew more animated with every word, his eyes taking on a fiery zeal. He raised a finger, “He was born on the Day of Shadows,” a second finger, “His parents, a couple of tavern keepers, were killed during that messy battle with the Dakariin up in Killhern almost fifteen years ago,” finger number three, “he was adopted by a soldier,” and number four, “on his sixteenth birthday, it was cloudy out. He had no shadow.

“
He's had two of the required fathers. The third, the holy one, well, he's taken quite a shine to me. I've helped him, fed him and hid him from the town guard when they accused him of
murder. I think I can get him to think of me as a father if I play my cards right. Oh, and did I mention he's huge? I've never seen anyone as massive as he is. He stands well over my height and his shoulders look like they'd be at home on a bull. It is
him!
” Kurin finished.

“All right, you seem to have satisfied at least part of the scripts, though you're shoe-horning the one about the three fathers. What about the rest of it?”

Damn you man! What will it take to convince you?
Kurin thought the vicious thought and immediately regretted it. He took a deep breath. Jorge had reason to doubt.

“All right, listen to this,” Kurin continued. “He took some grievous wounds less than two weeks ago when a couple of fools attacked him. Nasty things, those wounds. One, on his chest needed nearly two dozen stitches.” He paused, savoring the moment. Jorge would be stunned, he knew.

“All right. And?”

“He's
healed
. Completely, totally healed. Barely even a scar,” he crowed.

“Well that certainly is remarkable but perhaps he simply has a natural bias toward arcanum. We heal quickly, after all. Perhaps we should enroll him at the Abbey. We could make a priest out of him.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But,” at this, Kurin leaned forward, pinning his brother, technically his superior, with his eyes, and let a slow smile spread across his face. He played his trump card. “Are you able to catch a dagger thrust? By the blade? Without injury?”

Jorge leaned back, brow furrowing. “He did what?”

“
One of those fools thrust a dagger at him and if he is to be believed—and I assure you he is; he's too naive to lie—he caught the bloody thing
by the blade
, plucked it from his attacker's
grip and stuck him right in the gut.” Kurin leaned back and spread his arms and his smile wide.
“There wasn't a scratch on his palm. I checked.”

“But, that's impossible! No one can do that!” Jorge exclaimed, his eyes wide.

“Unless we take a great deal of time to prepare ourselves. Time that Jurel did not have.”

Jorge nodded. “Yes. Time he did not have. In a situation like that-”

“We can protect ourselves a little, reduce the damage but...”

Along with being a healer Kurin was, at least to some degree, a showman. He hated it when he did not get the reaction he sought and it felt good, sweet, to finally finagle it from Jorge. He watched as Jorge reached the conclusion that Kurin was hoping for and he put to voice the words he knew Jorge was thinking. “But he did it.”

Jorge mulled over this information, his face gone white as snow, his eyes far away, rubbing a sausage finger along his gray beard in a way that Kurin had seen countless times before. Kurin definitely had his attention this time. He considered pressing his advantage but conceded that Jorge probably would not hear him, so lost in his own thoughts was he. So he waited for Jorge's decision, impatience digging at him, prickling him with its sharp thorns, until Jorge finally focused on Kurin.

“Anything else?”

Now. Now was the time to press the advantage. He smiled. He recounted Jurel's story almost word for word as it was told to him and he was pleased to see Jorge grow ever paler.

“All right Kurin. This sounds promising. Bring him to the Abbey. We'll investigate this further when you get here. I'll send Mikal out to meet you. Are you still in Tack Town?” At Kurin's nod, he continued, “He should be near there anyway, so I think he should be able to catch up to you in Merris.”

“Yes, your eminence,” Kurin said, letting his excitement get the better of him.

Jorge hated that title, hated it even more when Kurin used it, so of course, Kurin used it as much as possible. With a scowl and a growl, Jorge told Kurin to get out of his head, and Kurin found himself floating above the land, once again drifting over those sleeping stars. Happily, he turned and followed the thread of his consciousness home.

“I did it,” he exulted like a child. “They'll believe me now. They must.” He settled back into his body with a jolt and smiled.

“A new age is upon us,” he muttered. “And I shall be the one to usher it in.”

Chapter 25

High Priest Thalor sat in his ornate high backed chair cushioned with red velvet, at his desk, a vast oaken sea that dominated the center of his office, with various icons and pictograms cascading down its thick, long legs like waterfalls. Putting down his quill, he looked up, not bothering to notice the tapestries lining his walls. He could describe each with his eyes closed: one showed a scene of some ancient battle, cavalry running with spears thrust forward while archers launched death overhead, nothing unique about it except the craftsmanship, which was artful; another portrayed Gaorla in all His holy vengeance smiting the wicked and the blasphemous; a third, the blessing of Shoka as he knelt in silent supplication. Nor did he notice the fine side table with legs that looked so delicate they could not possibly support any substantial amount of weight—but was incredibly strong—that abutted the extinguished hearth and held a dozen beautifully crafted decanters glittering in the dim light. The filigreed candelabra of solid gold on the wide mantle held nearly three dozen candles, but only three were lit. It was enough.

His office was decorated with countless pieces of art, each one priceless and he, the son of a butcher, reveled in his position of power and wealth. His favorite had always been the statue that rested atop a stone pedestal at shoulder height beside his desk to his left where it was prominently visible to any who entered and where he could view it easily at any moment: a beautiful stallion as big as his head carved out of a single massive piece of jade, it reared on its hind legs, each muscle intricately formed to show grace and power, with a mane that flowed so convincingly that Thalor often thought he should feel a breeze when he placed his hand near the stunning sculpture. It reminded him of himself. Powerful, graceful, magnificent; this one, he always noticed and for a moment he let his eyes trace the fluid lines of the stallion, watched the candlelight flicker and play along the pale green stone and imagined for a moment that the muscles flexed and sinew stretched as it prepared to leap from its perch.

He had risen through the ranks with a combination of ruthlessness, single-minded determination, and hard work and he felt he deserved the beautiful office, outstripped only by his personal chambers and the chambers of the Grand Prelate himself. He remembered the high priest who had occupied this office before him with a certain relish. Well, that was to say, he remembered bringing the man down with relish. It had not been hard: a few whispered words in the right ears, and a forbidden script deposited in his chambers had seen the man arrested and tried for heresy. Three days later, Thalor had watched him burn. Eight days, and Thalor was moving his personal effects into his new office.

Tonight, as was his habit, he was up late perusing reports and signing proclamations and all manner of things that the Grand Prelate, bureaucratic old fool that he was, deemed necessary to keep things running smoothly, when a timid knock at his door caused him to jolt.

His raised his eyes, fixing them to his door, letting them adjust to the dimness, for the candlelight did not quite reach that far, and wondered who in bloody Shoka's balls would disturb him at that ridiculous hour.

“Come in,” he barked.

The door opened to admit his assistant, an acolyte of barely twenty years, still in his nightrobe and disheveled from his bed. The young man entered and bowed deeply, keeping his eyes averted low as was proper. One did not look upon one's betters as an equal, after all.

“Well?” Thalor demanded. “What is it?”

“Your grace,” the young acolyte muttered, “one of our agents has intercepted a Sending.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is, young man? Could this not have waited until morning?” His voice was silky, cultured. It slithered like a snake, hiding poisonous fangs underneath. He had worked hard to lose the peasant brogue that his father and mother had spoken while they were alive.

“Yes your grace. I mean, no your grace. I—The Sending is from Kurin.”

“Kurin? That old dog? Is he still chasing ghosts?” Thalor asked, amusement bubbling up. He enjoyed cowing his subordinates and this one was plenty cowed. Oh yes he was.

“I—I don't know, your grace, but our agent reports that he spoke at some length with Jorge.”

“Another mangy cur. You did not interrupt me, I pray, so that you could tell me of two Salosian whoresons gossiping in the dead of night.” The frightened acolyte swallowed audibly and Thalor was pleased that his dangerous tone had the intended affect.

Give the boy credit, though. At least he's not fidgeting. Sweating, yes, but his hands are steady.

“No your grace. The agent wished you to know that Kurin seems to have found what he is looking for. He is to meet with a man named Mikal in Merris. From there, they are to travel straightaway to their Abbey.”

The young man ended his report and Thalor could see that his acolyte did not know the significance of what he had just reported. Thalor did not feel inclined to fill the boy in either; he kept his features even, trying to appear bored, though his thoughts roiled and his gut churned.

“Thank you. That will be all,” Thalor waved his man out, and looked down to the pages scattered on his desk, picking up his quill.

As soon as he heard the door latch click shut, he threw his quill down and stood with hands clasped behind his back, to pace the finely woven Kashyan rug in front of his desk. Thalor knew Kurin's story well. All the upper echelons did. The man traveled the kingdom tirelessly searching for his golden boy, had been searching, in fact, for the past thirty odd years. He even knew that Kurin had found a few candidates through the years to pin his hopes to. Those candidates never panned out but the old man was relentless. Now he had found another one.

Thalor told himself that it was another wild goose chase but there was a problem. He knew the agent who had sent his young assistant running to him with this news—he hand-picked all of his own men. The agent was good, dependable. If he thought it important enough to disturb Thalor at this time of night, then it must have been quite important indeed. No mere wild goose chase, then. This new candidate had obviously done something special, something remarkable enough to have not only convinced Jorge, but convinced him enough to send Mikal. That could be problematic. Mikal was fiercely loyal to Kurin, and not a man thoughtlessly provoked. Not if one wished to keep one's head firmly attached, anyway. He would have to speak to the agent directly first thing in the morning after sunrise service, to hear every detail.

He sat down, still thinking. If nothing else, he could take steps to remove Kurin. That heretic had an annoying habit of popping up and meddling in affairs that were none of his concern. Perhaps he should send some heavily armed men to discuss Kurin's trespasses with him—before he met with Mikal, of course—and if they happen to kill some oaf pretender in the process, then so be it. Yes that would do nicely, Thalor thought smugly. He could kill two birds with one stone. He smiled at his own joke, an alien expression on his cruel features, his thin lips curling slightly upward in his skeletal face.