whole. If not...” He took in his two friends, Goromand, the Abbot of the Salosian Order, nominally the master of them all, and Kurin, newly raised to Chaplain, and the man he considered a brother.
They nodded glumly, exchanging dire looks.
Kurin downed the rest of his brandy as the rest of Jorge's unspoken thought was completed in his mind.
There might be upwards of sixty thousand troops massing at Threimes. Though they did not know what the king intended, there were still thirty thousand Soldiers of God. Their target: the heretical Salosian Order, and the Salosian Order might, might , be able to muster four thousand men.
Without Jurel, without the God of War, they would be utterly annihilated.
* * *
Bees hummed, flitting from flower to flower, homing in like darts to the center of colorful bull's-eyes to collect their bounty. Birds trilled their tunes of joy and freedom as if they gloated at those bound to the ground, and squirrels skittered and scampered. The arbor was a quiet spot filled with life, gentle and serene. It was the perfect place to think. And more importantly, it was the perfect place to be alone, to get away from the constant bowing and groveling.
He would have thought that becoming a God would have prepared him to deal with the masses of priests that always jolted in surprise when they saw him, always dropped to their knees and lay their foreheads to the stone floors in what they imagined was a fine show of humility. At first, the discomfort had been laughable and he had tittered nervously as he told them to stand up. But as days wore on and his story spread like a wildfire in dry brush through the Abbey, and everyone treated him like fine porcelain, he grew annoyed, then angry. What was worse: no matter how many times he demanded they stop—“A simple hello will be fine,” he had sighed more often than he could remember—they did not listen. They were supposed to listen, right? They believed he was a God, right? They were supposed to follow his commands. Some they did with humble subservience, and most they did not. With humble subservience.
It was enough to drive a man crazy.
It was a comfort then that they had not yet found this spot. He was well hidden with his back to a tree in the overgrown arbor that had not seen another human in who knew how long. It was a minor vengeance that whenever he slipped away, he drove them all mad in their desperate searches for him. Sometimes he could hear them calling to each other, “Have you seen him?” “No. I don't know where he is.” but it was distant, on the other side of the wall that bordered the grove, and each time, he smiled.
When he was not in bed, when Gaven bade him good-bye and bustled off to his duties, or Mikal told him his lessons were over for the day (and as his martial abilities grew, those lessons had become less about learning and more about practicing), he came here. It was his spot, his solace.
He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. It had been a bad day. First, he had upset Goromand. He had refused to allow Andrus to return. The man had wanted him to reconsider; Andrus was difficult, Goromand said, but he knew what he was doing—Jurel decided on the spur of the moment, without knowing exactly why, to hold back what he had overheard in the little used corridor the day before. He then insisted that Jurel pray, to beseech Gaorla for forgiveness for whatever sin had blocked him from his power. He had told the man to do anatomically incorrect things with himself, and possibly with various species of livestock, before storming away.
On top of it all, he could not get images of Daved from his mind. Some days he could get through from waking to sleeping without thinking of him, but the previous night, he had dreamed of his father and the dream had stuck with him, haunted him until he was afraid the memory of the man he had called father for so long would crack his already brittle mind.
It was not supposed to be this way. He
They nodded glumly, exchanging dire looks.
Kurin downed the rest of his brandy as the rest of Jorge's unspoken thought was completed in his mind.
There might be upwards of sixty thousand troops massing at Threimes. Though they did not know what the king intended, there were still thirty thousand Soldiers of God. Their target: the heretical Salosian Order, and the Salosian Order might, might , be able to muster four thousand men.
Without Jurel, without the God of War, they would be utterly annihilated.
* * *
Bees hummed, flitting from flower to flower, homing in like darts to the center of colorful bull's-eyes to collect their bounty. Birds trilled their tunes of joy and freedom as if they gloated at those bound to the ground, and squirrels skittered and scampered. The arbor was a quiet spot filled with life, gentle and serene. It was the perfect place to think. And more importantly, it was the perfect place to be alone, to get away from the constant bowing and groveling.
He would have thought that becoming a God would have prepared him to deal with the masses of priests that always jolted in surprise when they saw him, always dropped to their knees and lay their foreheads to the stone floors in what they imagined was a fine show of humility. At first, the discomfort had been laughable and he had tittered nervously as he told them to stand up. But as days wore on and his story spread like a wildfire in dry brush through the Abbey, and everyone treated him like fine porcelain, he grew annoyed, then angry. What was worse: no matter how many times he demanded they stop—“A simple hello will be fine,” he had sighed more often than he could remember—they did not listen. They were supposed to listen, right? They believed he was a God, right? They were supposed to follow his commands. Some they did with humble subservience, and most they did not. With humble subservience.
It was enough to drive a man crazy.
It was a comfort then that they had not yet found this spot. He was well hidden with his back to a tree in the overgrown arbor that had not seen another human in who knew how long. It was a minor vengeance that whenever he slipped away, he drove them all mad in their desperate searches for him. Sometimes he could hear them calling to each other, “Have you seen him?” “No. I don't know where he is.” but it was distant, on the other side of the wall that bordered the grove, and each time, he smiled.
When he was not in bed, when Gaven bade him good-bye and bustled off to his duties, or Mikal told him his lessons were over for the day (and as his martial abilities grew, those lessons had become less about learning and more about practicing), he came here. It was his spot, his solace.
He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. It had been a bad day. First, he had upset Goromand. He had refused to allow Andrus to return. The man had wanted him to reconsider; Andrus was difficult, Goromand said, but he knew what he was doing—Jurel decided on the spur of the moment, without knowing exactly why, to hold back what he had overheard in the little used corridor the day before. He then insisted that Jurel pray, to beseech Gaorla for forgiveness for whatever sin had blocked him from his power. He had told the man to do anatomically incorrect things with himself, and possibly with various species of livestock, before storming away.
On top of it all, he could not get images of Daved from his mind. Some days he could get through from waking to sleeping without thinking of him, but the previous night, he had dreamed of his father and the dream had stuck with him, haunted him until he was afraid the memory of the man he had called father for so long would crack his already brittle mind.
It was not supposed to be this way. He
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