Blood of War (32 page)

It did not budge.

He noticed then that there was something different about the door after all. Someone had added a lock. He almost laughed, thinking that asking Mistress Melinda to provide the key would likely cause histrionics. He had come so far, and he was stopped by a simple, cheap lock.

To blazes with it.

There were plenty of violations going on in his erstwhile home at that very moment. One more would not matter in the slightest. He lashed out with his foot, and the door buckled with a sharp crack, bouncing inward on its abused hinges. He stepped through.

What had he expected? To see his parents glance up from their table, smiling at him, telling him to join them? To see the wooden top that Daved had gifted him with laying on the floor, waiting to be found by either his hand or his mother's foot? Perhaps he thought he would see the counter that ran the length of the kitchen covered with the tins and pots of his mother's efforts, and smell the fresh odors of baked honey bread and roasted meat.

There was no hint of his past, of course. None of it was left. A simple table still adorned the center of the main room, but it was cracked and rough and covered with polka dots of char. In the center sat a skama pipe, some residue of the narcotic congealed half in and half out of the bowl and looking like a piece of amber amidst bits of tama leaf. A small desk rested in the corner, barely more than a plank of wood on a rough frame and covered in ratty scraps of parchment and a dried inkwell. Everywhere, there was lace or cheap silk or some other sheer material whose name he did not know, pink, green, blue, colors that gouged at his eyes, draped from the windows, hung on the walls, sweeping down from the nearly empty book case. He almost gagged on the stench: bitter skama and tama; sickeningly sweet perfume as though the entire room had been doused in it; sweat, and something deeper, a scent that Jurel thought would blend right in one level down. Something that repulsed him when he thought of who had emitted them, either with some paying regular or alone, while high on the vapors of one narcotic or another. Through the door at the far end of the room, the one that had led to his parents' bedroom, he saw a cot, its stained sheets rumpled and piled in the middle.

Jurel closed his eyes, bit back the helpless sob that threatened, bit back the bitter grief and rage that loomed. His home. A brothel. His past, a tainted memory. He squeezed his eyes tighter and pulled together the frayed threads of his concentration.

* * *

When Scar-Face, followed by half a dozen of the city guard, bounded up the stairs, they saw the open door and ran to it, weapons drawn. When they entered Mistress Melinda's cramped living space, they found no one.

It would become a much talked about mystery in the city of Killhern. Men would whisper about it while in their cups at taverns, women would gossip of it (with a certain amount of satisfaction; no one liked the thought of their husbands being in that...
place
) over vats of dirty water as they scrubbed shirts and trousers with lye, children would frighten their younger siblings with the tale.

Soon, rumors—most likely started by the competition, by the proprietors of the other whorehouses and cathouses in the area (one might note that a person who sells the bodies of others is not exactly a paradigm of respectability and will think nothing of resorting to any measure to line their pockets a little more deeply)—that the bawdy house called the Garden of Pleasure was haunted began to worm their way into conversations. Mistress Melinda railed at the loss of business, her whores left for better pay working at rival houses—except for the uglier ones, or the ones deemed too old, who ended up with the much more perilous job of working the streets and alleys away from the safety of torches and hired bodyguards—and ultimately, she had to shut down her business.

Jurel knew none of this, but if he had, it would not have made much difference. His childhood home, his earliest memories, would forever be sullied by what he had seen there that day.

If only he had waited a while longer, just a little while, before revisiting his home. It migh have made all the difference. Because the Garden of Pleasure, and most everything around it, would soon be burned to the ground.

Chapter 27

A hot wind gusted. The sky was dark. Not night, and certainly not daytime, but somewhere in between, as though everything hung in a balance and all that was needed to tip things one way or the other was the merest breath. In the far distance, jagged mountains rose like purple crocodile teeth, biting into the horizon.

Stiff, ankle length grasses that bent under the force of the wind patched the flat land before the mountains in a quilt of ill green and straw yellow. A single lilac tree rose from the parched grass. It was not a pretty thing. Ravaged as though by years of powerful arctic winds, it stood gnarled, bent like an old man, bark peeling away like burnt flesh, limbs lifeless, leafless except for a few shriveled shreds of rusty rotten boughs that clung determinedly, like a reminder of glory long past, to ragged branches that seemed to reach to the sky in pathetic prayer. He had neither been able to banish it entirely nor return it to its previous glory.

Jurel leaned against the coarse bole of the tree, staring at the ground, seeing nothing. His sword rested across his lap and his fingers slid along the cool blade distractedly. His thoughts were as dark as his place. His home was gone, his past was gone, his life was gone. Everything. Gone. Well, almost everything. The fact that he was the God of War remained. The fact that he was the very embodiment of the thing he hated most remained.

Images rose in his mind, unbidden for he wanted nothing more than to forget. Daved glared disapprovingly with those hawk's eyes. Gram and his beautiful mother Wendilla gazed upon him sadly. Galbin shook his head in disappointment. Metana beseeched him with outstretched arms to come home. Valik laughed viciously, and Trig and Darren turned away, ashamed of him,
for
him, as Erin lowered sad eyes, unwilling to look at him.

His brow furrowed further as something snagged his attention. Something that was not quite right. It caught his attention like a knock at the door. He concentrated. Thought vanished, and images fled. Most of them. Metana's image remained, with her outstretched arms and her eyes wide, pleading. He closed his eyes and saw her, every line of her, every curve and color as though she stood in front of him. He choked back a sob.

“
Jurel, please answer me.”

He grunted. So caught up with her was he, so foolishly enamored, that he even heard her voice in his thoughts. Stupid. It was just a dream, an illusion. She was dead. Because of him.

“
Please, Jurel. Please.”

He sighed, pushed at the image. He gasped when the image pushed back.

“
Stop it, Jurel. Answer me. Please?”

Not possible.

“Metana?”

“
Yes. Please come home. We need you.”

Again he concentrated, bent his thoughts to her like a flower to the sun. There was a strange feeling of displacement as though the world shifted under him and when he opened his eyes, Metana stood before him gaping like a fish, arms still outstretched though the fingers hung limp, seemingly gone numb. He rose slowly to his feet, staring dumbfounded at her.

He took a hesitant step forward.

“Metana? Is it really you?”

She flew into his arms then, wrapping him tightly in hers. The feel of her, soft and tender and hard as steel, the scent of her, lavender and something that was all her own, enveloped him. She trembled as she clung to him, like a leaf in a high wind. He trembled too as he murmured over and over again, “You're alive. Oh gods, you're alive.”

Two great tears formed in his closed eyes, slipped free from confinement and slid down his cheeks. The dominant force within the roil he felt inside was profound relief. Metana was alive. Metana was here, breathing, crying against his shoulder. He had not killed her. And if she was alive, could others be as well? He hardly dared to hope, but he had to know.

“And the others?” he asked gruffly.

She pulled back, her rapturous gaze dimming somewhat, though she tried to hide behind her smile. “Gaven and Mikal are fine. I'm with them right now.”

And of course, Jurel heard the omission. His guts turned to ice.

“And Kurin?”

Now her smile did fall away. “Captured, we think. Taken by the Gaorlans toward the end of the battle.”

Jurel let out the breath he had not realized he was holding. It was bad news, very bad, but it could have been worse. There was a chance, at least, that Mikal could mount a rescue.

“And what of the rest? Flain? What happened to him?” he asked quietly.

Her expression of discomfort turned to pain. “Jurel, I don't think-”

“Tell me,” he demanded, glaring at her.

She seemed to wilt under his eyes, her own turning to the spoiled ground beneath them. He felt her stiffen in his arms as though she were steeling herself.

“I don't know exactly,” she said. “The latest news is not promising.”

She halted again, her eyes pleading him to let it drop, to not make her answer his question more precisely.

He simply continued to gaze at her, silent, immovable. He would hear his crimes spoken aloud.

And what was she to do under such an implacable glare?

“Maybe two hundred survived. It was thanks to Flain. Mikal said if it wasn't for his last charge pushing the prelacy back, there would have been fewer survivors, if any.” she whispered.

He released her and stumbled back into the broken lilac. He slumped to the ground. Two hundred remained. He had started with over a thousand.

As though the air were suddenly too thin, he struggled to catch his breath. The landscape whirled and darkened in his vision. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He should not have been surprised. He knew he had caused a catastrophe. He knew his pride had gotten a lot of good people killed. But to hear it, to have proof of his lethal foolishness made it real, made it unavoidable. He had wanted to hear it. But gods damn him, having gotten what he wanted, he now wished...

Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

His horror mingled with a white hot rage, a hatred of himself that was so profound, he gripped the hilt of his sword, the thorns ripping into his palm, almost plunged his sword into his guts. He had killed them. He deserved far worse than a sword in the guts. This self-imposed exile was but the start of the punishments he would heap on his own shoulders in the days ahead. It would also see everyone free of his terrible influences. It was the only way he could think of to stop the pointless waste of life. This self-imposed exile, however, was not yet complete. He lifted his eyes to Metana.

As though reading his thoughts, she paled. Slowly, her eyes lifted from his, and her features twisted in pain. She turned, seeking to change the subject before Jurel could hammer the final nail hone. She surveyed his place, taking in the barrenness, the lack of color, of light, life. When her eyes found his again, tears brimmed like crystals, balancing precariously, ready to tumble at the slightest provocation. It took a great deal of willpower for him to remain where he was, to keep from rising up and gathering her in his arms. Almost, he did anyway. But the thought of her trying too hard to convince him while he held her close, the thought that she would speak rapidly of his need to return, the pain that it would cause, provided plenty of incentive to stay right where he was.

“What have you done?” she breathed.

He chuckled sourly. “Not much. A little redecoration is all. A new coat of paint, moved the furniture around. What do you think?”

She leaned close, stretched a hand out, laid it against the bole above his head. He stopped breathing. To breath would be to fill himself with her scent: the flowers, the tang of her, the
life
of her. Now that he knew what he must do, even breathing her would drive a barbed dagger through his heart.

She shuddered. “Why?”

“
Oh, no particular reason.” He waved a hand airily. “I got tired of the old look. You should have seen it before this. Now
that
would have curled your toes, if you had survived long enough.”

Slumping to her knees, she drew in a ragged breath. Again her hand reached out, this time toward him, but it stopped short as though a wall stood between them. A tear finally slipped free, streaking a line down her cheek.

Oh how he wanted nothing more than to taste it, to kiss it away.

“Why?”

“It seemed appropriate.” He said with all the gruffness he could muster.

She recoiled at the coldness in his voice. She breathed deeply, almost panted; it took him a moment to realize that she was stifling the urge to weep.

“Jurel, please. You...I—I thought that...”

Hot fire washed over him. The sere grasses in his place withered further: where fragile green was, dead yellow replaced it; where yellow was, the madman's mosaic appeared. The tree wilted as though melting, and the wind grew hotter.

“What? What, Metana? What did you think? What do you want?”

Her brow shone where sweat appeared, her cheeks grew flushed.

“I—I want...please. Stop this. It is too hot. I'm starting to feel faint.” True to her words, she began to sag, to waver and her eyes, pale gray, flickered on the verge of losing their light.

Puzzled, Jurel glared at her before he noticed his place. Shock replaced puzzlement as he realized what he was doing. To her.

“Oh. Oh, Metana. I'm sorry. I didn't know. Sorry.”

The heat dropped, the green returned but it seemed tentative, as though his grip on his place, on himself, was weak. The lilac remained wilted like melted candle wax.

She breathed deeply, smiled tremulously. “Thank you.”

More gently, he asked, “What do you want? Why are you here?”

“You brought me here. I wanted you to come back to us.”

A dry, sharp laugh burst from him like an arrow and he turned away. He could not bear to look upon that angel's face anymore. “Isn't it better this way? I'm a monster and you know it. This way you don't have to see me.”