The Path of the Sword by Remi Michaud Page A

burning buildings. A city grievously injured. He stared into his empty glass, seeing in the bottom of it things that he had tried to push into the deepest recesses of his mind for years.
    “Sometimes, I wonder. I think maybe...”
    But again he trailed off, left the thought unvoiced.
    “Will you not finally tell me?” asked Galbin.
    Daved's heart wrenched, though whether from the gentle caring in his friend's voice or from the thought that he should actually put the dark memories into words, bringing them back to life in a way, he was not certain. Perhaps he should. The memories were as fresh then and there as if it had all been yesterday. Perhaps telling someone would be a relief, would heal in the way that a poultice on a wound healed. His gaze was pensive and pointed inward as he again considered telling Galbin of the battle, of how, even as the last of the invaders were being put to the sword, he had found the lost child in the street. How at that moment, his life had become clear.
    But something held him back. A wall, or a door that must remain closed for fear that what was held within was too powerful, too wild, to control. He shook his head.
    “No Galbin. Not yet,” he sighed and his sorrow was so profound that Galbin could not bear to hear it.
    “Of course. Never fear, my friend. I will not push for things that are none of my business. Forgive me for prying.”
    “Thank you. It is not a thing lightly remembered let alone told.”
    He stared into the fire, wishing that he could dump his dark thoughts into the flame, wishing he could watch them wither and burn alongside the wood.
    “Some day. Some day I will tell you all. But not yet.”
    After what seemed like hours, the silence became unbearable, as heavy as stones, and Galbin changed the subject back to safer territory, back to things of little consequence and a short time later, they sat comfortably chatting about equipment maintenance and man power, washing away sour memories with dry brandy.
    * * *
    In the wee hours of the morning, far too late for proper folk to be out of bed, Daved sat on his small cot trying to stop the room from spinning sickeningly about his buzzing head. His loft was warm, too warm, and even bare-chested as he was, the scars crisscrossing his chest pale and glistening as if they were wet in the light of the single candle, the heat made his guts turn a little. It could have had something to do with the river of brandy he had drunk earlier.
    At the other end of the loft—three paces at best, and small ones to boot—his son snored lightly, twisted in his blanket so it seemed the square of wool was trying to tie him down. His hair was already disheveled, mussed by the fitful tossing and turning that always plagued him in the first hour or two that he slept but his face was peaceful, innocent.
    In many ways, Jurel had never recovered from his experiences of Killhern city. As much as a year afterward, he had suffered nightly the terrible nightmares that on better nights let him sleep, though badly, unevenly, but on the worse ones, caused him to wake screaming as if he were being tortured. Daved was always there for him. Even though they were not related by blood, in his heart—for Gram and Wendilla had been like family to him—Jurel was his son. Daved would rock him, tunelessly humming songs that he dredged from his memories, songs that his own father used to hum to him until the boy fell back into troubled sleep.
    Even now, he would waken sometimes, whimpering and shaking, but thankfully not nearly so often. It was almost too painful for Daved to bear most nights. Here was his son terrified and hurt, and he could do nothing about it. Some nights he hated himself for that weakness.
    Those bloody memories had stayed with Jurel, affecting him so profoundly that he loathed violence of any sort. Even the suggestion of it, like stories of ancient battles told around a fire, sent the boy running. It had grown like an infection in him so even