The Path of the Sword by Remi Michaud Page B

the merest confrontation was to be feared. For an ex-soldier, a veteran of many campaigns, that idea was as alien as sunshine at midnight.
    Shaking his head, as much to clear the muzziness of drink as to clear the thoughts, he blinked and sighed.
    “Don't worry lad,” he said in a voice so quiet a mouse would have strained to hear. “In time, it will fade. God grant you mercy, you will never forget, but it will fade, like one of my scars. Then maybe you'll become the man I know you should be.”
    Jurel stirred. Muffled by the pillow over his face, he asked, “Pa?”
    He had not called Daved 'Pa' in, what, two years? His eyes burned and he cursed himself for a sentimental fool as he crossed the small space between them.
    “Hush boy,” he murmured, brushing sweaty hair away. “All is well. Go back to sleep.”
    “Yes Pa.”
    Satisfied for some reason, he blew out the single candle and lay down to join his son in sleep.

Chapter 8
    His eyes snapped open and he sat upright. Not knowing if it was the incessant bird song or if it was the smell of cooking bacon that woke him—and not caring, really—he jumped out of bed and dressed quickly, giving himself a good knock on the head when he stumbled into one of the roof beams while trying to push his legs into his pants that seemed intent on making the simple act of dressing an epic battle.
    A strange disorientation held him as if he had awakened somewhere he should not have. Had his father spoken to him last night? Must have been awful late since he did not really remember it. But he shrugged off that confusion as well since it did not really matter. He smelled bacon and that mattered. He was starving.
    He clambered down the ladder as quick as a cat, jumping the last few rungs to the ground and when he turned he almost staggered in shock.
    There sat his father in his chair, a splash of sun lighting his features, drinking a cup of that ghastly brown stuff that he liked so much in the morning, and riffling through a small stack of papers in front of him. Then it dawned on him that the sun was much too bright through the small window. It was late, well past his time to be up and about. He had slept in. His father would be furious.
    But then, his father did not seem furious. In fact, he smiled when he saw Jurel standing there like a startled rabbit. Another important fact dawned on him as he watched his father lean back and flip the sizzling slabs of meat in the skillet. Why was he even home?
    He expected angry remonstrations. Or maybe a cuff upside the head for his laxity. He steeled himself to it even as his father continued to smile. Just the calm before the storm. That was all this was.
    “Ah, there you are you lazybones.”
    Here it comes.
    “I was beginning to think you'd sleep the whole day away. That would have been a shame. It's another nice one.”
    Baffled, Jurel looked around the tiny cabin. Whoever this was sitting in his father's seat looked like Daved but certainly, it was someone in disguise. Perhaps his real father was hiding somewhere. But where? He was probably right outside the door, listening, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.
    “Father? Is everything all right?” Jurel ventured carefully like he was walking on thin ice over a fast moving river.
    Eyebrows furrowed, Daved nodded. “Of course. Why wouldn't it be?” Then as clear as the sun, realization struck home. “Oooh! I see. You're wondering why I'm home are you? Well it seems there's not so much to do so Galbin told me to take the day off.”
    He flipped the bacon again and in a tone that seemed pensive, weighted by terribly important issues, he added, “It occurs to me, that if I have the day off, it just would not be right to make you work.”
    He could not help himself. His eyes bugged open with pure hope and his father snorted.
    “Now don't be thinking your old man's gone soft. I've not forgotten what happened yesterday. I will expect you up bright and early tomorrow, you