Free The Path of the Sword by Remi Michaud Page B

detect. It would seem the olive branch was accepted.
    She glided as gracefully as a swan around the table and placed a tender kiss on her husband's cheek, whispered something that Jurel did not quite catch but that caused Galbin to blush, and to smile genuinely and widely. Skirts rustling and whispering, she glided from the room and disappeared like a phantom into the darkened hallway beyond.
    His own plate was still half-full but his appetite had deserted him, and so he could manage no more than to play idly with the remains of his meal, running his fork in swirls and circles through the congealed mass. Even the two men, he noted, seemed less interested in their food. Like him, they did little more than pick at their plates, staring morosely, though, true to form, Galbin put in an extra effort. The silence was an awkward one as each one mulled over their own private thoughts, perhaps mulled over how to break the ice and inject a little gaiety back into their evening. But the silence lengthened, stretching until the room seemed taut, quiver-thin, until Jurel thought he might scream.
    “May I have my leave as well, father?” he asked.
    “Not hungry anymore, hmmm?” His gaze was understanding. “It's all right with me as long as it's all right with our host.”
    “Well, I don't know,” Galbin said, his eyes twinkling slyly. “You might not thank me for letting you go when you find out that Marta baked apple pie.”
    He had tasted Marta's pies before and they were always delicious, like warm breezes and sunny days, but he could not seem to find any enthusiasm for it right then.
    “Thank you, sir. Dinner was wonderful and I'm afraid I've left no room for dessert.”
    Please don't insist. Please let me go.
    Eying Jurel's half full plate, Galbin chuckled. “You've raised quite a tactful young man there, Daved. What's your secret?”
    There was mirth in his eyes and Jurel knew he was caught out. His father, on the other hand, stared with fierce pride at him.
    “Can't take too much credit, Gally. He's a good lad all by himself.”
    “ That he is. Of course you can go. Tell you what: when your father leaves I'll make sure he has a nice fat slice of that pie for you.”
    Rising carefully, making sure to hide his impatience to be away from there, he thanked Galbin and politely bade them both a good night.
    “Don't forget lad, there'll be plenty of chores tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
    “Yes sir.”
    He had to consciously measure his steps until he reached the front door. He wanted nothing more than to flee but to do so would be unseemly. As soon as he stepped out into the cooling night air, however, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, choking on his relief.

Chapter 7
    Galbin's study was a warm place. A quiet place for a man to sit and think. To bend over the endless reams of paper on the desk, that a farm that size seemed to require, or to recline in one of the plush chairs in front of the fireplace after a long day of work and enjoy a bracing sip of something strong. And that was exactly what the two men were doing: sipping fine brandy and idly chatting about the day.
    Already, they had decided that Buril, the lazy, stupid new farm hand would be sent packing the next day. Already, they had decided what to do with the rest of the south fields. That business was over and their infrequent chatter, bracketed by the long, comfortable silences that men who were as brothers often enjoyed, began to move toward less important issues. Speculations on the weather brought on speculations of the haul they could expect at the next reaping, chat of repairing and perhaps updating the smithy turned to a discussion of the main barn's roof where a minor leak had been found and if, during this busy season, they had the manpower to spare to repair it.
    “Aye but if the weather stays good, the leak will be of no concern,” Daved opined. “At least not for a while, anyhow.”
    “As long as the good weather now doesn't mean drought