She managed her Jhesta Tu training ritual that day, as well, and though a light-headed weakness did return, SenWi pressed through the ritual to completion. She was still outside, sitting in the shadow under the eaves of the house, when she saw Garibond approaching, returning from one of his rare visits to the town. She rose unsteadily, but quickly found her balance and her center, and moved to greet the man with a hesitant hopefulness.
She saw from his expression that things in town were not well.
“Where is Dynard?”
“You should not be outside,” Garibond remarked, and he glanced around. “They are still looking for you.”
“Where is Dynard?” He started to go by her, but she caught him roughly by the shoulder and held him back. “Tell me.”
“He is alive but under guard in the chapel, so I heard. You and Brother Dynard are the talk of all the town, of course.”
“They are not mistreating him?”
“Who can know what the brothers do,” Garibond replied, and he gave a frustrated sigh. “I doubt you’ll be well treated if Prince Prydae and his soldiers find you, and that is our main concern.”
“No.”
“Yes! There is nothing we can do for Dynard, and do not forget that it was his choice to return to Chapel Pryd. I promised him that I would look after you, and I’m not about to go back on my word.”
SenWi’s expression clearly revealed that she wasn’t buying the argument.
“This is likely part of the process,” Garibond went on more forcefully. “Dynard knew that it would be no easy task to persuade the monks.”
“Where is the book?”
Garibond shrugged.
SenWi looked out toward the distant keep tower, her thoughts spinning as she suddenly came to recognize the potential depth of this problem. “You must return to town, to the chapel itself,” she improvised. “I will know more of Bran and of the Book of Jhest. You must do this for me, at once.”
“And mark my house for suspicion?” Garibond argued. “Shall I pause and visit Castle Pryd before my return and simply tell Prince Prydae that the woman he and his soldiers seek is safely hidden in the tunnels, or will you remain outside to greet them?”
With her limited command of the language, it took SenWi some time to understand the sarcasm in the remark.
“I cannot do it, girl,” Garibond said bluntly.
SenWi didn’t argue any further, for her thoughts were already moving in another direction. With her returning strength came the return, she understood, of her responsibilities to her husband and to the prize he had carried from the Walk of Clouds. So deep in contemplation was she that she hardly noticed that Garibond had moved to the door and had pulled it open.
“Come along inside, then,” he said. “I’ve brought some fine spices. I’ll make us a stew.”
SenWi didn’t argue.
Long after supper, with darkness spreading across the land, SenWi sat across from Garibond as he half sat and half reclined before a roaring fire. She said nothing, and brushed off his feeble attempts to begin a conversation. She watched and she waited, and when at last he nodded his head in slumber, she went to her travel sack and rummaged through it, producing the suit of black silk.
She changed and went out into the night, dark and silent, trotting swiftly toward the town and Chapel Pryd. She spent a moment trying to recall its layout, then moved to the base of the northern wall. There was only one window here, set high up.
SenWi fell into herself, grasping the energy of her chi and twisting it so that it battled against the natural pull of the ground. Then she picked out handholds in the wall and began to climb, moving steadily and easily—almost as if she were weightless. She arrived at the window in short order and squeezed through, entering the bedroom of Father Jerak himself.
SenWi resisted the urge to awaken him with a choke hold that she might force the information from him. No, such a bold course could prove catastrophic for her husband, she knew. She slipped across the room and through the door to the antechamber, and before she took another step, she saw one of her missing prizes.
The Book of Jhest lay there right before her, opened upon a wooden pedestal beside the low-burning hearth fire. Many other books were set haphazardly on shelves flanking that hearth; and even from this distance, SenWi could see the dust that had gathered on them. Was that the fate that awaited the product of Bran’s long toil?
Her fingers trembled as she felt the smooth pages of the opened book, and she promised herself that she would come back through here on her way out after locating and securing the release of her dear husband.
She moved away, but before she even reached the door, a renewed wave of nausea washed over her and nearly buckled her legs beneath her. Black spots flitted before her eyes, and it was all that she could do just to stand there and not fall over. Instinctively, SenWi clutched at her belly and it took all of her considerable willpower to bring her breathing quickly back under control.
“Bran,” she whispered helplessly, and another wave brought her to one knee. She knew that she was in trouble. Her physical exertion in running all the way out here and, even more so, her mystical exertion in scaling and levitating up the wall, had been too much, she only now realized. She thought of the days she had spent in Garibond’s house, incapacitated beyond anything she had ever known, barely conscious and without the strength to even stand. What might it mean for Bran if she fell ill here?
With that troubling thought in mind, SenWi glanced back at the Book of Jhest. Then she looked past it, to the shelves and the piled, disheveled tomes. Glancing all around, improvising as she went, SenWi searched the deepest recesses of the shelves and found a book of roughly similar size to the one sitting on the pedestal. She meant to tip the pedestal to the floor toward the open hearth, and nearly did so as she swooned, but fortunately, she caught herself at the last moment.
She didn’t want to make a ruckus that would awaken Father Jerak and half the chapel, after all!
Regaining her balance and a measure of her strength, SenWi placed the Book of Jhest off to the side, then gently lowered the pedestal to the floor, lining it up with the hearth. She then opened the other book, taken from the shelf, and placed it on the embers, and after blowing on those orange coals for a bit, managed to set the book aflame.
SenWi glanced back at the crowded bookshelf and wondered how effective the ruse might prove. For good measure and taking care not to obviously disturb the dust, she jostled the remaining books on the shelf to better hide the theft. With no other options before her, she gathered up the Book of Jhest, and with a rueful glance at the room’s other door—the one that would lead her deeper into the chapel and hopefully to her imprisoned husband—she staggered back the other way, back into sleeping Father Jerak’s bedchamber.
She squeezed out onto the windowsill and glanced down the twenty feet or more to the ground. SenWi told herself how important this was, reminded herself of the grim consequences of failure—for her, for Bran, and for the precious book. She felt inside herself again, found the line of chi, and tried again to free herself from the bonds of gravity.
Father Jerak stirred behind her, and she knew she could wait no longer. She turned and slipped down from the windowsill.
And then she was falling.
She arrived at Garibond’s house many hours later, after the dawn, dragging one broken leg, barely conscious, and trembling violently in the grip of a high fever.
She was still clutching the book.
12
The Inspiration of the Season
She heard the birds singing every day but never did she open her eyes at their inviting call. She felt the movement around her and knew it to be Garibond, and occasionally heard his whispers.
But it too was distant, and nothing that could bring her forth from the damaged shell of her physical body.
She tasted the cool water and warm broth when he managed to get some into her mouth, but they were sensations of another time and pl
ace, of another world altogether, it seemed.
For most of SenWi’s thoughts remained inward, sharing herself with her unborn child, offering her love and her warmth, watching the awakening of consciousness. It seemed to her such a beautiful and comforting thing that a piece of Bran and a piece of herself should create an entirely different and independent little being. She felt its presence keenly within her own corporeal coil, and knew after a time that it sensed her as well.
One morning, SenWi heard the birds more distinctly, though it seemed to her as if they were fewer in number. Hardly aware of the movement, she blinked open her eyes. Curtains covered the room’s small window, but the brightness stung her nonetheless, and it took her a long time to resist blinking her eyes tightly closed.
She lay there as time passed. She knew not how long—hours perhaps—before the door was finally pushed open and Garibond, looking weary and downtrodden, walked in.
He moved by the bed, a small cup in hand, and it wasn’t until he was even with SenWi’s head that he noticed her looking back at him.
He jumped back, his eye opened wide, and he nearly dropped his cup, his hand suddenly shaking so violently that its contents splashed over its sides. Finally he managed to set the cup down on the small table by the bed, and he nearly fell atop SenWi, scrambling to get close.
“Are you there?” Garibond asked.
“Garibond,” she replied, and with great effort, she managed to bring one hand up to stroke the man’s strong, hairy arm.
“By God, I thought you’d never awaken,” Garibond whispered. “All these days and weeks…”
His admission of time’s passage struck SenWi hard, and she, too, opened her eyes more widely. “How long?”
“You’ve been away from me for almost five weeks.”
SenWi found her breath hard to come by. “Bran?” she gasped.
Garibond’s smile comforted her.
“I saw him just two days ago,” he explained. “Every passing week, the brothers at the chapel afford him more liberties, though he is not yet able to move about unrestricted, and certainly not out of the chapel. He longs for you—I heard that in his every word! But he cannot come to you, for fear that you would be discovered. Laird Pryd and that son of his are a stubborn lot.”
SenWi had no idea what he was talking about at that blurry moment, but she was thrilled that her dear Bran was apparently alive and well. “Some day,” she replied, and left it at that.
Garibond nodded and started propping up her pillows. “Let us sit you up a bit,” he explained. “You have to get some food in you.”
SenWi’s face scrunched up, for the thought did not appeal to her, but that only prodded Garibond on more forcefully.
“For the sake of the child in your swollen belly,” he said, and SenWi felt his hand touch her there. When she looked down to regard that gentle hand, she saw that she was beginning to show her condition. “A woman with child has to eat,” Garibond insisted. “You’re feeding two!”
SenWi nodded and didn’t resist as Garibond helped her to sit up, and then he put the cup to her lips and let her sip its broth contents. Before long, she had drained the vessel, and Garibond smiled and went out to get her some more.
That, too, she drank, and she was feeling better with each sip of the warm liquid that washed down her parched throat.
“We will get you a solid and hearty meal as soon as you’re able,” Garibond assured her. “I promised Dynard that I would take care of you, and I’m not about to let your stubbornness get in the way of that.”
SenWi even managed a smile, albeit a weak one.
Brother Dynard’s eyes and thoughts were fixed on the wider world beyond Chapel Pryd’s open gate as he swept the falling leaves from the courtyard’s paths. It was late morning, and already he had been out longer this blustery autumn day than he had in many weeks.
SenWi was somewhere out there, pregnant and ill. Every fiber in Brother Dynard urged him to run off to her bedside, to hold her and kiss her, to tell her that he loved her, and to help her back to him. Nothing else in all the world, not even his beloved Church, seemed to matter beside that image of stricken SenWi, for though Garibond had assured him in their brief meeting that she was strong and would pull through, Dynard had heard the undercurrent of fear in his seemingly confident tone. SenWi was in trouble, and for her own sake and despite his every desperate desire, Dynard could not go to her.
He was gaining some measure of freedom here, at least. He had only recently learned of the accident in Father Jerak’s chamber and the destruction of the Book of Jhest, and while his spirit sank at the great loss to his brethren, and while his heart ached at the thought of his most precious work undone, all that paled in comparison to his fears for SenWi and his unborn child.
Until very recently, Brother Dynard had believed that his greatest contribution would be that book he had so painstakingly transcribed. But now he knew the truth: his greatest achievement would not be measured in copied words but in living flesh, in his child.
He prayed that SenWi would fight through this illness that had befallen her and that one day he would be able to see their child and hold their child.
Ironically, Dynard recognized that the destruction of the book had probably facilitated his best chance in seeing SenWi or his child again. From what he had learned over the last weeks of his increasing freedom, Father Jerak had visibly relaxed since the book had burned. Perhaps Jerak saw in its destruction the threat of wayward Brother Dynard lessened, or perhaps he was just growing tired of his vigilance. Either way, it didn’t matter to Dynard, as long as the result put him back where he belonged, in SenWi’s loving arms.
Brother Bathelais called to him, and that reminded him to keep the broom moving. He glanced back to his superior, who was standing on the chapel’s stone stoop. When Dynard returned his focus fully to his sweeping, Bathelais called to him again, bidding him to come inside.
Dynard moved into the shadows within the chapel door tentatively, for he had caught a hint of anger in his superior’s tone. Bathelais, waiting for him just inside, stood impatiently, tapping his foot on the stone, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Yes, brother?” Dynard asked, keeping his head bowed and his gaze to the floor.
“We have received word concerning you from Chapel Abelle,” Bathelais explained.
Dynard’s gaze came up, eyes wide. Was it possible that his return had attracted the notice of the leaders of the great mother chapel itself?
“Of course we dispatched a courier to Chapel Abelle with word of your return and your surprising cargo, book and human,” Bathelais explained. “Your fall from the teaching of Blessed Abelle is no small thing—not as inconsequential as your death might have proven.”
Dynard accepted those stinging words without argument.
“The brothers at the mother chapel will speak with you,” Bathelais went on. “As soon as winter lessens its grip upon the land, you will travel north to deliver a full accounting of your journeys in the land of Behr. A pity that the book does not survive, for I am certain that it would have proven of great interest to our brethren.”
Brother Dynard felt his knees grow weak beneath him, and it took all his control to stop from falling over. “W-when?” he stammered, for all of Bathelais’s words beyond that first simple statement had flowed right past him.
“At the first onset of spring,” Bathelais repeated, “as soon as the roads are clear.”
“How long? I mean…where will I…will I return to Chapel Pryd?”
He saw from the expression of Brother Bathelais that his panicky questions were inciting more than a bit of curiosity, and it was only with great effort that Brother Dynard managed to find some measure of control. Behind the placid façade he managed to paint upon his face, his thoughts were swirling and tumbling. He had to get word to SenWi, had to find some way for her to meet him on the road. How could he not? How could he walk away from this place, from her, from his child?
H
is child!
If he were to depart in the early spring, the baby would have just been born. How could he leave?
How could he not? he realized a moment later. Even if he turned away from the Church of Blessed Abelle now, he would hardly be a free man, and certainly not free from their suspicion and watchfulness. If he went to SenWi, then SenWi would be found.
“Is there something wrong, Brother Dynard?” he heard Bathelais say, and when he looked at the man, he recognized that the question had likely been asked several times already.
“No, no,” he blurted, and he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “No, Brother Bathelais, of course not. It is just that I am weary of the road.”
“The knowledge you brought back with you from Behr is important to us, of course. If we are to send any more brothers into that vast southern land, as we surely will, then the information you provide may help keep them safe.”
“There are fewer threats to us in the southern lands than you believe,” Brother Dynard dared to reply, but he did so absently, his mind still caught on the horrible notion of this impending separation from his dear SenWi. In the silence that ensued, Dynard felt the gaze of Bathelais upon him and looked back at him.
“I offer this as your friend,” Bathelais sternly said. “When you are before the brothers of Chapel Abelle, you would do well to adjust your thinking more clearly in compliance with the edicts of the Church concerning the people of Behr. You would do well to remember, Brother Dynard, that you went there to teach them, not to be taught by them.”
Brother Bathelais stared at him hard a few moments longer, then spun on his heel and stormed away.
Dynard leaned heavily on his broom, needing its support.
It wasn’t until nearly a week after awakening that SenWi realized just how badly her leg had been injured. The limb would not hold her weight. Even using her Jhesta Tu powers of healing and concentration, SenWi knew that it would be a long time before she walked again, if ever.
The Highwayman Page 13
