But he understood completely that this was no ordinary weapon, and from more than the exotic feel of the materials. The balance, the delicate work along the pommel, the light yet solid feel of the blade all hinted to him of the marvels within and of the discipline required to create this. He knew that his mother had made it, for he could feel her residual energy within the blade. The Book of Jhest had referred to weapons such as this and spoke about the bonding between the craftsman and the weapon, but only now could Bransen truly come to appreciate that truth. For in holding this magnificent sword, Bransen felt as if he were touching the mother he had never known.
Could she have foreseen this day? Could she have guessed that her sword would outlive her and would be handed down to her son?
A weight of responsibility fell upon Bransen then. His mother was a Jhesta Tu mystic, an accomplished warrior and philosopher. He had a lot to live up to.
He heard the commotion below him as Castle Pryd came fully awake, but he paid it no heed. Not now. Now, he was with the spirit of his mother as he had been with his father in those moments when he had possessed the Book of Jhest. This was so much more than a weapon, Bransen knew at once. This was a work of art, an extension of SenWi herself, imbued with her skill and her love.
As he continued to hold and contemplate the sword, he felt a warm, clear sensation that his mother was pleased, that she was looking down at him now and was glad that her sword was in the hands of her son, the child for whom she had willingly offered her own life force.
A long time later, the commotion around the castle died down, but Bransen could still see groups of soldiers with torches scouring the area. He poked a loop for the sword in the tied waistline of his trousers, gathered his inner strength, and climbed down the wall. Moving from shadow to shadow, the Highwayman was soon back in the chapel, and soon back in his little room.
And now he had one more thing he knew he must keep hidden.
28
Alone, and so Be It!
The lines were not as intricate and flowing, but the patterns of the words were much the same. Bransen focused hard to keep his head from lolling about so that he could study those patterns and try to make some sense of them. It wasn’t often that Bransen got any opportunity to view the writing of the monks. On those occasions when he was the Highwayman, he spent very little time in the chapel, only enough to get in and out along a direct route from his trapdoor to the window and back again.
So this morning, going about his rounds, when he saw the parchment unrolled and weighted down on the desk, Bransen quickly moved to inspect it.
How he wished that the monks had taught him to read their language. How he wished that so many of his empty hours could be spent engrossed in a tome filled with words of wisdom. Did the words of Blessed Abelle mirror those of the Jhesta Tu? He had already clearly seen and felt the similarities of Jhesta Tu meditation and the powers afforded by the sacred stones, and he had to believe that those commonalities extended into the relative philosophies of the holy men. Bransen suspected that the books of the monks would enhance his understanding and control of his life force, but, alas, Brother Reandu had made it quite clear to him that the brothers would not teach him to read.
He stood there for a long time, staring down at the script and wondering if he might somehow teach himself. So immersed was he in the lines and words that he didn’t hear the door open across the way and the soft footfalls of an approaching monk.
“Take care with that,” Brother Reandu said, and Bransen staggered and nearly fell.
Reandu steadied him.
“Taking respite from your work?” the monk asked.
Bransen stammered, trying to formulate an answer, but Reandu calmed him and quieted him quickly.
“Still intrigued by words?”
Bransen nodded.
“Well, please do not drool on this, my little friend. Do you know what this is?”
Bransen tried to shake his head, but it went in a circular motion instead, and sent his eyes spinning.
“It details instructions from the masters of my order,” Reandu explained. “From Chapel Abelle itself, where the prophet taught and where he died. Perhaps one day I will find the means to take you there. Yes, you would like Chapel Abelle.” Reandu’s eyes sparkled and he began to wave his arms out to show the vastness of the place and to dramatize his nearly breathless words as he continued. “It is set on a high cliff overlooking the dark, rolling waters of the ocean. Waves smash against the rocks continually, like the thunder of God himself! You cannot stand atop that cliff without seeing the beauty of God, Stork. You feel small and great at the same time, as if you are part of something larger and more wonderful than yourself, than your life itself. The thunder of the waves pounds like the heartbeat of God, I tell you!”
He paused and looked back at Bransen. “You would like to see that place, wouldn’t you?”
Bransen nodded eagerly and grinned from ear to ear, but the smile went away almost immediately as he came to consider what any journey away from Chapel Pryd might do. How could he take his clothing, the sword, and the stolen gemstone with him? How could he keep his secret, or find the hours of freedom in the guise of the Highwayman?
He caught himself in those thoughts and glanced anxiously at Reandu, who, thankfully, had not noticed his changing mood. Quickly, Bransen shifted the focus and the conversation by pointing emphatically at the parchment.
“An order from Chapel Abelle,” Reandu explained, and he gave a sigh. “The world is a difficult place right now, Stork. Men are warring across the land of Honce as the lairds vie for supremacy and allegiance. And we of Blessed Abelle are caught in the middle. We are healers, not warriors, but some of the lairds wish us to use our gemstone powers to help them in their battles—and, indeed, many of the brothers are doing just that. And, of course, after the battles, we toil endlessly over the wounded.”
Bransen understood that the man was not really talking to him, but rather was simply thinking out loud, as if he were trying to clear up things in his own mind.
“Thus come the troubling decisions concerning the disposition of the wounded,” Reandu went on. “Are we to heal only those men who fight for our own lairds? Are we to ignore the cries of the enemy wounded? I do not know if I could do that, Stork. I do not know if I could allow a man to die, knowing that I might have healed his wounds.
“But it is not my decision, so declare the masters of Chapel Abelle. The decree before you states that we are to heed the desires of our laird regarding the wounded. If Laird Prydae insists that we let the enemy wounded suffer and die, then we must abide by his decision.”
Reandu gave a shrug. “Do the colors a man wear so determine the value of the man? Does allegiance to a laird mean anything more to a peasant than the happenstance that he was born in the holding of that laird? Would a man of Pryd serve Laird Ethelbert with equal fervor if he had happened to be born in Ethelbert Holding? I think so, Stork, and so I am saddened by the choice of my masters.”
Bransen looked back at the parchment, seeing it, suddenly, in a very different light. If the monks of Blessed Abelle were truly God inspired, as they claimed, then how could they abrogate their moral imperatives to the decisions of a secular man? It seemed a cowardly thing.
“Practicality has its place, I suppose,” Reandu said, as if reading Bransen’s thoughts or, at least, as if sharing Bransen’s concerns. “Fortunately, the battle has not yet reached us here in Pryd Town, and with good fortune and the aid of Laird Delaval’s thousands, it never will.”
Bransen glanced over to see Reandu standing calm, his tirade ended.
“Come along, Stork,” the man said. “You cannot avoid your duties.”
Bransen lifted the room’s chamber pot with one hand and offered his free arm to accept Reandu’s guiding hand, and he shuffled along beside the monk toward the room’s open door. Not willing to let go of this rare encounter with Reandu—at least, rare when they actually had time for a few words—Bra
nsen stuttered out the name of his father and protector.
He made sure that he watched Reandu closely as he spoke Garibond’s name, knowing, as was detailed in the Book of Jhest, that a man’s initial reaction was often more telling than his subsequent words.
And, indeed, Brother Reandu’s eyes did flash and widen for just an instant before he got himself steadied.
“Garibond?” Reandu echoed. “Ah, yes, old Garibond! A good man. A good man.”
He was stalling, Bransen could tell, given his initial reaction.
“He went to the south, I believe. Yes, yes, to Ethelbert, from what I have heard. The sea air would be gentler on his aching bones, so he said.”
Bransen wasn’t entirely convinced, and he only half listened, focusing instead on the man’s expressions and inflections as Reandu continued to tout the healing aspects of salty air and went on about the better, warmer, and sunnier climate of Ethelbert compared to Pryd.
Of course, Bransen knew, the monks could simply have offered Garibond healing sessions with their gemstones.
He didn’t press the point, and he showed no outward sign of his doubt as he and Reandu exited the room and moved along toward the next door in the hallway. But then monks were rushing all around, responding to a commotion down the hall the other way, near the main chamber of the chapel’s first floor. Immediately Reandu reversed direction, pulling Bransen along with him. They came to the end of the corridor to see many of the brothers assembled in line before Master Bathelais in the main chamber, with Laird Prydae himself and several soldiers facing them.
“Stay here,” Reandu told him, and he rushed out to join Master Bathelais.
Bransen watched as Bannagran moved along the line of monks, lifting and inspecting their hands. The young man’s eyes widened as he realized what was transpiring here, and he lurched over, placing the chamber pot down hard, then dipping his hand into its brown contents. He came back up as fast as he could, holding the pot once more in his filthy, shit-covered fingers—fingers that had been cut by Bannagran’s knife the night before. How glad was Bransen that Brother Reandu had not apparently noticed the scar, the cut healed by the stolen soul stone and the meditation of Jhest, but still visible.
Bannagran finished with the monks then, and noticed Bransen as he turned back to his liege. He paused and studied the damaged young man.
He thinks I am the right size, Bransen thought, and he immediately staggered and lurched, accentuating his infirmity.
Bannagran started to approach and Bransen fought hard to remain calm. He wished that he had his soul stone with him, that he could become the Highwayman, if need be, and flee this place. He thought he was surely trapped.
But Bannagran stopped suddenly and looked down at Bransen’s hand and the chamber pot. The large man crinkled his nose in disgust and gave the Stork a dismissive wave, then went back to join Prydae, Bathelais, and Reandu.
Bathelais dismissed the monks then, and they began to disperse, talking among themselves.
Bransen used the distraction to shamble along the general direction of the leaders, and he perked up his ears as he neared.
“Surely you do not believe any of the brothers hold any complicity in this theft,” he heard Master Bathelais say.
“There was no rope,” Bannagran answered, his voice low and grave. “No sign of a rope.”
“It is hard to believe that anyone could steal the sword and so easily flee the forty feet down the side of the tower,” Laird Prydae added, “unless of course the thief had the aid of a magical gemstone.”
“Malachite,” said Brother Reandu. “We have but two, I believe, in all of Chapel Pryd.”
“And where are they?” asked the laird.
Reandu looked at Bathelais.
“I will order a complete inventory of all of our gemstones,” the master said. “All of them, and I assure you that if any are missing, our aid will prove invaluable to you. There are ways to detect the usage of gemstone powers, my laird.”
Laird Prydae nodded slowly, but he didn’t seem very happy at that moment. “Are you so careless with your sacred gemstones that you know not even where all of them are now placed?”
Bransen took note of the embarrassed scowl on Master Bathelais’s face. Of course, Father Jerak’s unorganized ways were legendary among the brothers of the chapel, and the implication now was that perhaps Bathelais was not only inheriting but furthering the carelessness. That possibility seemed not to sit very well with him at that moment.
“We are no less vested in our gemstones than you are in your magnificent sword, my laird,” Bathelais declared suddenly, with renewed vigor in his voice. “We will account for all of them, I assure you. If an outside contraband stone has been brought into the region by this man, this…”
“Highwayman,” Bannagran spat.
“This Highwayman creature,” Bathelais agreed. “There is no tolerance for this within our order. Any man found with a contraband gemstone will suffer the full wrath of the Church of Blessed Abelle.”
“A man not of the Church in possession of a stolen gemstone is declared a heretic and burned at the stake,” Brother Reandu added.
Bransen heard the contents of the chamber pot sloshing below his trembling fingers.
“Perhaps I will allow you that pleasure, if indeed this thief holds such a stone,” Prydae said. “But not until I am finished with him. And know that he will welcome the consuming flames when I have shown him my wrath!”
Bransen nearly tumbled to the ground and felt as if he would throw up. Somehow he managed to get out of the room without attracting any more attention to himself.
What was he to do? Had he gone too far? Could he possibly explain to the brothers why he had borrowed the soul stone?
Unsure of himself, not knowing what to do next, the terrified man continued with his duties. The guise of the Stork would protect him, he tried to convince himself. How could they suspect him of anything when he could hardly walk?
He knew then that he had to be very careful. He could bring no attention to himself, and could not give any of them, not even Reandu, any reason to believe that there was any kind of intelligence inside his damaged physical form. And he had to take care in using the soul stone, apparently, if Master Bathelais’s claims of being able to detect such magic were to be believed.
He had to be the Stork—just the Stork. His frailty would protect him, he hoped.
He desperately hoped.
Several days passed before Bransen dared to go out as the Highwayman again, days made longer by his burning desire to test his mother’s magnificent sword. Now that he had it firmly in hand, moving through the training movements he had learned in the Book of Jhest, Bransen began to understand just how wonderful the weapon truly was. It felt as if it were an extension of his arm as he swung it; its balance remained perfect at nearly every angle, making it seem even lighter than it was—and although it was much longer than the average Honce bronze or iron sword, the thin steel blade of SenWi’s creation was far lighter.
Bransen spent an hour and more playing with the blade, weaving cuts against imaginary opponents, defeating attacks and quickly countering with killing strikes.
Even when he finished the most taxing of practice routines, he was full of energy and brimming with eagerness. He had no destination in mind this night, so he glided through the shadows, taking in the sights, the sounds, and the smells of Pryd Town. It was generally quiet: a bird calling, some cattle lowing, a mother shooing her children into the house, an owl hooting. But Bransen stopped when he heard a sharp cry among the soothing sounds of the town winding down.
“But what am I to feed my children this night?” came a woman’s voice.
“You have more,” a man replied. “You know you do. I told you three days ago to be ready for this.”
“But me husband’s not returned from the south!”
“Then get on without him! Do you believe that any are having an easy time of it with the war, selfish woman?”
Bransen came up over a small grassy mound to take in the sights of the argument. A peasant woman, dirty and dressed in rags, was practically on her knees before one of Laird Prydae’s soldiers, who had a bulging sack slung over one shoulder while he kept her at bay with his other arm.
“Just give me food for the night, then, so I won’t be going to bed hungry,” the woman begged, and she came forward suddenly, lunging for the sack.
The man slapped her aside.
Bransen, the Highwayman, started over the knoll, but stopped short and held his ground. Anger welled up inside him, but he suppressed it, reminding himself that anger was a warrior’s worst enemy. Anger denied calculation. Anger led to errors.
He watched the soldier kick the peasant woman as she scrambled back toward her hovel, whining pitifully all the way.
Laughing, the soldier turned away. He pulled the sack from his shoulder and fished his free hand about inside, bringing forth a shiny tomato, which he promptly bit into as he started back toward Castle Pryd.
The Highwayman circled him, moving to a tree and up it and onto a branch overhanging the road.
“A fine night of thievery, I see,” the Highwayman said as the soldier approached. Bransen hardly took note that he had slipped back into that peculiar way of speaking, emulating the monks when they told their stories.
The man stopped and threw aside the remaining piece of tomato, quickly drawing his short sword. “Who said that?” He glanced all around, even hopped in a circle, waving his weapon.
“An admirer,” the Highwayman replied.
The soldier stopped and followed the voice to the tree that held the Highwayman.
The Highwayman Page 29
