“Was a few weeks later that the monks returned for Garibond,” said Taerel, “with the soldiers.”
The hairs on the back of Bransen’s neck began to stand up.
“Aye,” the younger man added. “I was just a boy then, but I’m never to forget that day. They went all through this house, tearing it up, and then they took him.” He stepped forward and pointed down the lakeshore to Bransen’s right. “Right over there’s where they did it.”
“Did what?” Bransen’s words were hardly more than a whisper.
“They burned him,” said the man, who was just a few years older than Bransen.
“Staked him up, branded him a heretic, and burned him alive,” Taerel added.
“Bah!” snorted the younger woman. “And them’s the ones who’re saying that their’s is the gentle way and the gentle god, and not like old Bernivvigar. Bah!”
“The m-monks?” Bransen stuttered. “The monks from the chapel murdered Garibond?”
“Aye, Master Bathelais and the others. With the help of Laird Prydae’s soldiers, of course. And it weren’t murder if Garibond was guilty of heresy as they claimed, I’d say,” said Taerel.
“Murder’s murder,” muttered the younger woman.
Bransen felt his knees go weak and he knew that he had to get out of there. His stomach began to churn. He half turned.
“Highwayman, you’ve got quite the tale growing about you,” said Taerel. “All the town’s talking of you, and glad they are that someone’s telling Laird Prydae that he cannot keep taking all of our food and…”
The man’s voice drifted off behind Bransen as he staggered away, back toward the trees. He couldn’t believe what the four had just told him—Master Bathelais and the others would never do such a thing! But Bransen’s inner denials rang hollow. He pictured again the knife held by the stranger at the campfire. He wondered suddenly why Garibond had never once come to Chapel Pryd to visit him. Never before had he even considered that fact, but why had his beloved father stayed away for all these years?
A sense of profound aimlessness washed over Bransen, a complete unhinging of all his focus and purpose that manifested itself in his lifeline of chi. He staggered and stumbled and fell more than once as he made for the copse, finally leaning heavily on one tree.
And still there was nothing but the confusion, the scattering of his life energy, the sporadic bursts and twitches—a profound aimlessness. Not even hopelessness, for hopelessness inferred some design and forward thinking, and in Bransen there was none of that. For all his life, he had lived with daily tragedy, with bullying and his helplessness, with the frustration of having a keen mind trapped in a damaged body. For all his life, the dominant feature had ever been pain.
But not like this. Garibond was dead. Branson knew it, he believed it, he held no doubt of it. Garibond, the uncomplaining man who had given so much to him, was simply no more. And all the fantasies that Bransen had entertained of returning to his beloved father whole and strong were no more. All the hopes that Bransen had about living again with Garibond—but in a completely different relationship, one in which he could care for his father as his father had always cared for him—were no more. But Bransen couldn’t even focus on any of those things specifically. They were all there, spinning and intertwining in the scattered jumble of his mind, finally settling to a sense of emptiness, a hole he knew he could never fill.
He slipped down to the ground, all strength gone, tears filling his eyes.
The knock startled the two women, but before either could begin to react, a second, more impressive banging burst the door askew. Behind the kick came Bannagran, commander of the laird’s garrison, the most notable and feared warrior in all central Honce.
Cadayle fell back, as did her mother, and the two started for each other suddenly, needing the comfort of each other’s arms.
But Bannagran cut in between them and shoved them apart. And before the women could react or protest, a second unexpected figure strode into their house, one that froze them in place.
“A fine day to you, ladies,” said Laird Prydae. Hulking soldiers moved behind him, blocking the morning sunlight as it tried to stream in through the now-open door. “I forgive your lack of preparedness for my visit.”
“My liege,” said Cadayle’s mother, and she fell to one knee and lowered her gaze. Cadayle took the cue and did likewise—or started to, until Bannagran grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back upright. She reached back and pulled at the big man’s wrist, but his mighty grip did not weaken at all.
“You were awake late into the night, I expect,” Laird Prydae went on. “Meeting the Highwayman, no doubt.”
“No, my liege,” Cadayle started to say, but she just shrieked instead as Bannagran reached over with his free hand, grabbed the front of her nightdress, and tore it from her, leaving her naked in the room—naked except for a jeweled necklace.
Cadayle looked down at the floor and quickly lifted her hand to cover the stolen necklace.
“You leave her!” her mother cried from across the way, and Cadayle glanced over just in time to see Callen’s approach stopped suddenly by a backhanded blow from Bannagran, which sent Callen flying to the floor. Cadayle instinctively started to react, but the big man pulled all the harder on her hair.
“Enough of this foolishness,” Bannagran said. “You are fairly caught, young lass. Make your death an easier thing with a bit of cooperation.”
Callen shrieked at the blunt remark and charged again, only to be thrown aside once more by the giant Bannagran.
“My liege, pray you get those soldiers in here to control this wench,” Bannagran said with a chuckle, but he bit the words off suddenly, noting Prydae’s transfixed expression. “My liege?”
Prydae stood there staring at the naked Cadayle, at the softness of her curves, at their odd familiarity. The laird was no stranger to the sight of a naked woman, and so he was not leering like some giddy adolescent. But he was transfixed, by a memory the sight of Cadayle had inspired. The curve of her belly, the way her wheat-colored hair cascaded in layers across her lowered face. He thought of a bonfire, of an adder, of an adulteress and a knave. His gaze went from Cadayle to her mother, who, like Bannagran and Cadayle, was now staring at him curiously.
“Callen Duwornay,” Laird Prydae remarked, the name springing from memories he didn’t even know he possessed.
The woman blanched, something that neither Prydae nor Bannagran missed, and fell back a bit.
“N-no, my liege,” she stammered.
“Callen Duwornay,” Prydae said again, more confidently. “Not the poison of a snake nor the powrie dwarves could kill you.”
“No, my liege, I am—”
“You are Callen Duwornay, and that is your daughter,” Prydae interrupted. He looked back to Cadayle, at her curves, as images of that long-ago night began to stir within him. He remembered Callen in the firelight—remembered her looking exactly as this young woman now appeared to him. He remembered her curves, and the regrets he had that he would never bed her; and as that last thought played in his mind, he felt a stirring in his loins.
“That one,” he said breathlessly, pointing to Cadayle. “She comes to Castle Pryd.”
“What of the old wench?” asked one of the soldiers moving into the room past the laird.
Prydae fixed his gaze upon Callen, who seemed too afraid to say anything at that terrible moment.
“What do you know of the Highwayman?” Prydae asked sharply.
“She knows nothing!” Cadayle blurted, and Prydae turned a fierce scowl upon her.
“But you do,” he said.
“My liege, I will tell you everything I know,” Cadayle pleaded. “But please, do not hurt my ma. She’s done nothing. She knows nothing. She’s innocent. Please, my liege.”
Prydae motioned with his head, and Bannagran dragged Cadayle from the room as the other two soldiers descended upon Callen. Only when Cadayle was long out of sight did Prydae turn on the wom
an.
“How you survived is of no concern to me,” he said. “I admire it, I would say.”
“Please, gentle Laird Prydae, do not harm my girl,” Callen said, her voice a whimper, her body seemingly broken by the weight of it all.
“Harm her? Nothing could be further from my intentions, Callen Duwornay.”
Callen began to cry.
“My liege?” asked one of the soldiers flanking her.
“Give her to Bernivvigar,” Prydae said, turning and exiting, hardly seeming to care about Callen. “Perhaps he will be merciful, perhaps not. It matters not at all to me.”
The woman, too broken by the suddenness of it all, by the shock of being discovered and the horror of having her daughter so unceremoniously dragged away, offered no resistance, offered nothing at all, as the two men hoisted her up. She didn’t, couldn’t, walk as they started out, but that hardly seemed to matter.
They just dragged her.
35
The Downward Spiral
He stayed near the edges of town as the sun climbed in the eastern sky. He knew that he should return to the chapel, knew that he was taking a giant risk in remaining out and about. The monks would go to his room when they noticed that he was not doing his daily chores.
But none of that mattered to Bransen now; nothing beyond the reality of Garibond’s death mattered. He couldn’t believe the tale those living in what had once been his home had told him. He couldn’t imagine that Master Bathelais, scowling as he often was, could be so despicably cruel as to have murdered a man as fine as Garibond. And what of Brother Reandu? Perhaps Reandu wasn’t as powerful in the order back then as he was now, but certainly he would have protested the execution. It made no sense to Bransen as he wandered through the shadows under the many trees that marked the outskirts of Pryd Town, and yet, he found that he could not deny that which was obvious.
The man at the campfire had Garibond’s knife. The people in his house were sincere, and why would they lie, given that such a lie might well mark their doom at the hands of this masked stranger who had come banging on their door? Bransen knew that they couldn’t be telling the truth, that Garibond couldn’t be dead, and certainly not by the hands of the brothers who had been his protectors all these years. And yet he knew that they certainly were speaking honestly. He had seen it in their faces.
At one cluster of trees, the weary young man plopped down in the shade and leaned back against a white birch. He tried to sort through every memory he had of every encounter even remotely relating to Garibond these past ten years. He remembered Brother Reandu’s face on the one occasion when he had mentioned his father, the initial shock Reandu had shown, the obvious discomfort behind his stuttered responses.
But what did it all mean? If Garibond was dead, murdered by the brothers of Blessed Abelle, what did it all mean to Bransen and for Bransen?
A myriad of emotions rolled through him, everything ranging from anger to despair to the feeling that he had to run and hide somewhere, somewhere dark and deep, where no one would ever find him. All the confidence of the Highwayman flew from him, and he felt again the helpless little boy he had been. But what did it matter, after all? He thought again of his absence at the chapel, and of the implications should he be discovered, and he shrugged them away. How could he go back there, knowing the truth? He would have to face Master Bathelais and Brother Reandu. He would have to demand the truth from them, though he already knew it, in his heart at least. And then what? What could he say to them? What explanation could they possibly offer that would make any difference to the realities of their actions? For Bransen knew Garibond’s heart as well as he knew his own, and if that man was a heretic in the eyes of the brothers of Abelle, then the brothers of Abelle were simply entirely wrong.
Bransen found a stream of sunlight flowing in through an opening in the trees, and he lay down, staring up at the fiery orb. He wanted the rays to permeate his corporeal form, to cleanse him of the impurities and anxieties, to empty him of his rage and his pain. He closed his eyes, and exhaustion overcame him.
He knew at once, when he awoke, that the day was nearing its end, and that any hope he might hold of sneaking into the chapel unnoticed was long lost. Instinctively, he began concocting possible explanations and excuses to explain the absence of the Stork.
But then he stopped himself, coming to understand clearly that he truly had no intention of ever returning to the chapel as the Stork, of serving the wretched brothers of Abelle ever again. He would go back, perhaps, but as the Highwayman, formidable and angry and demanding the entire truth of Garibond’s fate.
He wasn’t ready to travel that mental course, and he winced against the tear in his heart. He wasn’t ready. Not yet.
But what was he to do? Bransen glanced to the west and the lowering sun, its rim just beginning to brush the horizon. The world seemed so huge to him and so imposing. And he felt so small and so empty, without anywhere to go, without anyone on whom he could lean his weary frame.
No, that wasn’t true, he realized, and before he even sorted out the emotion, his feet were already moving, propelling him to the south and west, toward the house of the one person in all the world Bransen felt he could still trust.
But when he got there, Cadayle was not at home. Nor was her mother, and the broken door spoke volumes to Bransen as he hesitantly stepped across the threshold and into the dark house.
He knew she wasn’t there. Her smell wasn’t there, the freshness she brought wherever she walked wasn’t there, leaving the place dark and cold and empty. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he slowly and deliberately scanned the room, afraid as his gaze roamed over every inch of space that he would find the body of his beloved.
Nothing was amiss, save the broken door. He saw no signs of struggle, no blood.
But they were gone.
Bransen’s breath began to come in heaves, as he steadied himself and strengthened his resolve. He had come here thinking to lean on Cadayle; now he began to understand that it was she who likely needed him.
He would not, could not, fail her.
He turned and realized his error immediately as he found a pair of iron swords pointing at his throat.
“Easy now, Highwayman,” one of the soldiers said.
The Highwayman noticed a third and then a fourth soldier moving around the sides of the small house.
“We knew you’d return, and now you’re fairly caught,” said the other, and he prodded his sword forward menacingly. “Laird Prydae will be speaking with you.”
“Indeed,” the Highwayman replied, the irony lost on the pair. He brought his hands up, palms out, in apparent surrender.
And then his foot flashed up, before him; and though the soldiers were but inches from him, so nimble was the Highwayman, so in control of his every movement, that his foot struck unerringly into the face of one, then the second, so quickly that neither registered the movement but just felt the sudden jolt.
Both staggered a step, though the blows were not heavy. It was no more than a momentary distraction, but that was all the Highwayman needed. Before his flashing foot even came back to the ground, his other leg propelled him backward, putting some distance between them, and in the same fluid movement, he drew his fabulous sword.
The soldiers hardly realized what had happened, but found themselves facing a swordsman with a blade twice as long as their short iron weapons.
One moved fast, coming forward before the Highwayman could bring that amazing sword to proper angle—so he hoped.
With a sudden surge, the Highwayman slashed down diagonally, driving the soldier’s sword low and wide. A reversal brought his elbow smashing into the man’s face. The Highwayman changed his angle so that the pommel of his sword connected squarely with the attacker’s nose, shattering it. The man was out on his feet, but as the Highwayman squared up again, he launched a left hook that sent the unconscious soldier flying away.
Even as the man fell, the Highwayman came forw
ard. The second soldier, obviously unsure, waved his sword around defensively.
He was too slow, and the Highwayman’s blade slipped past, screeching as its tip connected with the man’s bronze breastplate. A subtle twist and turn snapped the blade up, forcing the soldier to lean backward fast to avoid getting his face creased.
The enraged Highwayman pressed the attack, turning his sword and using it to keep the soldier’s weapon at bay while he plowed forward, pushing the man right over. The soldier hit the ground and rolled immediately, trying to get up, but the Highwayman crossed to the side and kicked him in the face, once and then again. As the man flattened on the ground, the Highwayman stamped hard on the back of his neck, stilling him.
Then the Highwayman turned right, sword leading the way. He meant only to deflect the stabbing spear coming at him from the charging soldier, but his sword sheared the spear in half and scraped the man’s breastplate, opening his throat as he came forward, unable to stop in time.
The soldier staggered past, clutching at the gushing blood, and fell to his knees and then to his face in the dirt.
The Highwayman had no time to concern himself with the man. Not then, for he completed his circuit and fell into a crouch facing the fourth and last attacker.
The soldier skidded to a stop, clearly terrified. He threw his sword to the ground and lifted his hands in surrender.
The Highwayman came forward suddenly, sword setting itself right on the top edge of the man’s breastplate, poised to drive through his throat.
“Where is she?” the Highwayman demanded.
The man shook his head, looking stupid and out of his mind with fear.
“Cadayle—the young woman who lives here,” the Highwayman demanded. “She was taken! You tell me where, or my sword will free your ugly head from your shoulders!”
“I do not know!” the man cried.
“You lie!” the sword jabbed in, forcing a squeal from the man.
The Highwayman Page 35
