He saw Brother Bathelais fighting hard, but with only limited success, to keep the incredulity off his face.
Brother Dynard didn't think much of it at that time-how could the man not be surprised, after all?
Little did Brother Dynard understand. "Three dead powries, so he said," Captain Deepen told Prince Prydae. "Who can know what powers the beast of Behr brought with her?"
"Bah, but Prince Prydae killed five in the last fight!" one of the other soldiers in the room blurted.
Prince Prydae accepted that accolade with a nod, though all in the room, including the speaker, knew it to be an exaggeration. Prydae could claim only four kills in that particular fight, and three of those would more correctly be credited to his chariot than to his battle prowess. While he would accept the compliment, the prince recognized that if the returning Brother Dynard had spoken truthfully about the foreign woman's exploits, they were well worth noting.
He saw one young, promising, and amazingly strong warrior, Bannagran by name, looking at him almost apologetically.
"You did not see her sword?" the prince asked Deepen.
The captain shrugged. "Just the hilt of it, and that alone was impressive."
"The peoples south of the Belt-and-Buckle are well known for their crafts," Prydae admitted. "On my last journey to Ethelbert Holding, I saw this clearly. Keep a close watch on this visitor. I would know her movements."
Captain Deepen bowed. "She is with Brother Dynard now in Chapel Pryd."
"Any news of Callen?"
"The powries took her, so said Brother Dynard. If that is the case, then we'll never find enough of her corpse to bother about."
"Make sure that you take down the hanging pole early in the morning," Prydae instructed. "It may serve to remind our workers of a powrie presence, and I'll have no such distraction at this time. We have far yet to travel and much more road to construct before the season's turn, and many are already grumbling that they must be back to their fields before harvest."
Captain Deepen bowed again, and Prydae motioned that it was time for him and the others to go. As soon as he was alone, the prince took up his favorite mug and filled it with mead, which he drank quickly. Then, not satisfied, he moved to a small cabinet across the castle room. He pulled open the door and sorted through the metal flasks within, at last settling on one nearly full of a light brown liquid, a fine Vanguard whiskey.
Again he filled the mug, and he wasn't slow to drain it.
All the while, Prydae kept glancing at the door on the right-hand side of the audience room, the portal to his father's wing of the castle. Pryd was still in bed and still feeling ill, and Prydae was beginning to worry that perhaps his father was more sick than he was admitting.
That notion elicited a myriad of thoughts in the ambitious young man. He was ready to assume the mantle of laird of Pryd Holding, so he believed-indeed, that was a day he had anticipated for most of his life. But Prydae had hoped for a more gradual transition. There were so many nuances to every duty, it seemed, such as his attendance at the trial and sentencing of the adulteress and her illicit lover. Laird Pryd understood these subtleties quite well; he knew how to make the peasants love him even as he broke their backs with difficult labors or took the bulk of their crops and coins.
Prydae cocked his arm back and only at the very last moment stopped himself from throwing his mug across the room.
He would never rule with that type of tact and wisdom, he feared. He was not possessed of his father's diplomacy.
He finished the whiskey in one large gulp, then tossed the mug aside and stormed through the door to Pryd's private chambers. He found his father in bed, lying on his back, his eyes sunken and circled by dark rings. Prydae was struck by how frail the laird appeared. Only a few days before, Laird Pryd had ridden in the courtyard, inspecting his soldiers, and at that time it seemed as if the laird could have led them all into battle and would have claimed the most kills of all with his fabulous sword. He had started to cough a bit that same day-just a tickle in his throat, he insisted-and it had sounded as if it was nothing serious.
And now he lay in bed, coughing and pale, his bowels running as water and his breath smelling of vomit.
"How fare you today, father?" Prydae asked, kneeling beside the bed.
"I curse my age," the old man said with a laugh that sounded more like a wheeze.
"One of the monks who had gone off on his mission has returned," Prydae explained. "A Brother Bran Dynard, back from Behr-I do not remember him."
"A man of little consequence, no doubt."
"He brought with him a brown-skinned woman with strange eyes."
With great effort, Pryd managed to lift one hand and offer a slight, dismissive shake.
"Yes, it does not matter," Prince Prydae mumbled. "Powries took the executed adulteress," he started to say, for he cut himself short, realizing that this event would mean little to his father.
He took his father's hand and kissed it, then clasped it. He felt no strength there, and little warmth, little sense of life at all. He knew that he had to get the healers back in here with their soul stones, and had already arranged a meeting with Brother Bathelais for that very night.
Prydae also understood the limitations of those healers.
Again the prince had to follow two diverging lines of emotions, for beside his fear and pain at watching his father's diminishing health, there was another type of fear, one rooted in ambition and eagerness. He gave his father's hand a slight squeeze, then placed it back atop the old man's chest. He was held there for just an instant, staring at his father and feeling the hints of coming grief, and then he was propelled away by the hints of coming responsibility.
By the time he reached the room where Brother Bathelais waited, his step was brisk and alive.
"There is word that Laird Pryd does not fare well," the monk said as soon as Prydae, after glancing both ways in the corridor to ensure that no one was watching, entered the private room.
"Age wins," the prince dryly returned. He took a seat across the hearthstone from the monk.
"I will send Brother Bran Dynard, who is only just returned, to his side posthaste."
"Not that one," Prydae quickly replied. "Nor his exotic concubine."
"You have heard, then."
The prince nodded.
"And you do not approve?"
"The Church of Abelle approves? You would open your texts and hearts to a beast of Behr?"
Bathelais let the sarcasm go with a resigned shrug. "Perhaps I should tend to your father myself."
"To what end?" the prince asked. "Will Laird Pryd again feel the vitality of youth?"
Bathelais looked curiously at the young man.
"For that is what we will now need in this changing world," Prydae went on. "The roads will connect us all-perhaps as early as the summer after next. What challenges might Pryd Holding find in that new reality, when cities coalesce in a myriad of alliances?"
"Your father's experience-" Bathelais started to say.
"Is founded upon the old reality of individual holdings," Prydae interrupted. "It is time for all of us to look forward."
Bathelais settled back in his chair, his eyes widening as Prydae continued to stare hard at him, driving the implications of his point home with the intensity of his gaze.
"Yes, perhaps Brother Bathelais should be the one to tend ailing Laird Pryd," Prydae remarked.
The monk wiped a hand across his mouth but did not, could not, blink.
"How fares old Father Jerak?" Prydae asked.
Bathelais jerked in surprise at the abrupt change of subject. "H-he is well," he stammered.
"For such an aged man."
"Yes."
"His successor will be determined as much by the laird as by the Church of Abelle, of course."
Bathelais sucked in his breath, and Prydae smiled, marveling at how easily he had taken control of this meeting. The prince settled back comfortably in his seat. "Tell me more
of this Brother Dynard fellow and of the exotic goods that he brought back from his journeys through the wild lands of Behr," he bade, his wide smile showing interest, amusement, and most of all an understanding that Bathelais was in no position to refuse.
9
The Dangerous Concubine "There may perhaps be a place for your concubine here at the chapel, though I warn you that your behavior is unseemly," Father Jerak said.
"She is my wife," replied Brother Dynard, biting his emotional response back. He knew that Jerak's error was neither benign nor a simple misconstruing of his relationship with the woman of Behr.
"Your concubine," the old monk bluntly stated, confirming Dynard's understanding.
"She is as much a part of my heart as any wife could be," Dynard protested. He looked across the small room at Brother Bathelais for support, but found none forthcoming on the icy visage of the monk. "Any ceremony-and of course I agree to such!-would be a formality, following the vows of marriage SenWi and I already exchanged in southern Behr."
"Vows unrecognized by the Church of Abelle."
"True enough, father, and so I say again that I willingly submit-"
"Your concubine will agree to forsake the ways of the Jhesta Tu?"
The question nearly knocked Brother Dynard from his seat.
"For, of course, no brother of Blessed Abelle can enter a sanctified union with a woman who is not devout in her faith to Blessed Abelle. Would you not agree, Brother Bathelais?"
"Of course, Father Jerak. The logic is self-evident."
Brother Dynard rubbed his hands over his face and tried to sort out his thoughts in response to this unexpected barrage. He had always recognized that there would be some resistance to the exotic SenWi, resistance from within and without the Church, but he had never imagined gentle Father Jerak to be so stubborn, determined, and apparently prejudiced against the Jhesta Tu.
"Well?" Father Jerak asked.
"Well?" Brother Dynard helplessly echoed.
"Will this woman, SenWi, willingly renounce the ways of her current religion and devote herself to understanding and following Blessed Abelle? Do you suppose that to be the case?"
Brother Dynard couldn't find the words to answer, but he was already shaking his head anyway.
"Nor do you believe that she should move away from this cult, do you, brother?" Jerak accused.
"Father, there is a joining here of beauty and possibility," Dynard started to explain.
"In you and SenWi?"
"In Abelle and Jhest," Dynard continued.
"Brother, you went to Behr to enlighten, not to be enlightened."
"But if such was an unintended consequence-" Dynard started to argue, but Father Jerak held up his hand to cut him short.
"Brother," the old monk said gravely, "do you ask me to detail the possibilities before you if you have moved away from the teachings of Blessed Abelle?"
Brother Bran found it hard to breathe. How could he explain to Father Jerak and to doubting Brother Bathelais that he had not moved away from Blessed Abelle through learning the ways of Jhest, but rather that he had enhanced his understanding of magic-gemstone and other-and thus of godliness? How might he best illustrate to these suddenly hostile brothers that, far from being a threat to the glory of Blessed Abelle, the ways of the Jhesta Tu would only enhance the beauty of the Blessed One's teachings?
After a long pause wherein Brother Dynard could merely shake his head and mumble under his breath helplessly, Father Jerak cleared his throat.
"There may be a place for your concubine here at the chapel," he said. And he sat back and smiled, as if he seemed to think that he was acting quite generously. "I would ask for a measure of discretion, though. You, we all, must serve as examples to those around us, after all, and while your physical needs are understandable and perhaps undeniable, you would do well…"
Brother Dynard wasn't listening, for his mind had wandered down a sand-swept Behrenese road and to a place that he realized he badly missed at this terrible moment. Had he erred by returning to Honce? To his Church and his home?
Father Jerak's voice trailed off, and Dynard, thinking that his inattentiveness might have caught the man's attention, hurriedly glanced back up.
There sat Jerak, seeming perfectly content, having had his say.
Brother Dynard simply had no answer and no argument. "I trust her not at all," Prydae told his father. "The idea that a dangerous and armed beast of Behr is living right beside Castle Pryd bodes nothing good."
"Rest easy, my son," Laird Pryd replied. He seemed his old self again after his week-long bout with sickness-through no fault of Brother Bathelais, who had done little in the way of real healing, Prydae knew. "This Brother Dyn-what was his name?" the old man asked Rennarq, who stood in his customary spot behind the throne.
"Brother Bran Dynard, my laird," Rennarq dutifully replied. "A man of little consequence, so I was told. By you, I believe."
"But this woman-" Prydae started to say.
"Yes, she would indeed seem more formidable, my laird," Rennarq agreed. "By all reports, she slew several powries in fair combat in a single fight."
Prydae did not miss the man's emphasis on the notion of "fair combat," the subtle reference Rennarq was making to his own exploits in an armored chariot.
"She is in the care of the monks?" Pryd asked.
"Yes," Prydae answered before Rennarq could, drawing Pryd's gaze back his way. "Brother Bathelais has informed me that this beast of Behr will likely remain in the chapel as a worker."
"What would you have me do in that case?" asked Pryd. "Am I to deny her my trust when the brothers of Abelle have seen fit to take her in?"
"It is not within their province to deny your claim," Rennarq put in; the harshness of his tone served as another reminder of his general feelings toward the brothers of Blessed Abelle.
"She should be surrendered to the laird until her disposition can be properly determined," added Prydae.
"You fear her," Laird Pryd remarked as if suddenly realizing it. "Or is it, perhaps, that you fear that her reputation will outshine your own?"
Prydae narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, one foot tapping on the stone floor. A moment later, Laird Pryd laughed at him.
"Forgive me, my son." The old man was quick to explain, "I have seen this creature from Behr from afar, and she is but a wisp of a thing."
"Who slew several powries in combat," said Rennarq, for no better reason, apparently, than to thicken the tension in the air.
Laird Pryd stopped laughing and turned to offer a stern glance to his longtime friend, then turned back to his son.
"Would you have a stranger, a foreigner, a beast of Behr capture the hearts of the peasants as a hero?" Prydae asked. "A foreign creature who is allied with the brothers of Abelle and not with the Laird of Pryd Holding?"
Put like that, Prydae's words seemed to have a greater effect on his father. Laird Pryd settled back in his chair and assumed a pensive pose.
"She should be surrendered to Castle Pryd at once," Prydae pressed now that he had his father's sudden interest. "Father Jerak is not over fond of her anyway, from what Brother Bathelais has told me. I doubt he will argue against your request."
"You would have me take her into Castle Pryd, and what-imprison her?"
"Until we can understand her true nature and her intent in being here, yes."
Laird Pryd paused and took a couple of deep breaths, then looked back over his shoulder at Rennarq, who merely shrugged.
"I will go and speak with Father Jerak," the laird agreed, and with some effort-a lingering weakness from his illness, perhaps-he pulled himself off his throne. A wave of dizziness had SenWi leaning back in the cool shadows of an alcove, broom in hand, when the main door banged open and Laird Pryd and his entourage entered the chapel. The woman watched him with interest, measuring his strides and recognizing that something might be amiss here.
SenWi had been uncomplaining, accepting the positio
n offered her by Brother Bathelais as a cleaning servant in the chapel. Dynard had not been pleased of course, but SenWi had counseled him to patience. At least the two of them could spend some time together by this arrangement, which was much better than an alternative that had him serving in this dark place, with her somewhere away. As a disciplined Jhesta Tu, SenWi didn't fear work, after all.
Without apparently noticing the woman hidden by the shadows, the laird and his escorts swept through the room and down the side corridor toward Father Jerak's private quarters.
SenWi stepped out of the alcove and glanced all around. She knew that this was an unusual visit, and she sensed something deeper, some notion that the secular leader's presence here had something to do with Bran Dynard's return. Seeing no one watching her, SenWi leaned the broom against the wall and moved off, silent as a shadow. She headed down the corridor, turning the corner to see the laird enter Jerak's private room. SenWi paused at the wall and gathered her concentration, then lifted her chi, lightening her body weight as she scaled the decorated wall.
She crawled sidelong atop a ledge, moving right above the now-closed door to a transom, so she could look down upon the private meeting. They were exchanging formal greetings, and SenWi reconsidered her course. What was she doing here? What business was this of hers? Shaking her head at her foolishness, she began to ease away, but stopped short, when she heard Laird Pryd say to Jerak, "It would not be wise for the brothers of Abelle to harbor a dangerous animal."
"We are assessing her," the old monk replied.
It hit SenWi then that they were speaking of her. As she quickly moved away, she heard Laird Pryd say something about the need for proper security during such assessments.
She hit the ground running, slipping back into the main area of the chapel and then out the door. She thought that she should go to Dynard but wasn't sure where he might be. In the tiny prayer rooms, likely, but he would not be alone.
SenWi went out and around the corner of the building, moving into the alleys between the chapel and the castle. She found a quiet, secluded spot and leaned back against the brown stone wall, overcome by lightheadedness.
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