Bransen knew that he should be out there helping with the lines and stitching the nets. Other boys his age were actually doing the fishing and the farming now, with so many of the older men off at war. That was why men had sons, after all, to take up the chores, that they could ease the toil on their old bones.
But not with me, Bransen thought. I'm more trouble than I'm worth to him, and still he loves me so and never complains.
At that moment, in that soft light and quiet air, Bransen wished that he could draw. He wished that his hands would stay steady enough for him to trace lines on a piece of parchment, that he could create a lasting image of his wonderful father out there, quietly toiling, uncomplaining, as constant and solid as the lake and the rocks. When he looked at Garibond, Bransen understood all that was good in the world. He felt nothing but unconditional love from the man and for the man; he would do anything to help Garibond!
But that was the rub, he knew, the source of his greatest frustration. For there was rarely anything at all that he could do to make the man's life easier-quite the contrary. Even when he went into town on errands, he knew that it was more for his own sake, for his expressed need to be independent, than for any true gain to Garibond. For more often than not, Bransen returned from town with goods spilled and lost in the dirt. He wasn't even ten years old, and he knew the truth of it.
How he wanted to go out to that jetty and help with the fishing nets! I'd fall in, and Father would get wet pulling me out.
The boy took a deep breath to throw aside the thoughts before more tears began to drip from his eyes. He swiveled his hips and did his stork walk back into the house, where he collapsed on his bed. Another day in the life of Bransen Garibond. Another day of unfulfilled wishes and of guilt.
He fell asleep and dreamed of fishing beside his father. He dreamed of walking, of running, even. He dreamed of telling his father that he loved him, without the spit flying and without turning a simple word like "love" into a rattling cacophony of half-bitten syllables.
"The clouds are lifting." Garibond's voice awakened him sometime later. "Do you mean to waste the whole of the day on your bed? Come along. I need to collect some vines."
Bransen managed to roll to one side and prop himself on his elbow. "I-I wou-wou-would just slo-ow you."
"Nonsense!" Garibond bellowed, and he walked over and helped lift the frail youngster from the cot to a standing position, and held on until he was sure that Bransen had found his footing. "And even if you do, I'd rather take three hours with your company than spend an hour alone."
The sincerity in that remark was all too clear to Bransen, defeating all his protests and arguments before he could begin to stutter them. He managed a smile and didn't even worry that parting his lips allowed a bit of drool to escape-because he knew that Father didn't care in the least. That mitigation wasn't complete within Bransen, though.
"Come on, then. I get lonely out there." Garibond ruffled Bransen's dark hair and turned to leave, but the boy made no move to follow.
"You ch-ch-cho-ose this…l-li-l-l-life," he said.
Garibond, at the door, turned and watched him through the last half of the sentence, showing his typical patience with the painful speech but also wearing an expression of deep curiosity and concern.
"I did," he replied.
"You l…y-y-y-you…like alone."
Garibond sighed and dropped his gaze. "I thought I did," he clarified. "And now I prefer you."
"No."
Again Garibond put on that curious and concerned look.
"What is the matter, Bransen?"
The boy gasped and sniffled, his thin chest heaving. "I should be dead!" he blurted; the words carried emotions so powerful that for once he didn't stutter at all.
Garibond's eyes widened in alarm and he rushed to tower over the frail boy. "Don't you ever say that!" he cried, and he lifted his hand as if he meant to strike out at Bransen, who didn't flinch in the least.
"Y-yes!"
"No, and don't you ever think that! You are alive, and that's wonderful, for all the trouble. You're alive because your mother…because…"
Bransen stared at the man, not quite knowing what to make of the twisted and confused expression. It wasn't often that he had seen sensible and stable Garibond ruffled, and never to this extent.
The older man took a few deep breaths and calmed, then sat down on the cot and pulled Bransen down beside him, gently draping his arm across the boy's shoulders. "Don't you ever say that or even think that," he said.
"B-b-but-"
Garibond put a finger over Bransen's lips to quiet him. "I once thought the same thing," he admitted, "when you were born. And the trials you face pain me every day-probably more than they pain you, you're such a strong one inside. The Samhaists say that any child born less than perfect is meant as a sacrifice, and that is still the way in many towns.
"But not for you, because of your mother. I haven't told you enough of SenWi, Bransen, and what a special woman she was. You know that you got part of your name from her, and that she died when you were born. The rest of your name came from your father."
"G-Gar-"
"No," Garibond interrupted. "I gave you that surname, as was my right. Your father's name was Bran. Bran Dynard, a monk of the brothers of Abelle."
The boy's jaw drooped open wide, drool escaping unheeded.
Garibond turned, and turned Bransen, so that he was looking the boy in the eye. "I am not your father, Bransen, though no man could love any child more than I love you."
The boy began to slowly shake his head. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and he began to tremble so fiercely that Garibond had to hold him tight to keep him steady.
"Please forgive me," Garibond said. "You are old enough now. You need to hear this, all of it. You need to know about Bran, my dearest friend in all the world. You need to know about SenWi." He couldn't help but smile as he said the name, and a wistful look came into his good eye. "She didn't just die when you were born, Bransen. She gave her life to you so that you could live."
Bransen, stunned already, was even more surprised when Garibond, who rarely showed any emotion, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. The older man rose, then, and slowly moved across the room to the trapdoor leading to the tunnels below.
"You were dying even as you were born," he explained. "You were too weak to draw breath, and SenWi wasn't much better off after the birth. But she was no ordinary person, your mother." He reached down and lifted the door, and then removed one of the side boards of the solid wooden casing. He reached into the hidden compartment and pulled forth a thick book, held it up, and blew the dust from it. "She was a Jhesta Tu mystic," he said, and Bransen had no idea what that meant, and he let his expression show it, as much as he could manage to let his expression show anything purposefully.
"A magical person," Garibond explained, "more so even than those brothers with their gemstones. Your father went to her land to convert her people to his religion and wound up seeing the truth in SenWi's beliefs." He presented the book to Bransen. "It's all in here. All the secrets."
"M-m-my…fath-fath-fa-ther?" The boy trembled, tears flowing more freely. What are you saying to me? his thoughts screamed at Garibond, though he knew that he would never find strength to voice the words. You are my father! You! Not anyone else! How can you say these lies? Why do you wish to hurt me?
"SenWi knew that you both were dying," Garibond went on very slowly, making sure that Bransen was hearing him past the obvious turmoil his revelations had brought. "So she used her magic to give you what was left of her own life, so that you could survive."
Bransen seemed to simply melt then upon the bed, his tiny body bouncing with sobs, and assorted shrieks issuing forth from his tortured mouth. Garibond rushed to him and held him and let him cry it all out. For more than an hour, he sat with the boy, gently patting him and telling him that he loved him and that it would all be all right. For more than an hour, he tol
d Bransen that he was old enough to learn of these unsettling things, and promised the boy over and over that he would understand just how special he was when he heard the full story of his mother and father.
Finally, Bransen composed himself enough so that Garibond could pull him back up to a sitting position, and then the older man truly began the story. He told Bransen of his younger days with Bran Dynard, of how Bran had entered the Church of Abelle but Garibond had not. He spoke of Bran's travels to the strange lands south of the southern mountains, relating all the stories Bran had told to him of the Behr and the Jhesta Tu. His good eye sparkled when he talked of Bran's return to Pryd Holding, SenWi at his side, determined to enlighten his brethren about the beauties he had learned among the Jhesta Tu.
"That first day back was trouble, though," Garibond said in more somber tones. "Your father and mother came across a woman who had been tried and convicted before Bernivvigar."
Bransen shuddered at the name.
"He condemned her to death, and so she was bitten by a deadly snake and hung up to die slowly and painfully out along the southern road. Powries were there with her, dipping their caps in her blood!"
Bransen sucked in his breath, eyes going wide, fully caught in the tale now.
"But your mother and father fought them away," Garibond said, his voice showing his eagerness in injecting some real drama into the story and to paint Bransen's parents in the heroic light they deserved. "And then your mother-what a special lass she truly was!-used her mystical powers to cure the poor girl. Aye, but in that, she brought the poison into her own body, and it was that same poison that so hurt you, and her, in the end. Your affliction is because of generosity, my son. That might make it seem harder, I suppose, but to my thinking, it makes you no less a hero than your mother."
"Is-is-is she st-st-still…a-live?"
"The poor girl? Well, I've no idea, to tell the truth. If she's not, then it has nothing to do with that day, ten years ago. She left here of her own accord, walking with strength. And all because of your mother."
Bransen sat quietly and let that sink in, then turned a curious look up at Garibond. "B-b-b-but…my…fa-fa…"
"Your father?"
Bransen nodded.
"He was sent away by Father Jerak. Jerak did not much like your mother, for her powerful religion threatened him, I think. He didn't want to hear what your father had to tell him. So he sent your father away, to the north, to Chapel Abelle on the Gulf of Corona."
Bransen's curious look didn't abate.
"I don't know," Garibond admitted. "We never heard from him again. He may be up there at Chapel Abelle to this day, but Father Jerak's been telling me that he never got there at all. I do not know what to believe, Bransen.
"And I cannot believe that I told you all this in one sitting!" Garibond went on a moment later. "But you had to know-and you have to know that this changes nothing between us. You and me, we're family. Father and son, as far as I'm concerned. And don't you ever say to me again that you should die." He poked a finger threateningly at Bransen's face. "Don't you ever!"
Garibond couldn't hold the scowling pose, and he fell forward, wrapping Bransen in a tight and loving hug, and he held him there for a long, long time. Garibond watched Bransen closely in the hours following their talk. He had placed so much on the shoulders of the frail boy-too much, perhaps.
Bransen, whose face was far too numb to show any but the most extreme emotions, seemed to move about with his typical posture and demeanor, giving Garibond few clues. He kept going back to the thick book, however. He'd stand beside it and run his fingers over the cloth cover, staring down, as if he were trying to somehow connect with his mother through those mystical pages.
"Do you know what a book is?" Garibond asked him on one such occasion.
Bransen jumped back from the tome, startled by the unexpected remark, and shifted to look curiously at Garibond.
Garibond smiled to reassure him, then walked over. "A book," he explained, gently pulling open the cover of the tome. He watched Bransen as he did, and was surprised at how the boy's eyes lit up, and at the sudden look of curiosity that crossed Bransen's face as he leaned in closer to see the gracefully curving letters.
"Your father penned it, one line at a time. It took him years." As he spoke, Garibond ran the tip of his index finger under the first line of the text, right to left as SenWi had taught him. When Bransen tentatively moved his hand toward the enticing letters, Garibond took him by the wrist and placed his fingers on the soft page. "Each of these lines is a letter," he tried to explain, and he scrunched up his face, wondering how in the world he might even begin to explain what a letter might be. He took Bransen's hand more firmly and moved it across one complete word, then spoke the translated word, "foot," out loud.
Bransen stared at him, then nodded and looked back at the page.
Garibond was tired from his long work that morning and even more from revealing so much painful information to Bransen. He wanted nothing more than to eat his supper and go to a well-deserved night's rest. But he could not deny the look on Bransen's face and, given his fears that he had overwhelmed the boy with sorrowful news, he understood his duty here.
Besides, after a few more minutes, after settling on the bed with Bransen sitting beside him, the book across their laps, Garibond found himself invigorated by teaching. He went through each of the letters, as SenWi had done with him. He pointed out and spoke aloud all the familiar words he could readily find on a page, then read complete sentences.
Garibond remembered SenWi's plea to him, that he teach the Book of Jhest to her child. He considered the high hopes, the promise held by the coming baby, and he had to fight back tears over and over again.
For now he considered the futility of this exercise. What might he really teach this idiot boy who could barely manage to walk and talk?
But Garibond quickly pushed those negative thoughts away, even managing a wide and sincere smile when Bransen stuttered out the word for arm. This exercise wasn't about the boy, the lonely older man soon realized, but for him. This was a way to reconnect with those lost to him, to hear again the voice of Brother Bran Dynard and that wonderful wife of his.
Finally, the daylight faded too much to continue and Garibond rose to leave, closing the book.
Bransen clutched it close and would not let go.
Smiling, nodding, Garibond let him keep it. A short while later, candle in hand, Garibond checked on the boy, to find him sleeping restfully-more so than Garibond had expected given the revelations of the day-his arms wrapped about the book, holding it close to his chest, his head on the clothing of SenWi.
18
For the Line of Pryd The smell of brine hung thick in the air; they could hear the waves crashing against the rocks beyond the few remaining eastern ridges, and with great hopes and great hunger to be done with this awful campaign, the men of the many holdings pressed forward. The intensity of their charge drove the bloody-cap dwarves before them, spurred by the common cry to "push them into the sea!"
Led by their eager young prince and by the mighty Bannagran, the men of Pryd Holding drove hard from the southern end of the line. Bannagran charged out in front, his heavy axe clearing the way of powries with powerful sweeps.
One dwarf got past that flashing blade and rushed hard at the large man's side, short sword leading. It clipped Bannagran's hip, and the man grimaced and turned. Out snapped Bannagran's hand, catching the dwarf by the front of its leather tunic.
Up into the air went the powrie, soaring over the ridge line to bounce down the rocky eastern side.
Two other dwarves pressed Bannagran furiously from the front, whacking at his blocking axe with their spiked clubs. He was forced back and slipped down to one knee, and the dwarves charged in for the kill. But Bannagran scooped up a large rock and hurled it forward, smacking one powrie squarely in the face. Up came the huge warrior, prodding the spiked tip of his axe straight ahead to halt the charge of the second
dwarf.
The powrie had the better angle and tried to shove that axe aside, but so strong was Bannagran that even off balance, even with only one hand holding the axe shaft, he managed to keep the powrie at bay.
Bannagran got his feet under him, and he stood up and lunged forward, his other hand now slapping against his axe handle. He forged ahead, and the powrie gave ground and slipped a step to the side. Instead of following the movement, Bannagran snapped his axe the other way. Suddenly free of the entanglement, the powrie stumbled on the uneven ground, putting distance between himself and the axe-and that gave Bannagran enough room to maneuver and strike, his axe plowing into the dwarf.
He had to reverse his swing immediately, though; and he took the head from a second dwarf that was clambering over the rocky ridge.
Propelled by the warrior's gains, Prince Prydae led the rest of his forces in a sudden charge up the ridge. The powries broke before them, affording them the high ground and offering a moment of respite from the nearly constant fighting of that morning. As soon as he was clear, the prince rushed up beside his friend and clapped Bannagran on the shoulder. "We have met our objective and the sun has not yet reached its apex," Prydae congratulated.
"Our comrades have not shared in our good fortune this day," Bannagran replied as both of them looked northward, where the men of several other holdings lagged, mired in heavy battle with the fierce and stubborn dwarves.
"If I could offer them sons of Bannagran to spearhead their charge…" Prydae said, and when Bannagran turned to regard him, he found his prince smiling.
"I hear the waves!" one man cried from behind them, and that brought a cheer from all the men of Pryd.
Prydae's smile became a wry grin. "Is our work done this day?"
Bannagran saw the answer clearly in the man's expression. "It came to us too easily," he replied with a shake of his head.
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