The Highwayman sotfk-1

by R. A. Salvatore

  Garibond recognized the man, though he didn't remember his name.

  "My greetings, brother," he said, moving up the short path toward the monk, who seemed to be just leaving the farmhouse.

  "And to you," the monk replied. "I have no time to hear your woes, I fear, but must be straightaway back to Chapel Pryd."

  "I know you," Garibond said in leading tones.

  The monk paused long enough to look over the man carefully.

  "I am afraid that your recognition is one-sided, friend."

  Garibond tried hard to place the man, and finally, as the monk started away once more, just blurted out, "I was a friend of Brother Bran Dynard's."

  Again the monk stopped and studied Garibond, his gaze soon dropping to the man's waist area, which told Garibond that he had been recognized. "You are the one the Samhaist took for Laird Pryd," he said.

  "Aye, and that's a reputation to put forth, is it not?" Garibond said with a helpless laugh.

  "I am sorry, friend, that you fell victim to the brutish old man," the monk said. "But there is nothing I can do to alleviate-"

  "I'm not here about that, Brother…"

  "Reandu. Brother Reandu."

  "Ah, yes, I remember our meeting after my friend Brother Dynard left for the north. Has there been any word at all?"

  "Brother Dynard is believed to have been murdered on the road," said Reandu. "That, or he rejoined the Behrenese woman and fled the land of Honce, as many brothers believe."

  "He did not, for she did not survive." Garibond saw that he suddenly had Reandu's complete attention.

  "What do you know of it?"

  "I know that she is dead. Long dead, to the loss of the world."

  "And yet you ask me of Brother Dynard?"

  "Of him, I know nothing, beyond that he departed from your chapel ten years ago."

  "Nor do any of us, master…"

  "Garibond."

  "Master Garibond. I feel for your loss, for your friend and for…well, your ill treatment by Bernivvigar."

  Garibond nodded.

  "I need the help of the Church," Garibond stated. "Not for me and my ailments-those I accept well enough. But for my son."

  Reandu looked at him curiously.

  "You know of him, no doubt," said Garibond. "He is…unique and difficult to miss."

  "The damaged one? The one they call Stork?"

  Garibond winced at the disparaging name, but let go his anger for the sake of Bransen. "Yes, for him."

  "If we believed that there was ever anything our soul stones might do for one so damaged, we would have undertaken the task years ago, brother."

  "You cannot heal his maladies, of course."

  "Then what?"

  Garibond gave a profound sigh, and was surprised at how painful this was. He had not considered how lonely his life might be, how much less fulfilled and fulfilling, without Bransen in it. "He is a lot of work, of course, and I am growing old-and more frail because of the Samhaist beast. I fear that I will soon not be able to care for Bransen."

  Reandu's wide eyes betrayed his shock. "You would ask us to take him in?"

  "I would. He needs protecting."

  "We have not the means, brother. We are not a house for wayward-"

  "Not wayward," Garibond corrected. "I do not ask you lightly to take this burden."

  "You should ask a friend."

  "I cannot, for I fear for the boy. Bernivvigar got me, aye, but that did little to satisfy his blood thirst. He wants the boy."

  "Speak to Laird Prydae."

  Garibond knew that he didn't even need to respond to that ridiculous suggestion. They both understood that Prydae wouldn't do much to go against Bernivvigar, not at present, at least. "I do not ask lightly you to take this burden," he repeated and then added, "nor without offering you gain for your Church."

  Brother Reandu started to respond, but stopped short and looked curiously at him. "Gain for the church of Blessed Abelle? You are not a man of wealth or influence, good master Garibond."

  "Rightly noted," he said dryly. "But I am in possession of an item that would prove quite valuable to you in your dealings with Laird Prydae."

  He paused for effect. Reandu licked his lips and bade him, "Go on."

  "Do you remember Brother Dynard's wife, the Behr woman named SenWi?"

  "Yes."

  "A mighty warrior, so it was said?"

  "Her exploits against the powries were spoken of, yes."

  "With an amazing sword, a sword more grand than anything in all the land of Honce?"

  Reandu stared at him hard but did not respond.

  "I assure you that if you heard any tales of that magnificent weapon, they were not exaggerated. Indeed, if anything, the people who saw the blade could not begin to understand its beauty and craftsmanship. It is a sword fit for a laird-indeed, it is beyond any weapon that any laird in all Honce now carries, or has ever carried."

  "That is quite a claim."

  "One I can back up, on your agreement to take Bransen into your chapel and care for him."

  Reandu considered the words for a moment, then said, "I am not authorized to make such an arrangement."

  "Of course, but you are capable of relaying my proposition to Father Jerak in the strongest possible terms."

  "You would wish us to care for the boy until his death? For decades, likely?"

  "Yes, but he is not without use. He can work for his meals, as long as the tasks are within his physical limitations. Oh, yes, and there is one more thing. I want you to teach him to read our language and to allow him access to books."

  "The idiot?"

  "He is no idiot," Garibond snapped back. "Do not confuse physical deformity with mental weakness-it was a mistake that I long made. He can read, I am certain. It is a skill that will allow him to transcend the limitations of his flesh."

  Reandu kept shaking his head, his expression sour, but he did reply, "I will take this matter to Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais."

  Garibond could ask for nothing more. He nodded and rushed away, hoping that Bernivvigar had not learned in the meantime that Bransen was all alone. "He has her sword," Brother Bathelais mused aloud. He stared out the window of Father Jerak's audience chamber, overlooking the windy courtyard inside the chapel's outer front wall. Bathelais remembered Dynard out there sweeping the leaves. He remembered SenWi, a wisp of a thing, really, and quite beautiful in her exotic southern way. He had never seen this supposed sword, but he had met a few who had, and their description of it was nothing short of incredible.

  "We are to take in this creature and care for him?" Father Jerak asked doubtfully. "Are we to throw wide our doors to all with maladies, then?"

  "This is an exceptional matter, and an exceptional malady, perhaps," said Reandu. "And Garibond has assured me that the boy can do menial tasks and needs little care."

  Father Jerak snorted.

  "Perhaps this is an opportunity to display compassion," Reandu said.

  "Have you not heard the chanting of the Samhaists at night?" Brother Bathelais interjected. "Do you not see Rennarq ever at Laird Prydae's side? What venom might he be whispering into Prydae's ear? This is the time for strength, brother, not compassion."

  "Less than a century ago, a wise man proclaimed compassion to be strength, I believe," Reandu replied. He knew from Bathelais's immediate scowl that perhaps he had crossed a line in invoking the words of Blessed Abelle.

  "It might well be compassion that costs us nothing," Father Jerak remarked. "This sword-you have seen it?"

  "No, father."

  "Then go to this peasant Garibond-both of you. Bid him to show it to you, and if you judge this sword as valuable as we believe, agree to his terms. I know this young Prydae, and if we are in possession of a weapon that will elevate his warrior status, it will prove a marvelous incentive to help us move the Samhaists from his side."

  "This boy, this creature, slobbers," Bathelais reminded.

  "And we have duties appropriate
for one of his idiocy," said Jerak.

  At that point, Brother Bathelais sighed, looked at Reandu, and said, "Let us go, then. I pray the sword will be naught but a line of rust, but we shall see." Garibond held the package up before him and slowly unwrapped the cloth holding the fabulous sword of SenWi. And as he pulled the layers of cloth from the weapon, he saw the layers of doubt melt away from Brother Bathelais's face. The silverel steel gleamed in the sunlight and the snake-head hilt sparkled. Not a speck of rust marred the blade, not a sign of wear or age. It was as SenWi had crafted it, and as she had left it.

  "It has no equal north of the mountains," Garibond said with great confidence. "Not in all of Honce."

  "It seems thin," Bathelais said.

  "Because the metal is stronger than bronze and stronger than iron," Garibond explained. He drew forth the sword completely from the wrapping and waved it, then nodded to the two monks and snapped it suddenly to the side, where it cut deep into the trunk of a tree. He extracted the sword, pulled it back, then stabbed the tree, and the fine tip dove in to an impressive depth.

  Again Garibond pulled the sword out, and he rolled it over in his hands and presented it hilt first to Bathelais.

  The monk took the extraordinary weapon and moved it around slowly, marveling at its light weight and balance.

  When both Bathelais and Garibond looked at Reandu, they saw that he was smiling, and that drew a nod from the ever-doubting Bathelais.

  "Do we have an agreement?" Garibond asked, taking back the weapon. "You take Bransen in and you keep him safe from Bernivvigar. He'll work for you, and without complaint. You give him a chance."

  "There is nothing we can do for the…boy with our gemstones," Bathelais said. "We will not waste the time and energy in trying."

  Garibond suppressed his anger and managed a nod. He handed the sword to Bathelais and went to the house, emerging a few moments later with Bransen, who was carrying a large sack, beside him.

  "The Stork," Bathelais whispered to Reandu.

  Brother Reandu didn't respond and didn't let Bathelais see his disdain at the remark. In truth, Reandu was hardly certain from whence that disdain had come or why the name, which he himself had often used, struck him as so unseemly coming from Bathelais. He watched Bransen's awkward but determined approach. The boy was afraid, he could plainly see, but he also appeared eager to please. Perhaps behind the ungainly hip-swerving, stiff-legged strides and behind the smears of drool on his crooked face there was something else.

  A boy, perhaps?

  Just a boy?

  22

  I Will Not Fail Garibond Garibond said this is important. He needs me to work here, so the brothers will heal him and feed him. I will not fail Garibond. Bransen let this litany repeat over and over in his head, leading him through his dreary days at Chapel Pryd. He had come there full of hope and excited at the prospect of having so many people around him who, Garibond had assured him, would not push him to the ground or laugh at him.

  They hadn't done anything like that, and that was good. Unfortunately, they also weren't really around him at all. He had been given a room in the substructure of the chapel, a windowless, empty little square of stone and dirt. There was only one way in or out, a ladder and trapdoor that Bransen couldn't hope to operate on his own. Thus, every morning, one of the younger brothers came and opened the door, then reached in and lifted him out so that he could go about his chores, which amounted to carrying the chamber pots down to the river for emptying and cleaning, two at a time. It took him most of the day, and at the end of his journeys, another brother set him back in his hole, along with a single candle, a flagon of water, and a plate of food.

  That was Bransen's day, his life, his solitude. I will not fail Garibond, got him through it.

  He knew that his work here was making life better for his father, for the man who had given so much to help him.

  I will not fail Garibond.

  Bransen brought his mother's black outfit with him and used it as a pillow. The soft silk smelled of her, he decided, and that gave him comfort. And it was comfort he needed, despite his resolve that he wouldn't fail Garibond, because as much as he missed the company of his father, he missed the company of his real father's work and of his mother's philosophy. He didn't have the Book of Jhest; he didn't have any books. He often tried to broach the subject with one of the brothers or another, but these men had no patience for his stuttering and never let him get the request out. In fact, they never really listened to anything he tried to say.

  Every night as he lay there, every day as he made his uneven and awkward forays to the river, Bransen thought of that wonderful book and pictured its many pages. In his mind, he saw again the flowing script so meticulously copied by his father. In his mind, he recited the text, beginning to end, over and over again. He feared that he didn't have it perfect, but in the end, this was all he had.

  As the days became weeks and the recital more rote, Bransen began to do something that had never before occurred to him. He began to roll the words in his thoughts and apply them to himself. He considered the source of Jhesta Tu power in the context of his own broken body, and searched for his chi. And he thought that he found that line of power, or what was supposed to be a line of power, for in him there were just inner flashes of energy, dispersing to his sides and his limbs, and no discernable and focusing line at all.

  He thought that he must be doing something wrong in his inner search. Perhaps he was recalling the words of the book incorrectly. If only he could see it again, to compare his memory to its pages.

  Several times, Bransen considered walking, along the river-bank to the little bridge that would lead him east to Garibond's house.

  But suppose he angered the monks and they refused to help Garibond? Did he dare do such a thing?

  If only they would listen to him long enough so that he could explain! From a narrow window along the back wall of Chapel Pryd, Brother Reandu watched the boy stumble out through the mud, a pot sloshing and splashing at the end of each skinny arm. Strangely, those balancing chamber pots seemed to steady the Stork somewhat, though there remained nothing smooth about his movements and more than a bit of the contents of the pots wound up on his bare legs and woolen knee-length tunic.

  Reandu sighed and wished that it could be different for this poor creature. He wished that he could gather up a soul stone and give the boy a more normal existence. That task was far beyond him, he knew. Far beyond any of them.

  "But I will see to it that you are cleaned at least," the monk whispered, his words lost in the groan of the wind rushing through the narrow rectangular opening in the stone. He made a silent vow that he would begin assigning various brothers to take the last trip of the day to the river with Bransen, that they could scrub him clean before putting him back in his miserable little room.

  He would have to get permission from Brother Bathelais, of course.

  Brother Reandu gave a helpless laugh at that thought. Bathelais wasn't open to much of anything concerning the Stork. Keep him as far from the others as possible, give him enough to eat and drink, and make sure he doesn't freeze in his stone room at night. That was enough, by Brother Bathelais's interpretation, despite the fact that he, at the behest of Father Jerak, was preparing a grand celebration during which he would present the magnificent sword to Laird Prydae. Bathelais expected a large return for that gift-the brothers at Chapel Pryd who were knowledgeable about metals and weapons had told him that the sword was everything Garibond had claimed it to be and more.

  But that optimistic outlook had done little to take the edge off Brother Bathelais concerning this poor, tortured creature.

  With that in mind, and determined to at least help the boy wash the excrement from his legs, Brother Reandu went out from the chapel and quickly caught up with Bransen. The boy turned bright eyes upon him-and stumbled and nearly fell. In steadying him, Reandu got splashed by one of the chamber pots. He forced himself to hold back his automatic, angry r
esponse, reminding himself that it wasn't the poor boy's fault.

  "Is this your last journey to the river this day?" he asked.

  Bransen looked at him, as if in surprise. Of course he was surprised, Reandu realized. Had anyone asked him a question in all the days he had been at the chapel? Had anyone even spoken to him?

  "Nnnnn-nyeah…nyeah, n…yes," the boy stammered.

  Reandu had to take a deep breath to compose himself, the aggravating speech only reminding him all too clearly of why others like Bathelais simply could not tolerate being anywhere around this smelly one.

  "Yes?"

  The boy started to stammer.

  "Just nod," Reandu prompted, and the boy did, and he managed a crooked smile.

  Brother Reandu smiled as well.

  "Uh…uh…I w-w-wa…" the boy stuttered.

  Reandu shook his head and patted the air to try to calm the blabbering creature. Bransen responded and seemed to be trying to compose himself.

  "B-book," he blurted suddenly.

  "Book? What book?"

  "Re-re-read b-b-boo-k."

  "Read a book? You?"

  The boy managed another smile and nod-or at least, something that approximated both.

  "You want me to give you a book to read?"

  Still the smile.

  Then Reandu understood, as he remembered what Garibond had demanded of him as part of the deal. "You want me to teach you to read?"

  "I r-r-re…re…read."

  Reandu grinned and nodded and glanced back at the chapel. "Well, that was part of the bargain, I suppose. I should speak with Brother…" He turned back on the boy and winked. "I will see what I can do."

  Bransen actually laughed at that, and the sudden jerk of his mirth overbalanced him and he fell to the mud. Reandu rushed over and picked him up.

  "I cannot," Reandu started. "Do not expect…I must speak with Brother Bathelais. It is not my decision and I do not want to cause your hopes to soar."

  Bransen was giggling with glee.