Every day, he escaped the bonds of his infirmities. Only for a moment, perhaps, but that moment was more than he had ever dared to hope.
One day, he mused, he might tell Brother Reandu of his secret, and tell him in a voice strong and stable.
Perhaps that fantasy would take place, but Bransen remembered all too well the monks' reaction to his writing the Book of Jhest on his walls. He remembered the panic and the anger; and though he had not been punished, he saw the flash of hate and outrage in Bathelais's eyes, the implication and threat all too clear.
But he wanted to tell someone, and Reandu was probably his best friend. Or maybe he would get stronger, and maybe he would learn to sustain the power offered by his forcefully composed chi for longer periods-forever perhaps-and then he could go to Garibond and show him.
That was Bransen's deepest wish and hope: to return to his beloved Garibond, not as Stork but as a whole man. Wouldn't Garibond be proud of him! And if he could become whole, even if he were to continue working for the monks, he should be able to find enough time each week to go back and visit his beloved Garibond!
The young man picked up the empty chamber pots and staggered toward the chapel's back door, his simple dreams sustaining him through each labored step. "Has he spoken at all today?" There was no missing the contempt in Master Bathelais's tone, a simmering revulsion that seemed to be growing almost daily.
"No, master," replied Brother Reandu. "Father Jerak sits, staring into emptiness. It is almost as if he is looking at the past."
"He is, and seeing events as if they are only now unfolding. Last week, he demanded that I go to Laird Pryd to insist that he ease the burdens of those working on the road."
"The road?" Brother Reandu echoed, and then he grew even more startled as he added, "Laird Pryd?"
"It is an argument twenty years old," Master Bathelais explained.
"It is good that the masters at Chapel Abelle saw fit to convey the powers and title of master upon you, dear brother," said Reandu. "If we were at the discretion of Father Jerak now-"
"Father Jerak has no discretion," said Bathelais, and when Reandu started to balk at the bold statement, he held up his hand. "I say that with great sadness, brother. Long have I considered Father Jerak my friend-more than my friend. He has been as a father to me in more than Church ways."
Brother Reandu nodded. Father Jerak had ruled Chapel Pryd wisely and compassionately for many decades.
"You will need to formally announce your position as presiding father of Chapel Pryd very soon," Brother Reandu advised. "Our superiors offered you this at your discretion."
Bathelais rocked back on his heels. "You ask me to unseat my beloved friend."
"Will Chapel Pryd survive the weeks, months, even years we may have to wait for him to go and sit with Blessed Abelle? Master, Rennarq whispers in Laird Prydae's ear in favor of Bernivvigar even as the people shout the same, all the more loudly every day."
Bathelais's look turned icy.
"The Samhaists had more than a thousand people gathered at their bonfire last night." Bathelais winced at that.
"The people are angry," Reandu went on. "How many men are dying in the south? How little have they to eat, and less now that Laird Prydae has been forced to pay taxes to Laird Delaval."
"We are not responsible for the policies of Laird Prydae."
"But neither are we fulfilling our promises to the people of Pryd. We cannot heal their illnesses when so many of our resources are caught up in the greater issues of the holding. We cannot continue to tell them that our God is a benevolent God when their sons, husbands, and fathers die in the south. We cannot continue to tell them that our God is a bountiful God when their stomachs pinch with hunger."
"What would you have me do to alter the realities of our life in these dark days?"
"We are in need of a stronger voice in Chapel Pryd, with no confusion. Retire Father Jerak with all honor and respect, and speak out with a voice bold and full of conviction."
"And what will this voice say?" There was no missing the skepticism in Master Bathelais's tone.
"Speak out against the policies of Laird Prydae," Reandu pressed. "Against the conscription and the taxes. Against the suffering of the common folk. Bernivvigar embraces that suffering and says it will make the people more prepared for their ultimate fate. Are we any different from the Samhaists if we remain silently by the side of an oppressive laird?"
Bathelais's eyes flashed with anger for just a moment. "We are here at the sufferance of Laird Prydae," he reminded. "Prydae understands that if Laird Delaval is not successful in his campaign against Laird Ethelbert, then Ethelbert will annex Pryd Holding."
"And Laird Delaval will do the same if he wins," Reandu argued. "He already has, in everything but name."
"Name is an important factor to a man like Laird Prydae."
"Is that what all this is about, master? The pride of one man? It is well known that Laird Prydae was ready to throw his sword to the side of Laird Ethelbert when he believed Ethelbert meant to place him in the line of succession of Ethelbert Holding. It is only because of Ethelbert's rejection, since the line will now end with the gelded Prydae, that our laird saw Delaval's offer as more tempting. And even that offer calls for the annexation of Pryd by Delaval upon the end of the line of Pryd!"
"You involve yourself too much in politics, brother."
Reandu was a bit taken aback by the tone of warning clear and present in that statement. "The matters of politics are the only reality the people of our congregation know," he said.
"I do not recall Laird Prydae asking our opinion, brother."
"Then what is our purpose?" Reandu blurted, but his bluster dissipated quickly under the threatening scowl of Master Bathelais. Reandu suddenly found his breath hard to come by, as so many implications of his continuing resistance flashed across Bathelais's eyes. Fear, frustration, and anger all rolled together within Reandu, gathering into a single, tangled ball that left him speechless.
"Go to your duties," Master Bathelais instructed. "If you truly wish to help me now, then help me find a way to positively distinguish us from the Samhaists. I will take your words concerning Father Jerak under serious advisement, as I believe that you might be correct in your observation. Father Jerak cannot openly oppose Bernivvigar at this time. Father Jerak cannot properly clean himself at this time! But I warn you, and only this once, beware your words against Laird Prydae. I prefer a tentative hold on the people of Pryd to no hold at all, brother, and your indignation is a sure way to the expulsion of the Church of Blessed Abelle from Pryd Holding."
Reandu continued to reel in unfocused anger and frustration, and could barely mouth out, "Yes, master," as Bathelais walked away.
24
The Laird's Manly Sword Bannagran banged on the wooden door, his huge fist nearly dislodging it from its frame.
"You would be wise to open the door," he called. "You may need it when the battle comes north!" He hit the splintering wood again with a resounding thump that made the door lean into the hovel.
Finally, the door opened a crack, and the dirty face of an old woman appeared.
"If ye're coming for coins for yer laird, we got none left, master," she said.
"Not for coins," Bannagran replied. "And I trust that if you happened upon a few, you would know to deliver the proper amount to Castle Pryd."
"Then what? More food's what ye're wanting? Oh, but ain't we to keep enough to feed our own skinny bodies?"
"Not food," Bannagran replied. "A regiment of Laird Ethelbert has been sighted in the east. Men are needed."
The woman gave a cry and fell back, trying to close the door tight, but Bannagran's heavy fist knocked it open. He and the two soldiers accompanying him strode into the one-room hovel.
"Bah, ye took me husband and now who's knowing if he's dead? Ye took me brothers and not a one's to be found! What more are ye asking?"
"You have a son of fifteen winters," Bannagran replied.
"He's dead!" the woman shrieked. "I killed him meself. Better that than he get all chopped in some bloody field!"
As she spoke, Bannagran motioned to one of the soldiers, who moved to the hanging curtain that divided the room. A tug pulled it down, revealing a small cot, really no more than a wooden frame covered in hay.
The soldier looked back at Bannagran, who nodded for him to proceed.
"Dead, I tell ye!" the woman continued, her voice rising with obvious terror. "I put a pillow over his face while he slept. A peaceful way."
"If I believed your tale, then I would have you executed," Bannagran said matter-of-factly.
"For murder? He's me son, and I can kill him if I'm choosing."
"For stealing from Laird Prydae," the large man replied. "All the folk are the property of the laird, and you've no right to deny him his possessions. Whether he is your child is not important." He nodded and the soldier upended the cot, revealing a teenage boy and a younger girl, huddled together on the floor against the wall.
"Come on," the soldier said, and he reached down and hooked the boy under the arm and roughly pulled him to his feet.
The girl started crying; the woman rushed past to intercept.
But Bannagran caught her by the back of her tunic and easily held her in place. She tried to turn and swing at him, but he had her quickly wrapped in one powerful arm, and she couldn't begin to wriggle away.
"Ye can't have him!" she cried. "Ye can't be taking him! Oh, ye dogs!"
Bannagran squeezed her more tightly and hoisted her up so that his scowling face was barely an inch from hers. "Foolish woman. If we do not go out and meet the threat of Ethelbert, his soldiers will knock down your door and knock down your house. They'll kill your boy when he hasn't even a weapon in hand to defend himself, and they'll take you…" He paused and offered a wicked smile. "Might be that you're too ugly to interest them, but that wouldn't be your gain. They'd take your daughter instead, every one of them would, and leave her torn and bleeding and broken. Perhaps she's old enough to bear a child-is that what you're wanting, old fool? Do you wish upon your daughter a bastard child whose father you'll never know?"
The woman was crying so violently now that she couldn't answer. Nor did she offer any more resistance. Bannagran released her and shoved her back, then followed the two soldiers, who were flanking the subdued boy, out of the house.
"That makes twelve," one of the soldiers said when they were outside.
"Enough for this group, then," Bannagran explained. "Get him to the castle and fit him with leather armor and a weapon." He looked more closely at the boy, even reached over and felt the skinny biceps. "A spear for him. He couldn't hit anything hard enough with a sword to make a difference."
Bannagran quickly climbed onto his horse and turned the mount away, not wanting the others to see his continuing scowl. He found this duty distasteful, and he was quite weary of pulling men-and now boys-from their families. He heard the woman's frantic shrieks and prodded his horse on more swiftly, wanting to put the noises far behind.
He rode away from the others and moved closer to Pryd Town, trying to ignore the haunted stares of the many people in the streets. Not a family had escaped the last six months of the war unscathed. Bannagran wondered if Pryd Holding would survive this wave of battle; an entire generation of menfolk could be wiped out if Laird Ethelbert persisted in his designs for conquest. Already, more than three hundred of Pryd's menfolk were known dead-a hundred and fifty alone in the battle of Bariglen's Coe.
As he rode toward Castle Pryd, Bannagran thought back to those days of battle against the powries in the east, when Laird Ethelbert and his legions had held the flanking ground north of the men of Pryd. The laird of the great holding in southeastern Honce had rescued him, Prydae, and all the others when they had been caught in a powrie web. Even then, though, Bannagran had seen the first signs of coming trouble. The roads were complete, crossing Honce from Delaval City to Ethelbert dos Entel, through Pryd and Cannis and all the way to Palmaristown on the mouth of the great river, the Masur Delaval. With that network came the march of armies to push the powries back, and with that network came the march of armies to expand the influence of their respective lairds. Already, Palmaristown was under the rule of Laird Delaval, and all the Mantis Arm heeded the commands of Laird Ethelbert.
It was Pryd Holding's bad fortune to rest halfway between the two dominating lairds.
Castle Pryd's drawbridge was down over the newly constructed moat, and the great champion of Pryd, the most recognizable warrior in all the land, didn't slow as he thundered across the wooden bridge and between the gate towers-also newly built-and into the lower bailey of the rapidly expanding castle. He pulled up short and leaped down as attendants moved quickly to tend to his strong mount.
To his right sat the Laird Prydae's private chapel, with an open garden behind it for those occasions when Bernivvigar came into the castle proper to offer his prayers and blessings. This was the oldest building in the castle, dating back many generations, and was of a stone more gray than the main castle structure. The architecture of the chapel, too, was more primitive, with thicker walls and smaller windows. Past the chapel lay the only predominantly wooden building in the complex, the barracks, nearly empty now, as most of the men were off patrolling.
Directly ahead of Bannagran, opposite the main gate, sat the great keep, the tower of Laird Prydae, connected at its base to the castle's dining hall and audience chamber.
The two men standing guard at the keep's heavy wooden door moved quickly when they saw Bannagran's approach, pulling wide the double doors, then standing at attention, eyes ahead and unblinking, as their commander walked through.
The bottom floor of the keep, the only square room in the tower, was sparsely appointed, with only a pair of chairs set before the large hearth, a thick rug beneath them. Bannagran's eyes were drawn to that hearth and to the empty hooks above it. Not too long ago, Laird Prydae's magnificent sword, a gift of the brothers of Abelle, had hung there. But the laird had recently moved it to his private quarters, safely out of sight whenever any of the noblemen of Laird Delaval's court came calling. For when they came, they did so with their hands out, seeking money or goods, and Laird Prydae knew well that his sword, a creation far beyond anything any blacksmith in Honce could hope to forge, would be greatly desired.
That was the one treasure in all his holding that Laird Prydae would not surrender.
Bannagran was surprised that his friend wasn't down here taking his breakfast, as was Prydae's custom at this hour. The warrior moved for the stairs on the left side of the room but paused at the base when he heard a woman crying up above.
Somewhere behind her, Prydae cursed, "Harlot!" and then, "Rotfish!"
Bannagran put his head down and drew a deep breath. He knew the insults well enough, had heard Prydae launch them at women for a decade now. As ruler of Pryd, it was Prydae's privilege to take any woman in the holding, married or not, a tender child or an old hag, as his lover. "Lover" wasn't quite the right word with regard to Prydae, Bannagran supposed, for the scars of the laird's powrie wound would not permit it, despite the work of the monks with their soul stones, despite the many sacrifices of other men's genitals old Bernivvigar had offered over the years.
Inevitably, when he failed to perform, Prydae would blame the woman, calling her harlot and other similar insults, and "rotfish," a term usually reserved for a woman of no sexual imagination, who would lie still as a receptive, yet unmoving, vessel.
The woman, a pretty enough thing-as long as she hid her three-toothed smile-in her mid-twenties, came out on the top balcony and rushed to the highest of the four visible staircases, her clothing bundled about her, hardly hiding her ample charms. Her bare feet slapped on the wide wooden stairs as she scurried down to the next balcony, her face wet with tears.
Bannagran recognized her-he remembered the day he had taken her husband away to join a group marching south to battle.
&
nbsp; She hardly glanced at him as she rushed past, sobbing at every step.
Bannagran watched her go, then looked back to the top stairs, where Prydae stood naked and half erect, his face red with frustration, his fists clenched in rage. "Rotfish!" he cried again, and he banged his hand hard against the wall, then moved back.
Bannagran shook his head and sighed, then moved to one of the chairs before the hearth and poured himself a drink of Prydae's wine. He took a seat and stared into the embers, some still showing lines of orange, wisps of smoke slipping out from the ash and drifting lazily up the chimney.
It was some time before Prydae came down to sit beside him.
"Useless bitch," the laird said, and he filled, drained, and refilled his wine goblet before offering more to Bannagran. "A sound other than a whimper, a movement beyond her drawing of breath-is that too much to ask?"
"You were close this time?" Bannagran asked.
Prydae set his goblet down on the arm of his large, upholstered wooden chair and rubbed both his hands over his still-red face. "Better if the powrie had taken it all," he said, "and taken, too, the desires that burn within me."
"You seek the treasure of a dragon," Bannagran remarked, "and have found its footsteps on several occasions. Is not the hunt worth your time, my liege?"
"I seek the honey of a woman," Prydae corrected. "And have seen the sweets before my eyes and within my reach, and yet I cannot grasp them! Is not the frustration more than any man should bear?"
Bannagran chuckled as he brought his goblet up to his lips and tasted the smooth red wine from the grapes of Laird Delaval's western fields. "The honey will be sweeter for your wait," he replied.
Prydae joined him with a chuckle of his own, but they both knew that this was much more serious than the frivolous pleasures of an overamorous laird. If Prydae could perform-and he had come so close on several occasions-and produce an heir to the line of Pryd, then the politics of all the regions would dramatically change, and for the betterment of Pryd Holding. The only reason Laird Ethelbert had not named Prydae as his successor and heir of all his holdings was because it had become apparent that the line would end with Prydae.
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