The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

  “The line of Pryd must continue,” Prydae said.

  Garibond’s eyes darted all around, like a cornered animal. All the revelations of the previous day, all the wonderful realizations that there was actually some measure of intelligence within the stuttering Bransen, played in his mind, demanding an end to this sudden and unexpected tragedy. “Take me instead.”

  “Do not be a fool,” Bannagran answered. “The boy is damaged and infirm.”

  “You should beg us to kill him when we are done removing his genitals,” Bernivvigar said smugly. “He will have no need for his own virility, obviously. He should have been killed at birth—you know this to be true! So be satisfied that perhaps the little wretch will do some good with his miserable existence.”

  Bransen made a little mewling sound.

  It was more than Garibond could take, and he wheeled around, fist flying, and connected squarely on the old Samhaist’s jaw, sending him back hard against the doorjamb. As he started forward, Garibond heard Bransen cry out, and he turned about just in time to see Bannagran wading in.

  The big man hit Garibond with a thunderous jab that straightened him and dazed him so that he could not even react to the wide-arcing left hook that caught him on the side of the face and sent him flying away to the floor.

  Again he heard a voice, Bernivvigar’s voice, as if it were far, far away, much like what he had heard before he had fully awakened that morning.

  “Perhaps the older man would be better,” Bernivvigar was saying. “How old is this boy?”

  “Nine? Ten?” Bannagran answered.

  “Not yet a man.”

  “Does that matter?” asked Prydae.

  “It would be better if he had already reached manhood and was able to sire a child on his own,” said Bernivvigar.

  Garibond managed to turn to regard the Samhaist, standing in the doorway, leaning on the jamb, rubbing his jaw, and shooting Garibond the most hateful look Prydae had ever seen in all his life.

  “Accept his offer and spare the boy,” Bernivvigar advised.

  A moment later, Bannagran’s strong hand hoisted Garibond up to his feet, and the warrior began dragging him out. He managed to look back to the side, where poor Bransen was still trying to stand up after being shoved aside by Bannagran.

  “Do not think your crippled son has fully escaped me,” Bernivvigar muttered to Garibond as Bannagran hauled him past.

  Poor Bransen spent all the day at the eastern window of the small house. He was still there when the sun disappeared behind the western horizon.

  What will I do? How will I eat?

  He wanted to rush out and run to the town to rescue Garibond—all the day, that had been his most pressing thought. But he couldn’t rush and he couldn’t run. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t even light a candle so that he didn’t have to sit there helplessly in the darkness.

  He wanted to stay awake, to stay alert, to be ready to do…whatever he could possibly do to help his beloved father. But eventually, Bransen’s head dipped down to the windowsill.

  His sleep was fitful, and he heard the approach of horses. He looked up, but they were already to the side of the window’s view, splashing up the submerged walk to the front door of the cottage.

  Bransen turned and tried to rise, but fell back repeatedly and was still sitting when the horses thundered away and the cottage door was pushed open.

  In came Garibond, and he held up his hand to keep Bransen back. “Go to bed, boy,” he said, and Bransen could tell that his every word was filled with agony.

  Bransen started for his bed, while Garibond moved to the table and struck flint to metal to light a candle. Only then did Bransen see how bent over and haggard Garibond seemed; and when the man turned, candle in hand, Bransen nearly swooned, for the front of Garibond’s nightshirt was drenched with blood, waist to knees.

  “It is all right,” the older man said. “You just go to bed.”

  Bransen fell onto his bed and immediately buried his face. He wanted all the world to just go away.

  21

  For the Boy?

  The rain splashed down all about him, spraying on the rocks and making the lake hiss in frothy protest. The drenching didn’t bother Garibond but only because he couldn’t remember a time over the last few weeks when he had felt anything but miserable. His wound had healed, or at least had scabbed over, but that was just on the outside. Bernivvigar’s brutal work had left him sick inside as well, and he felt as if the festering sore were worming its way deeper into his body every day. Every morning, Garibond found pulling himself out of bed a trial.

  The near-constant rain of the last days had added to his misery and had made his daily chores more difficult. The lake was up several inches, so that Garibond and Bransen had to abandon the lower house for the time being; that or watch their feet rot away from wading through ankle-deep cold water.

  Garibond sat there and coughed through the morning’s fishing. He didn’t catch a thing, and knew that he wouldn’t. The area of the lake near the island was not deep, a few feet at the most, and was not reedy; and the silver trout that normally could be hooked from the rocks of the small island wouldn’t be milling about the shallows in this heavy downpour. Garibond stayed out there anyway, coughing and miserable, mostly because he couldn’t find the strength in him to climb back to the house.

  He knew that his situation was growing more dire. He knew that his health was fast deteriorating and, even with his stubbornness, he was beginning to recognize that he would not get through this ordeal on his own. He thought of going to Chapel Pryd to ask the monks for some magical healing. It wouldn’t be easy to persuade them, and he knew it. His injury and illness were due to the order of Laird Prydae himself. Garibond wasn’t a religious man in any sense of the word, and the distance he kept from the competing factions in Pryd Holding in many ways gave him a better understanding of each. Even from afar, Garibond understood the quiet war being waged between Bernivvigar and the brothers of Abelle. And the prize of victory, even more than the support of the peasants, was the sanction of Laird Prydae.

  How could the brothers of Abelle help Garibond heal his current malady, given that?

  Perhaps he should go instead to Castle Pryd, and beg the laird to ask the brothers for assistance.

  The mere thought of it brought bile into the proud man’s throat. Laird Prydae, as much as—or even more than—Bernivvigar had done this to him. Now was he to go and beg the man for mercy?

  He slapped the wet rock next to him in frustration, and his hand was so cold and numb that he didn’t even feel the sting. Was this numbness akin to Bransen’s? he wondered.

  That notion had him glancing back to the house, where Bransen was no doubt sitting on his bed with his nose deep in the Book of Jhest. That book had become Bransen’s life of late, his tie to the past and…

  “And what?” Garibond wondered aloud. Was Bransen finding solace within the pages of the Book of Jhest beyond anything he had ever expected of the boy? Certainly Bransen’s apparent understanding of the text had been a surprise to Garibond, but what did the book—which Bransen claimed he had read cover to cover several times—now hold over him? Was he finding an escape within its pages from the misery of his tortured reality?

  Garibond hoped that was the case. That was all he really wanted, after all. For himself, life had become a simple matter of survival, of getting through the days. His few joys were all tied up in Bransen’s too-infrequent smiles. Garibond wanted nothing more, except for some relief from his pain. He didn’t covet jewels or coins, and preferred to catch his own food over any banquet that Laird Prydae himself might set. He didn’t want any companionship other than Bransen’s.

  As he considered these things, Garibond snorted and looked at the hissing water. Was there anything life could now offer him, to make him desire life? Responsibility for Bransen alone was keeping him going, he knew. And now, given his declining health, that, too, was beginning to worry him. What in the worl
d would Bransen do once Garibond was gone? He couldn’t fend for himself, and he had no real friends other than Garibond himself. At that moment, a crow flew past Garibond. He gritted his few remaining teeth, blinked his one good eye, and watched the black bird disappear into the film of heavy rain. A crow—a spy for Bernivvigar perhaps?

  “Bah, you’re just being an old fool,” Garibond told himself, but he knew that he had reason to be suspicious. Bernivvigar’s threat concerning Bransen had not been an idle one, Garibond understood, for Bernivvigar was not a man to make an idle threat. In the weeks since his ordeal under the Samhaist’s knife, Garibond had seen Bernivvigar around the lake, often watching his house from afar, and he knew that the old wretch had never given up his desire to sacrifice Bransen.

  He thought again of Callen Duwornay, or rather Ada, and her daughter who had befriended Bransen. Many times over the last few days had Garibond considered seeking her out and asking her to take in Bransen. But on every occasion, and now again, Garibond quickly dismissed the idea. How could he force this burden upon another, even one who owed her life to Bransen’s parents? And how could Callen defend the boy if Bernivvigar came for him? Indeed, how could she defend herself, if the callous old Samhaist wretch discovered her true identity and that she had somehow escaped his punishment?

  “Ah, what am I to do with you, then?” Garibond asked into the rain.

  Some hours later, Garibond dragged himself back into the house, where he found Bransen sitting and reading, so engrossed that he didn’t seem to hear Garibond enter.

  “You like the book, don’t you?” Garibond greeted, his typical refrain.

  Shaking with every movement, Bransen turned his head and managed a half smile.

  Garibond started to laugh, but caught himself short, feeling the crackling in his lungs. A wave of dizziness washed over him, but he caught himself on a nearby chair and managed to hide his weakness.

  What was he to do?

  “I know a place that has many more books you might enjoy,” he said suddenly, hardly thinking of the implications.

  Again Bransen turned, this time looking more confused than pleased or excited.

  “Them monks in the chapel have shelves and shelves of books,” Garibond explained. It had to be the monks, he knew, and it had to be soon—certainly before the next winter. “You would like that, yes?”

  “J…Jh…J-J-J-Jhes…sst,” Bransen stammered.

  “Jhest? Yes, the Book of Jhest, penned by your father. But there are other books. So many more. Books of wisdom and history. You would like that, yes?”

  Bransen nodded, but didn’t seem overexcited about the prospect and turned right back to the Book of Jhest.

  His reaction didn’t matter. Garibond thought through all the options before him, and the only course possible seemed clear enough. He had to convince Father Jerak to take in Bransen and to care for him. That wasn’t going to be easy. Certainly not. To Garibond’s understanding, the monks of Abelle were not nearly as generous as they pretended.

  Perhaps he could offer the monks something so they would take in Bransen. Perhaps that very book now open on the bed. Garibond quickly dismissed that notion, remembering the reaction of the Church to the book ten years before! Besides, how could he explain its existence, given that SenWi had made it appear as if the book had been burned?

  Another thought came to him, an image of a marvelous sword wrapped in cloth in a dry place in his tunnels. Perhaps he could offer them the sword—a weapon unrivaled in all Honce. Yes, the monks could trade the sword to Prydae. Surely they would greatly appreciate its workmanship and the power it might offer to them in their battle for the affections of the young laird.

  That was it, then, Garibond decided. The monks were his only option.

  And it had to be soon, the crackling in his chest reminded him. For Bransen’s sake. What would the young man even begin to do if Garibond dropped dead on the floor one morning?

  He did hope that the monks would treat Bransen well, and that they would teach the boy to read the language of Honce and give him access to their books. Yes, he would have to make that a part of the bargain. Little in life other than reading offered pleasure to poor Bransen.

  On the first break in the weather, a couple of days later, Garibond set out from his house, leaving Bransen, as usual, with his face buried in the Book of Jhest. The boy’s single-mindedness toward that book continued to amaze the man.

  Garibond walked a wide and careful circuit of his house before heading to the road to Pryd Town, for he wanted to make certain that Bernivvigar was not lurking about. What defense might Bransen offer if the old wretch came calling?

  Once on the road, with no sign of the Samhaist anywhere, Garibond remained uneasy and reminded himself with every fast stride to be quick about his business. To his relief, he found that he did not have far to walk, for a monk from Chapel Pryd was out and about, standing before one of the town’s outermost houses.

  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.”