The Highwayman

by R. A. Salvatore

  “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 response, 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.

  “You understand that?” Reandu asked, holding him steady and looking him right in the eye. “It is not my decision to make.”

  The boy stared at him—so stupidly, it seemed—and Brother Reandu thought himself a fool for even beginning to entertain such a thought as trying to teach this poor creature to read!

  “Come along,” he said. “The hour grows late and the river is still some distance.” He hoisted one of the pots and helped Bransen gather up the other one, then took the boy under his arm and helped him to the river to complete his chores and so that both of them could get a much-needed washing.

  Bransen was surprised, even frightened, when his overhead door opened unexpectedly late that night. A smile widened on the startled boy’s face when he saw the face of Brother Reandu behind the glare of the candle.

  “B-b-boo—” he started to say.

  “No books, Bransen,” Reandu replied.

  The tone in the man’s voice spoke volumes beyond the actual words to Bransen, a boy not unused to disappointment.

  “Brother Bathelais will not be persuaded on this,” Reandu admitted, and as Bransen’s expression became crestfallen, he added, “You must understand, my boy, that our books are our greatest treasures. If you were to drool on them or dirty them—”

  “No!” Bransen blurted.

  “Even handling them causes damage,” Reandu went on. “Please understand that it is not possible. Perhaps I can find some parchments on which a brother has spilled ink or otherwise damaged them. They might have words upon them. But you cannot read, of course.”

  Bransen started to stutter and pointed at the monk.

  “Yes, Garibond wanted me to teach you to read,” Reandu admitted. “But it would not be possible. I am sorry, boy. I wish that things could be different for you.”

  Bransen saw the true regret in Reandu’s eyes, but that did little to fill the empty hole that had been dug in his heart. No books? Nothing at all but the dozens of walks to the river each day?

  I will not fail Garibond, he repeated over and over and over as the trapdoor closed, leaving him with only the dim light of a single candle. Sobs and tears accompanied the litany.

  He cried for many minutes, and only gradually managed to translate his heartbreak into anger. He picked up one of the many loose stones at the base of the wall and tried to throw it, but it slipped out of his hand and fell to the ground at his feet. He picked it up again, and again failed to propel it any distance. A third time he cocked his arm back to throw.

  Symbols and curving script appeared in his thoughts, as if floating in the ai
r before him. He held his pose and read the words, the words his father had meticulously copied, the words of chi and alignment, of the movement of muscles.

  For one brief moment, it all came together for Bransen. For one beautiful and miraculous instant, one flicker of clarity in a decade of fuzziness, his core energy aligned and with a movement that could only be described as graceful, he threw the rock across the room to smack hard against the opposite wall.

  Bransen stood in shock, staring into the darkness of the far end of the chamber. His legs quickly became shaky again as his line of life energy dissipated. But his mind held that moment of clarity.

  Bransen shifted back to the wall and fell to his knees, then into an awkward half-sitting half-kneeling position. He lifted another stone and brought it against the wall and scratched out a shaky line.

  No, that would not do, he realized as he studied the scratch.

  Bransen concentrated more deeply. He remembered the writing in the book, the opening sequences. He could see them clearly in his mind, and his hand followed that guidance as he scratched out another line. He sat back and inspected his work. It was better than the first but still far from perfect.

  The third line was a bit better.

  The fourth line was better yet.

  The hundredth line was almost perfect.

  But the candle was gone soon after that, and Bransen allowed exhaustion to overtake him, there at the base of the wall on the cold, hard floor.

  When he finished his chores the next day and was put back in his hole with another candle, he went right back to his real work.

  And so it went, day after day, week after week.

  Brother Reandu tried to convince himself that his inattention to Stork was merely a matter of his being too busy with his many duties. With several of the older brothers called away on missions or to Chapel Abelle, he was now the third highest ranking monk in Pryd, behind Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais.