The Highwayman sotfk-1

by R. A. Salvatore

  "Brother Bran Dynard, it becomes apparent to me that you have lost your way," Father Jerak said, stepping back to give the soldiers access to him. "Perhaps you are in need of some time alone to consider your true path."

  On a nod from Jerak, the soldiers reached for Dynard, who roughly shrugged them away.

  "She is my wife," Dynard stubbornly insisted, and he started to take a bold step forward. But before he could shift his weight, the pommel of a sword slammed him hard on the back of the neck. One moment, he was moving for Father Jerak, the next, he was staring at Father Jerak's sandals. And he felt as if the stone floor beneath him was somehow less than solid, as if it was rising up, its cool darkness swallowing him.

  He knew not how much time had passed when he at last awoke, cramped, in the dark. The dirt was muddy beneath him, the ceiling too low for him to even straighten up as he sat there. He heard the chatter of rats and felt some many-legged creature scramble across his foot.

  But all he could think of was SenWi.

  What had he done to her by bringing her to this place?

  What had he done to their child?

  11

  The Power of the Written Word Father Jerak sat quietly in his private chamber, staring at the troublesome book. It pained him to see his former student so seduced. He had been overjoyed when he had first heard that Brother Dynard had returned to Pryd Holding from his mission in the wild southland, for many monks were not returning. The world was a dangerous place, after all, and Behr was considered one of the wildest regions. In his last visit to the mother chapel in the north on the rocky coast of the Gulf of Corona, Jerak had learned that of those brothers who had gone to spread word of Blessed Abelle outside Honce-to Vanguard or Alpinador across the gulf to the north or to Behr in the south, less than one in three had returned. Even if every traveling brother not already confirmed dead came back to his respective chapel, that number would not exceed one half of those who had gone forth.

  Thus, Jerak had been pleased to learn that Bran Dynard, ever a favorite of his, had come home alive and well.

  No, not well, Jerak reconsidered, and he looked again at the book on the small table. To Jerak's thinking, it would take a monumental effort to ever get the wayward brother well again.

  There came a soft knock on his door, and Brother Bathelais entered.

  "He is contrite?" Father Jerak asked hopefully.

  "He has not spoken since we put him in the dungeon," said Bathelais. "He hardly registers our presence when we go to him with food and drink. The only reaction I have seen from him at all was one of surprise and perhaps satisfaction when I asked him yet again the course of the missing Behr woman."

  "He was pleased that she has eluded us these three days," Father Jerak said. "And likely now we will never find her."

  "Perhaps that is for the best."

  Father Jerak didn't disagree, though he doubted that Laird Pryd or Prince Prydae would agree. Those two had urged him forcefully on this decision regarding the disposition of Brother Dynard. Never would Jerak have imprisoned Dynard-certainly not in the wretched and muddy substructure of Chapel Pryd! As angry as he had been, and remained, over Dynard's transgression concerning these southern mystics, Father Jerak had hoped to gently persuade the man back to the fold. He had even for one moment considered having Brother Dynard teach a younger brother, Bathelais likely, to read the flowing script in that cursed book, that he might then expose to Dynard the fallacies of the text.

  But Father Jerak understood well that he and his brethren were secure and welcomed only under the sufferance of Laird Pryd. Though Jerak had seen a threat in Dynard's failings, Laird Pryd had seen more. Or perhaps this anger at Dynard was more the working of the laird's proud son, Jerak mused. There were rumors that the heroic prince hadn't taken well to the tales of the Behrenese woman's battle prowess.

  Either way, it didn't matter-not now. The die was cast, and appropriately so, Father Jerak believed, though perhaps it had been thrown a bit harshly.

  "I fear that if we await contrition before releasing Brother Dynard from his cell, then he will die in there," Brother Bathelais said, drawing the older monk from his contemplations. "Though perhaps that would be the best course for all."

  Father Jerak answered that with a scowl.

  "Better even for Brother Dynard," Brother Bathelais quickly added. "His path is a road to eternal damnation. Perhaps he has not yet transgressed too far for divine salvation."

  "Unrepentant sinners are not welcomed by Blessed Abelle, who sits at the feet of God," Father Jerak tersely reminded.

  Father Jerak paused, then, and studied Bathelais, but the man did not respond.

  "Keep him incarcerated another week," the old monk ordered. "By then we should know the more about the missing woman."

  "And if she has not been found?"

  "I have no desire to see Brother Dynard dead in our filthy dungeon. If the woman is not found and our wayward brother has not repented, we will accommodate him more comfortably in a room within the chapel proper."

  "A cleaner cell?"

  "But a cell nonetheless," said Father Jerak. "I am willing to spend as much time and energy as we can afford to bring Brother Bran Dynard back into the ways of the order, but he will not proselytize this bastardized version of the message of Blessed Abelle. That is not a point of debate."

  "Laird Pryd will agree to this?"

  Father Jerak shrugged, unsure, and especially if the missing woman was not found. "Laird Pryd will see no threat in Brother Dynard as long as we keep our reins on him tight. And I assure you, Brother Bathelais, that Brother Dynard will know no freedom until he sincerely repents." That last statement chilled Father Jerak's bones even as he spoke the words. He hadn't thought of this matter in those drastic terms before-not to their obvious conclusion. That conclusion loomed before him now, powerfully so. Brother Dynard was more than merely a wayward brother in need of repentance or, absent that, of excommunication from the order.

  Brother Dynard, by bringing the Book of Jhest, by his insistence on blurring the lines between the Church of Blessed Abelle and this mystical southern cult, was a threat to the Church-one the fledgling religion could ill afford, particularly with the continuing pressure of the Samhaists.

  Threats to the Church could not be tolerated. A week later, SenWi had not been found, to the increasing frustration and anger of Prince Prydae. But, true to his word, Father Jerak had ordered a haggard and ill Brother Dynard brought from the dungeon and placed in a secure room in the chapel. Dynard had lost a great deal of weight, and his body was covered in sores from the standing water and mud. His muscles had already begun to atrophy, and it took two brothers to help him up the stairs and into his new prison: a windowless room on the chapel's second floor.

  That night, Father Jerak went to him, the Book of Jhest in hand and Brother Bathelais in tow. He dropped the book on a table near the bed where the ragged-looking Brother Dynard was half sitting-and it seemed as if only the wall was holding the battered heretic up.

  "Have you something to say to me?" Father Jerak asked.

  Brother Dynard looked up at him, then at the book. "You wish me to translate the tome for you?"

  Father Jerak's expression grew very tight and he scowled at Brother Bathelais. "He is to have no visitors. His chamber pot will be replaced every morning and he will be served meals in accordance with the other brothers." He spun back to face Dynard. "But you will not leave this room. Understand that edict, foolish brother, if a brother you remain. Upon pain of death, you are not to leave this room."

  Brother Dynard's expression didn't change, the fallen monk didn't flinch as he sat there staring at Father Jerak, though whether that was through stubbornness or a simple lack of strength the old monk couldn't tell. Father Jerak snatched up the book, motioned to Bathelais to follow, and stormed out of the room.

  "You did not even ask him about the woman," Brother Bathelais remarked when they were out in the hallway and Bathelais had locked Dynard's do
or.

  "You heard his response."

  "A misconception regarding your request? He may have thought that his release had been incumbent upon our lessening our opposition to this supposed knowledge he has brought back."

  "The mere fact that he still harbors any uncertainty concerning that tome, or that he still holds, as his tone evinced, any desire to share the words confined within its pages, is all the proof I need that our wayward brother has not come to the truth. Let him fester through this season and the next. When winter's first winds blow against the walls of Chapel Pryd, we will return to him."

  Brother Bathelais did wince at the harsh sentence, but only momentarily, and he said nothing, deterred by the power of Father Jerak's scowl. She was having a good day, relatively speaking. SenWi had found some measure of energy and strength that morning, and after nearly three weeks of seclusion inside Garibond's house, she had dared to go out into the sunshine. She stayed close to the cottage by the lake, though, well aware that the authorities of Pryd Holding were seeking her.

  She managed her Jhesta Tu training ritual that day, as well, and though a light-headed weakness did return, SenWi pressed through the ritual to completion. She was still outside, sitting in the shadow under the eaves of the house, when she saw Garibond approaching, returning from one of his rare visits to the town. She rose unsteadily, but quickly found her balance and her center, and moved to greet the man with a hesitant hopefulness.

  She saw from his expression that things in town were not well.

  "Where is Dynard?"

  "You should not be outside," Garibond remarked, and he glanced around. "They are still looking for you."

  "Where is Dynard?" He started to go by her, but she caught him roughly by the shoulder and held him back. "Tell me."

  "He is alive but under guard in the chapel, so I heard. You and Brother Dynard are the talk of all the town, of course."

  "They are not mistreating him?"

  "Who can know what the brothers do," Garibond replied, and he gave a frustrated sigh. "I doubt you'll be well treated if Prince Prydae and his soldiers find you, and that is our main concern."

  "No."

  "Yes! There is nothing we can do for Dynard, and do not forget that it was his choice to return to Chapel Pryd. I promised him that I would look after you, and I'm not about to go back on my word."

  SenWi's expression clearly revealed that she wasn't buying the argument.

  "This is likely part of the process," Garibond went on more forcefully. "Dynard knew that it would be no easy task to persuade the monks."

  "Where is the book?"

  Garibond shrugged.

  SenWi looked out toward the distant keep tower, her thoughts spinning as she suddenly came to recognize the potential depth of this problem. "You must return to town, to the chapel itself," she improvised. "I will know more of Bran and of the Book of Jhest. You must do this for me, at once."

  "And mark my house for suspicion?" Garibond argued. "Shall I pause and visit Castle Pryd before my return and simply tell Prince Prydae that the woman he and his soldiers seek is safely hidden in the tunnels, or will you remain outside to greet them?"

  With her limited command of the language, it took SenWi some time to understand the sarcasm in the remark.

  "I cannot do it, girl," Garibond said bluntly.

  SenWi didn't argue any further, for her thoughts were already moving in another direction. With her returning strength came the return, she understood, of her responsibilities to her husband and to the prize he had carried from the Walk of Clouds. So deep in contemplation was she that she hardly noticed that Garibond had moved to the door and had pulled it open.

  "Come along inside, then," he said. "I've brought some fine spices. I'll make us a stew."

  SenWi didn't argue.

  Long after supper, with darkness spreading across the land, SenWi sat across from Garibond as he half sat and half reclined before a roaring fire. She said nothing, and brushed off his feeble attempts to begin a conversation. She watched and she waited, and when at last he nodded his head in slumber, she went to her travel sack and rummaged through it, producing the suit of black silk.

  She changed and went out into the night, dark and silent, trotting swiftly toward the town and Chapel Pryd. She spent a moment trying to recall its layout, then moved to the base of the northern wall. There was only one window here, set high up.

  SenWi fell into herself, grasping the energy of her chi and twisting it so that it battled against the natural pull of the ground. Then she picked out handholds in the wall and began to climb, moving steadily and easily-almost as if she were weightless. She arrived at the window in short order and squeezed through, entering the bedroom of Father Jerak himself.

  SenWi resisted the urge to awaken him with a choke hold that she might force the information from him. No, such a bold course could prove catastrophic for her husband, she knew. She slipped across the room and through the door to the antechamber, and before she took another step, she saw one of her missing prizes.

  The Book of Jhest lay there right before her, opened upon a wooden pedestal beside the low-burning hearth fire. Many other books were set haphazardly on shelves flanking that hearth; and even from this distance, SenWi could see the dust that had gathered on them. Was that the fate that awaited the product of Bran's long toil?

  Her fingers trembled as she felt the smooth pages of the opened book, and she promised herself that she would come back through here on her way out after locating and securing the release of her dear husband.

  She moved away, but before she even reached the door, a renewed wave of nausea washed over her and nearly buckled her legs beneath her. Black spots flitted before her eyes, and it was all that she could do just to stand there and not fall over. Instinctively, SenWi clutched at her belly and it took all of her considerable willpower to bring her breathing quickly back under control.

  "Bran," she whispered helplessly, and another wave brought her to one knee. She knew that she was in trouble. Her physical exertion in running all the way out here and, even more so, her mystical exertion in scaling and levitating up the wall, had been too much, she only now realized. She thought of the days she had spent in Garibond's house, incapacitated beyond anything she had ever known, barely conscious and without the strength to even stand. What might it mean for Bran if she fell ill here?

  With that troubling thought in mind, SenWi glanced back at the Book of Jhest. Then she looked past it, to the shelves and the piled, disheveled tomes. Glancing all around, improvising as she went, SenWi searched the deepest recesses of the shelves and found a book of roughly similar size to the one sitting on the pedestal. She meant to tip the pedestal to the floor toward the open hearth, and nearly did so as she swooned, but fortunately, she caught herself at the last moment.

  She didn't want to make a ruckus that would awaken Father Jerak and half the chapel, after all!

  Regaining her balance and a measure of her strength, SenWi placed the Book of Jhest off to the side, then gently lowered the pedestal to the floor, lining it up with the hearth. She then opened the other book, taken from the shelf, and placed it on the embers, and after blowing on those orange coals for a bit, managed to set the book aflame.

  SenWi glanced back at the crowded bookshelf and wondered how effective the ruse might prove. For good measure and taking care not to obviously disturb the dust, she jostled the remaining books on the shelf to better hide the theft. With no other options before her, she gathered up the Book of Jhest, and with a rueful glance at the room's other door-the one that would lead her deeper into the chapel and hopefully to her imprisoned husband-she staggered back the other way, back into sleeping Father Jerak's bedchamber.

  She squeezed out onto the windowsill and glanced down the twenty feet or more to the ground. SenWi told herself how important this was, reminded herself of the grim consequences of failure-for her, for Bran, and for the precious book. She felt inside herself again, found the line of chi, an
d tried again to free herself from the bonds of gravity.

  Father Jerak stirred behind her, and she knew she could wait no longer. She turned and slipped down from the windowsill.

  And then she was falling.

  She arrived at Garibond's house many hours later, after the dawn, dragging one broken leg, barely conscious, and trembling violently in the grip of a high fever.

  She was still clutching the book.

  12

  The Inspiration of the Season She heard the birds singing every day but never did she open her eyes at their inviting call. She felt the movement around her and knew it to be Garibond, and occasionally heard his whispers.

  But it too was distant, and nothing that could bring her forth from the damaged shell of her physical body.

  She tasted the cool water and warm broth when he managed to get some into her mouth, but they were sensations of another time and place, of another world altogether, it seemed.

  For most of SenWi's thoughts remained inward, sharing herself with her unborn child, offering her love and her warmth, watching the awakening of consciousness. It seemed to her such a beautiful and comforting thing that a piece of Bran and a piece of herself should create an entirely different and independent little being. She felt its presence keenly within her own corporeal coil, and knew after a time that it sensed her as well.

  One morning, SenWi heard the birds more distinctly, though it seemed to her as if they were fewer in number. Hardly aware of the movement, she blinked open her eyes. Curtains covered the room's small window, but the brightness stung her nonetheless, and it took her a long time to resist blinking her eyes tightly closed.

  She lay there as time passed. She knew not how long-hours perhaps-before the door was finally pushed open and Garibond, looking weary and downtrodden, walked in.