The Highwayman sotfk-1

by R. A. Salvatore

  "Limited miracles, then?" Bernivvigar replied. "An interesting concept."

  "And what shall the Samhaists offer Prince Prydae beyond your clever insults?" Brother Bathelais charged.

  Prydae could hardly believe that these men were vying so, right in front of him, and daring to speak of him as if he weren't even there. Rather than interrupt, the prince let them go on a bit more. It seemed obvious to him that the tension between the competing religions had heightened of late, as was logical, given the monumental changes in the land and the desperate and competing work of both Samhaist cleric and monk of Abelle at the battlefield.

  "We shall see," Bernivvigar replied to Bathelais, and he offered a look to Prydae then, designed obviously to give the prince some ray of hope.

  "My pardon, my prince, who is soon to be rightful laird of Pryd," Father Jerak interjected; and he stepped in front of Bathelais and fixed him with a scowl that silenced him. "The brothers of Blessed Abelle have prayed for you every day. We are pleased that your life was saved but sorrowful for your loss, which is a loss to all the lands of Honce. We have done all that we could, and will continue our efforts on your behalf. A collective of our most powerful brothers, with the soul stones of the greatest godly energy, can be called together at any time. Many would make the pilgrimage to the aid of Prince Prydae, no doubt, perhaps even some of our masters from Chapel Abelle."

  "Though you know that you can do nothing," Bernivvigar immediately interjected. "Would you stretch out hope indefinitely to avoid the inevitable realization by Prince Prydae that there really is nothing your church has to offer him?"

  "Perhaps you would do well to hold your tongue, old Samhaist," Father Jerak snapped back with uncharacteristic sharpness.

  "I have held several tongues," Bernivvigar replied, and he brought forth his hand, palm up. "Cut from the mouths of undeserving fools, muting them so that others could be given back lost voices."

  It took a moment for that remark, that notion of Samhaist doctrine which often used sacrifice for supposed medical purposes, to truly sink into Prince Prydae; and when he fixed Bernivvigar with a serious look, the old Samhaist merely offered him a meaningful stare.

  "Father Jerak," Prydae began, still staring hard at Bernivvigar, "I am not without gratitude for the work of your brethren out on the battlefield. Surely I would have expired had it not been for them. Rest easy here, I pray you, and know that the brothers of Abelle showed themselves well in the east. Let us end this useless bickering."

  "Yes, my liege," said Jerak.

  "We have other matters to attend," Rennarq cut in. "Prince-Laird Prydae should be crowned within the week. The event will heighten the celebration of our glorious victory over the bloody caps! Their scourge is lifted from the land, and never again will the men of Honce have to fear powrie raiders along our roads."

  That last remark had Prydae and Bannagran exchanging looks, for it wasn't quite true. Victory in the east had been substantial, and the blood of thousands of powries stained the coastal rocks and had turned the tides red for many days. But Laird Ethelbert and Laird Delaval, the two men truly in charge of Honce's arrayed forces, had stopped short of eliminating the powries altogether. And both Bannagran and Prydae knew well that it was not because of battle weariness and not because the two lairds simply could not have pressed farther. No, the decision to allow the powries some escape had been a calculated one, as almost all the lairds at the front had learned. The powrie threat had to be kept at a minimum to allow for trade and for the coming consolidations the two great lairds planned. But at the same time, the powrie threat had to remain, at the edges of awareness, so that all the lairds of the land could keep their people properly afraid of the world beyond their borders. With tales of powries and goblins lurking in the forests, the peasants would not question the demands of their protector lairds.

  "You may leave us," Prydae said to the monks, and he pointedly turned to Bernivvigar and added, "but you stay a bit longer."

  The old Samhaist bowed and flashed a superior look Father Jerak's way. Brother Bathelais muttered as if intending to protest the slight, but Father Jerak silenced him with an upraised hand.

  "It is good that the brothers of Blessed Abelle were able to save your life, good prince," Father Jerak offered to Prydae as he shuffled past. "An empty place would be Pryd Holding without the proud son of Laird Pryd."

  Prydae didn't respond, other than to offer a quick nod.

  "We have much to attend to, my laird-in-waiting," Rennarq remarked, and Prydae stared at him as if listening, but the door had barely closed behind the departing monks when Prydae turned away from the old laird-guest to focus on Bernivvigar.

  "You speak of the sacrifice of a tongue to restore the voice of another."

  "Indeed, it has been done," Bernivvigar answered. "Other sacrifices have not been so successful, of course."

  "To what does this apply?"

  "To anything, if the sacrifice is appealing to the Ancient Ones. I have seen men slaughtered so that others could rise up from their graves. I have seen eyes plucked out to make more worthy blind men see."

  Prydae lowered his head and sighed.

  "As for your…infirmity," Bernivvigar said tactfully. "You fear that you are the end of the line of Pryd."

  "There is little left to dissuade me from the conclusion," Prydae admitted.

  "Castrating another might bring relief, depending on the extent of your injuries and depending upon the whims of the Ancient Ones."

  "The whims?"

  "That is the way of the gods, my laird," Bernivvigar answered. "Among men you stand tall. Among the folk of Pryd Holding, you are practically a god yourself. But among the Ancient Ones, we are all rather small."

  Prydae paused and considered the words for a moment. He licked his lips and glanced over at Bannagran, who nodded. "What would we have to do?" the soon-to-be-laird asked.

  "Find a sacrifice, of course."

  "What requirements?"

  Bernivvigar laughed. "That he has testicles, my laird. Any man will do, though I would not recommend an old and shriveled specimen." A smile widened on the old Samhaist's face that set Prydae back on his heels, so obvious was its wickedness.

  "There is a rather odd boy about the town," Bernivvigar remarked.

  "Not that stork creature?" put in Rennarq, and Bernivvigar blinked slowly, holding fast to his smile.

  "Why that one was ever allowed to continue to draw breath, I do not know. The Ancient Ones surely show no favor to a creature so inferior and damaged as he," the imposing Samhaist said.

  "The boy on the road?" Bannagran asked Prydae. "The one who staggers with every step and has a face full of snot and drool?"

  "A wonderful specimen, is he not?" said Bernivvigar. "Perhaps when I am finished with him-with your permission of course, my laird-I can mercifully put an end to his thoroughly wretched existence."

  Prydae's conscience tugged at him. Could he do such a thing? Any of it? Surely, if his virility could be restored, the line of Pryd secured, it would be for the greater good. But still…

  He glanced around at his secular advisers, focusing mostly upon Bannagran, who had become such a trusted companion under such difficult circumstances. The large man returned the look and nodded.

  Prydae licked his lips nervously, then turned to Rennarq. "Do we know where this creature lives?"

  20

  When All the World Turned Upside Down Garibond watched as the woman he believed to be Callen Duwornay, who had stubbornly called herself Ada Wehelin, and her young daughter walked away from his house on the lake. "A good deed repaid," the man repeated, for that is what the woman had said when he had once more, upon their parting, thanked her and her daughter for their help in the town.

  Garibond hadn't recognized the woman at first-Callen Duwornay was someone long out of his thoughts-and the truth of her identity hadn't even registered to him during their walk out to his house or during the short visit of the woman and her daughter. It wasn't un
til she was leaving, actually walking away, when she had uttered those words, "A good deed repaid." Even then, for a few moments, Garibond hadn't made the connection.

  But watching her now, though her back was to him, the man understood the truth, beyond any doubt. That was her, Callen. Garibond was glad to learn that she was still alive, that she had gotten through her ordeal and had even managed, apparently, to remain in Pryd Holding-in Gorham's Hill, on the far western edge of the town proper, she had told him. Somehow seeing her alive bolstered Garibond's spirits, even beyond his simple sympathy and empathy toward her. Somehow, the fact that she had gone on, had even given birth to a beautiful daughter, made the sacrifices of SenWi and now poor Bransen, somewhat more tolerable.

  All along, Garibond had known that SenWi had done right that day in healing the young woman, and never had she wavered on that matter, never had she expressed the slightest bit of regret. Seeing Callen and Cadalye reinforced the concept.

  "Sh-sh-sh-she'sss-my frien…my frien…my friend," Bransen said to him, making his way over to join him at the window.

  "What a beautiful little friend you've got there, Bransen," Garibond replied, and he draped his arm about the boy and pulled him close, in part to steady him but more because he just felt that he needed a hug.

  "I-I-I'm going to m-m-marry…marry her."

  Garibond's smile nearly took in his ears, and he squeezed Bransen up close to his side and continued to watch the departing pair. He knew that such a thing could never be, of course, but he simply said, "She'll be a fine wife to you." Why would he deprive Bransen of his dreams, after all? What else could the poor boy possibly have?

  When he looked at Bransen then, his thought was only reinforced, for rarely had Garibond seen Bransen smile so widely. And Bransen didn't look back at him, didn't even seem to feel the weight of Garibond's gaze. No, he kept staring out the window at Cadalye, and he kept smiling.

  Sometime later, when the mother and daughter were long out of sight, Garibond remarked, "Well, I must get myself cleaned up and get some dinner to cooking." He gave Bransen another hug, then moved off and went about starting a fire and heating some water for stew. As he stood there stirring the pot, Garibond wondered about the boy's smile. Glad he was to see it, after their humiliation in the town. How horrible that had been!

  But more horrible for him than for Bransen, Garibond understood, if for no other reason than the fact that the poor boy was quite used to such humiliation. He second-guessed himself for all those occasions he had allowed Bransen to journey into the town on an errand. True, Bransen was always eaget to go, and often begging to go, but had there been a single occasion in the last two or three years when the boy had gone to Pryd Town and had returned without mud on his clothing or blood somewhere? Given the experience today, Garibond realized more fully that many of those falls were far from accidental.

  He thought of Dynard and SenWi as he stood there cooking, remembering his old friends. He watched the swirl of the stew, the thick liquid rolling back over to flatten the wake caused by the passing spoon, and that motion invited him to look more deeply into himself and his life. Garibond the hermit, he supposed, and he thought back to all the disappointments that had led him to this place. It hadn't been a sudden decision for him to move out here and settle in the abandoned shell of a cottage on the small rocky island. It had been a gradual drifting away from the disappointments he always seemed to find when around other people. He remembered when his sister had been killed by powries and how the soldiers of Laird Pryd, coming in just moments too late, had been more concerned with celebrating their victory than in worrying about Garibond's grief. While he had knelt there over his sister's body, the soldiers had cheered and danced, arguing over who could claim credit for which powrie killed.

  "Aye, and what a wonderful life it's been," Garibond muttered over the stew.

  The moment of self-pity passed quickly, as it always did with Garibond, and he turned his thoughts to the good things he had known, to Dynard again and SenWi, who had touched him deeply in so short a time. And of course, to Bransen, that awkward and fragile little boy. Garibond chuckled as he considered how frustrated other people always seemed to get when Bransen tried to speak, turning a simple statement into a long ordeal. Garibond didn't think of things that way with Bransen; to him, the boy's stuttering only lengthened the moment of revelation, like having a hooked fish put up a good and long fight or watching a refreshing spring storm roll in from far away.

  He looked up from the stew to Bransen, then, and found that the boy had again taken out the Book of Jhest, and was now gently moving his hands across the pages. Bransen was always at that book, it seemed, ever since Garibond had shown it to him and had spent many days with him trying to explain the lettering. For some reason Garibond didn't understand, Bransen seemed to take a kind of solace in just looking at the flowery text. At first, the man had worried that the clumsy child would damage the book, but it had quickly become apparent to Garibond that Bransen was taking more care with the tome than anyone else ever could.

  So he let the boy play with the book as often as he wished, and he never concerned himself with the well-being of one of the most important artifacts he had to tie him to SenWi and particularly Dynard.

  The two sat down to dinner a little later, the room full of the rich aroma of the fish stew and wood smoke. Several candles provided the light, for clouds had thickened outside, hastening the onset of dusk.

  "Good lettering in that book," Garibond remarked between bites. "You like looking at it."

  Bransen's face twisted into a crooked smile.

  "Does it take you away from all of this?" the man asked. "Can you forget what happened in the town when you focus on the letters in the book? Bah, what fools are those soldiers."

  Bransen's smile twisted even more, finally settling into a perplexed expression, or the closest thing the boy could approximate. He started to respond several times, and Garibond caught on that more than his inability to quickly verbalize his thoughts was holding him back. Finally, Bransen brought one hand over the table, fingers outstretched and palm down.

  "This iiiiis…take," he said. His arm shook from the effort as he forced the palm to turn upward without any wild flailing.

  Garibond tilted his head curiously.

  "Nnnnnnnth. Nnnnnnnth…th-this iiiis…re-re-re-receeeeive."

  "Of course," Garibond said quietly, and he took Bransen's hand and slowly guided it off the table. He could see that Bransen was growing quite excited, and knew that type of emotion usually foreshadowed some wild movement from the damaged boy. Garibond had little trouble in imagining bowls of his fresh stew flying about the room.

  But then, even as he brought the arm over the table side, it hit him, and he froze in place, staring wide-eyed at the boy. "What did you say?"

  Bransen's face twisted as he tried to form the words, and he started to turn his hand over again, though Garibond still held it.

  Garibond did it for him and brought the arm back up over the table. "This is take?" he asked, not willing to wait through the stuttered explanation.

  Bransen nodded.

  Garibond turned the hand over. "Receive?"

  The boy's smile answered it all.

  Garibond leaped up from the table so quickly that his chair skidded out behind him. He scooped up a candle as he went to the book, and bent low to study its open pages.

  And there it was, on the very page Bransen had left open, one of the Jhesta Tu explanations of the differences of posture, the connotations of movement and position. Those acting in anger or superiority, the text explained, often reached for something from another with their palms down-the inference being that they took what they wanted without regard. Like the soldiers on the road, pushing Bransen and Garibond away, like the prince himself, kicking the boy without regard.

  Those who lived a receptive life, an open existence in which they hoped to, and expected to, learn from others, must reach out with their palms up, inviting
compliance and sharing.

  But how had Bransen figured that out? Garibond had never read him this specific page!

  The man turned to regard the boy. "Are you reading this?"

  The twisted smile, the awkward nod.

  "Reading?" Garibond asked with a gasp.

  Bransen gulped for air, as if he was setting his jaw muscles so that he could try to answer. He did start to stutter something out, but it was irrelevant to Garibond, who had been thrown into complete confusion. How could an idiot read? How could Bransen, a boy who could hardly master the simple movement of putting one foot in front of the other, begin to decipher the intricacies of Dynard's flowing script?

  He shook his head in denial, then gathered up the book and moved over to the table. He surprised and frightened Bransen as he swept the bowls from in front of him, caring not at all that they crashed about the floor. He placed the book down and flipped the pages, coming to one of the early lessons the Jhesta Tu placed upon their beginning students. A student would be bound by the ankles to a heavy weight, then dropped into a pool that was just deep enough to keep the student, fully extended, under water. As with most of the lessons and pages in the book, Garibond possessed only a rudimentary understanding. From what he gathered, the Jhesta Tu wanted to see if their students could free themselves without help.

  The ending note of wisdom on this page-every page had one-went, "In the peace and solitude of the water, do we see ourselves."

  "Re-re-reflec…reflecti…ti…tion."

  "Yes," said Garibond. "Reflection. Like when you look into the lake with me. You see what you look like."

  Bransen began shaking his head. "Nnnnnnno. No," he said, and he poked a finger at the text. "Innnn wa-wa-water…" The boy gave a great sigh and closed his eyes. He seemed deep in thought for a moment, looking inside himself, and then, in the clearest statement Garibond had ever heard him utter, he said, "In water we see ourselves."

  So shocked was Garibond by the clarity of the words, that it took him a long moment to realize that Bransen was poking at the book, bidding him to look.