He read the indicated passage, and in light of what Bransen had just said, something dawned on him. The purpose of the Jhesta Tu test of water was to measure the inner calm of a student. All the students had been shown how to extricate themselves from the binding weights; at issue was whether or not they could do it under the extreme pressure of being underwater. This test was of a person's inner strength, his calm under duress. Garibond had always seen that, somewhat, of course, but the revelation here was not what was on the page in the Book of Jhest, but rather, the reasoning power of Bransen!
That, and the fact that the boy could read! How could that be possible?
Garibond looked at him, and wanted to say something, wanted to pour out all of his amazement and joy. Never before had he looked at Bransen in quite this way, and he wanted nothing more than to shout with happiness.
But he couldn't. He felt the lump welling in his throat and he could force no words past it. He reached out and tousled Bransen's hair, and managed to motion toward the boy's bed.
Then he gently closed the book and blew out the candle and waited for Bransen to settle onto his bed, which was really just a cot piled with dry hay, before blowing out the other candles in the room.
Garibond didn't go straight to his own bed. He went to the window and stared up at the sky, which was caught in the last moments of twilight. In a patch where some of the clouds had cleared, he could see the first twinkling stars, framed by the rolling dark edges of the overcast.
It was a long, long time before Garibond managed to get to bed, and the room was beginning to brighten in predawn glow before he finally managed to fall asleep. Garibond heard the knocking, but it didn't register in his mind, as if it were coming from far away, perhaps, or as if it were part of another world.
Even the loud crash that followed merely made him blink once and roll over.
But when he heard Bransen cry out, "Nnnnnnnno!" his eye popped open and he rolled quickly out of bed to his feet.
He took in the scene immediately: there was Prince Prydae and his companion, the warrior of note named Bannagran. Bannagran held Bransen by the shoulders, his great strength keeping the poor boy almost completely still.
"When your laird comes knocking, you would do well to open the door for him," Bannagran said to Garibond.
"I-I was asleep," the man stammered. "My liege, is there a problem?"
"No problem," Bannagran answered. "We came for the boy and now we have him." The large man wheeled about, jerking poor Bransen so forcefully that his legs swung out wide.
Garibond, dressed only in his flimsy nightshirt, rushed to the door before them. "What are you doing?" he cried. "You cannot take my boy!"
"Cannot?" Prydae said, holding a hand up to silence Bannagran.
"But, my liege-"
"Exactly," Prydae interrupted. "Your liege. Your laird."
"But why would you wish to take him? He is just a child. He has never harmed anyone. Please, my liege, I beg of you to leave him alone. Mercy, my liege. Sweet mercy."
"Oh, shut up, you babbling fool," said Bannagran. "And get out of the way before I throw you through the door. The Prince of Pryd is in need of your son, and so your son will come to his service."
"What can he do? He is just a child, and infirm-"
"Not infirm for our needs, I pray," said Bannagran. He wrapped one arm around Bransen's chest and leaned back, holding the boy easily from the floor, then reached his other arm around and down the front to the boy's crotch and gave a squeeze that brought a squeal from poor Bransen.
"Yes, he is secure."
Garibond's eyes widened with horror, and he charged forward-or started to, for before he got a single step, Prydae had his sword out, its tip against Garibond's chest.
"I will forgive you that," Prydae said, "just once."
"Ah, I see that you have secured our sacrifice," came a voice behind Garibond, from the open doorway, and he turned around to see Bernivvigar standing there.
"S-sacrifice?" Garibond stammered, and then he steeled himself and straightened his shoulder. "You old beast! Begone from my home!"
"The boy will not be killed," Prydae assured Garibond, and there was something in the prince's voice, some bit of remorse perhaps, that made Garibond look back over his shoulder.
"He is needed," Prydae went on. "Take pride that this crippled creature will restore the line of Pryd."
Garibond's expression was one of pure incredulity. "What will you do to him? He's just a boy."
"The Ancient Ones oft accept such sacrifices," Bernivvigar said.
"You just said…" Garibond protested to Prydae.
"That he will not be killed," Prydae repeated.
"His life is not the sacrifice," Bernivvigar said, and there was obvious amusement in his tone. "This wretched little creature will restore to the new Laird of Pryd that which the powries took away."
Garibond's eyes widened, and he inadvertently dropped his gaze to Prydae's groin.
"If you utter a word of this, I promise that I will cut your face off," Prydae warned. "That for all of your life you will suffer the screams of revulsion, of children and women, and even men, who cannot withstand the horror of your ugliness. And if you utter a word of this, you will watch your wretched little boy die slowly and painfully."
Garibond hardly heard the words, his thoughts careening as he came to understand exactly what the old Samhaist had in mind. "You c-cannot," he stammered. "He is just a boy."
"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 world 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 t
hrough 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.
The Highwayman sotfk-1 Page 20