The Ancient

ONE

The Would-Be King

Small and thin, Bransen nevertheless walked with the stride of a confident man. He wore the simple clothing of a farmer, breeches and shirt and a wide-brimmed hat under which sprouted tufts of black hair. He carried a thick walking stick, too thick, it seemed, for the fit of his fine hands. But it, like the hat-like the man himself-concealed a great secret, for within its burnished wood was a hollow, and within that hollow a sword, a fabulous sword, the greatest sword in all the land north of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains. Fashioned of wrapped silverel steel, decorated with etchings of vines and flowers and with a handle of silver and ivory that resembled a hooded serpent, the sword would grow sharper with use as the thicker outer layers of wrapping were nicked or worn away.

It was a Jhesta Tu blade, named for the reclusive mystics of the southern nation of Behr. No detail of the sword had been overlooked, not even the prongs of the crosspiece, each resembling smaller snakes poised as if to strike. For to the Jhesta Tu, the making of the sword was a holy thing, a signal of deeper meditation and perfect concentration. This sword had been fashioned by Bransen’s mother, Sen Wi, and whenever he held it he could feel in its details and workmanship the spirit of that remarkable woman, long dead.

A simple wagon pulled by two horses and a donkey tethered behind rolled beside him on the cobblestone road, driven by a woman who commanded Bransen’s attention so completely that he was caught off his guard when another woman walked up beside him and tucked his silk bandanna up higher under his hat.

Instinctively, Bransen’s hand snapped up to catch the wrist of the older woman, Callen Duwornay, his mother-in-law. He turned to her with a smile.

“I like the way you look at her,” Callen said to him quietly, motioning with her chin toward her daughter. Oblivious of Bransen’s stare, Cadayle sang while she steered the wagon.

“She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” Bransen replied quietly enough so that Cadayle couldn’t hear. “Every time I look at her she seems more beautiful still.”

Callen flashed him a wide smile. “A man looked at me like that once,” she said. “Or so I thought.”

Though she smiled her voice was filled with wistful-ness and a hint of regret. Bransen understood the latter all too well, for he knew Callen’s sad tale because it was intricately and intimately entwined with his own.

Callen had been in love once, but not with her husband. She met her soulmate after she had already been given in marriage, without choice and without say, as had been the custom twenty years before in Honce. The revelations of her adulterous affair had brought her a death sentence. As per the brutal Samhaist tradition, young Callen had been “sacked”-placed in a canvas bag with a poisonous snake. After being bitten repeatedly, her veins coursing with deadly poison, she had been staked out at the edge of Pryd Holding and left to die.

Bransen’s mother had come upon Callen on the path and intervened, had used her Jhesta Tu magic to draw the poison from Callen and into her own body. But unknown to Sen Wi she was with child, with Bransen, and the poison damaged him severely.

Thus he kept close his second secret, concealed under a bandanna that he wore under his hat. The bandanna held in place a soul stone, a hematite, a magical gemstone enchanted with the Abellican powers of healing. While wearing that stone Bransen could walk normally with confidence. Without it he reverted to the clumsy and awkward creature often derided as “the Stork.”

“Your lover betrayed you,” Bransen said, but Callen was shaking her head before he ever finished.

“He had no choice. He would have been killed beside me if he had either denied or confirmed the affair.”

“That would have been a noble deed.”

“A stupid one.”

“Speaking the truth is not stupid,” Bransen argued.

Callen grinned at him knowingly. “Then throw away your hat and draw your sword out from that log you call a walking stick.”

Bransen chuckled, accepting her point. “What was his name?”

Callen shook her head. “I loved him” was all she would say. “And he gave to me my Cadayle.” She looked past Bransen then to her daughter. In that moment Bransen saw more clearly than ever the resemblance between Callen and her daughter. They had the same soft, wheat-colored hair, though Callen’s was showing gray now, and eyes of similar brown hue, though rare were the times Bransen had seen Callen’s eyes sparkle as they did at that moment, as Cadayle’s always did.

Bransen followed her gaze to his beloved wife. “Then I forgive him his cowardice, whatever his name,” he said. “For he gave me Cadayle, too, I suppose.”

“As your mother gave you to her. As your mother gave life itself to Cadayle by saving mine when I carried Cadayle in my womb.”

“When my mother carried me,” Bransen said, looking back at his mother-in-law.

Callen sucked in her breath at his words. “I am sorry,” she said.

Bransen waved her off. “Tell me true: Would you have stopped Sen Wi if you had known that drawing the poison would so damage me?”

Callen struggled for an answer as she glanced at Cadayle, which made Bransen smile all the wider.

“Nor would I,” he said. “I would rather be the Stork with Cadayle beside me than a whole man without her.”

“You are a whole man,” Callen insisted. She reached up and tucked the hem of his bandanna.

“With the gemstone.”

“Or without it,” Callen said. “Bransen Garibond is a better man than any I’ve e’er known.”

Bransen laughed again. “And perhaps one day I might walk without the soul stone. Such are the promises of the secrets of the Jhesta Tu.”

“What are you discussing with your titters and giggles?” Cadayle asked from the wagon. “Are you stealing my husband then?”

“Oh, but if I could!” Callen replied.

Bransen put his arm about Callen and pulled her close as they walked side by side. It was not hard for him to understand the source of Cadayle’s beauty, physical and emotional, and he knew himself to be a lucky man to have such a mother-in-law. To even think that someone would have so viciously tried to kill Callen-Bernivvigar the Samhaist had attempted to do so twice!-confounded him and filled him with outrage. Bernivvigar had also mutilated Garibond, Bransen’s adopted father.

And now Bernivvigar was dead, cut down by the very sword in the log, by the very man holding the thick walking stick. Bransen was glad of it.

The conversation was ended by the sound of hooves coming down the road from behind, moving at a fast clip. That could mean only one thing on these roads in this day.

“Stork,” Callen whispered to Bransen.

He was far ahead of her warning already. He closed his eyes and severed his connection-one that had become almost automatic at this point-with his soul stone. Immediately, the young man’s fluid motions ceased, and he began to walk again in a gangly and awkward manner, literally throwing one hip out before him to swing his leg ahead. Now the walking stick became more than ornamental as Bransen tightened his grip on it and used it as a true crutch.

He heard the horses closing in fast from behind, but he didn’t dare turn to observe for fear that the effort would make him fall flat on his face. Callen and Cadayle did look about, though, and Callen whispered, “Laird Delaval’s men.”

“Make way!” came a gruff command from behind a moment later. The riders pulled their horses to an abrupt stop. “Move this wagon off the road and identify yourselves!”

“He is speaking to you,” Callen whispered.

Bransen struggled to turn about, finally managing it, though he nearly tumbled at several points. When he did come around he noted the astonished looks on the faces of the two soldiers, a pair of large, older men.

“What are you about?” asked one of them, a portly giant who sported a thick gray beard.

“I… I… I…” Bransen stammered, and he honestly couldn’t get out any words beyond that, for he had grown unused to speaking without the aid of the gemstone. “I…”

Both men crinkled their faces with disgust.

“My son,” Callen explained, and she moved to support Bransen.

“You admit that,” asked the other soldier, younger and clean-shaven, except for a tremendous mustache that seemed to reach from ear to ear. Both men laughed at Bransen’s expense.

“Bah, but go on now and leave him be,” said Callen. “Wounded in the war he was. Took a spear in the back saving another man. He’s deserving your respect, not your taunts.”

The gray beard looked at them both suspiciously. “Where was he wounded?”

“In the back,” said Callen, and the man put on a sour expression indeed.

“Good lady, I’ve not the time for your ignorance nor for your feigned ignorance.”

“South o’ Pryd Town!” Callen blurted, though she had no idea if there had been any real fighting south of Pryd Town.

That answer seemed to satisfy the pair, however, to Callen’s relief-until the younger man fixed his gaze upon Cadayle, his gray eyes immediately lighting up with obvious interest.

“He’s not really my son,” Callen blurted, drawing his attention. “He’s my daughter’s husband, so I’m thinking of him as such.”

“Daughter’s husband?” the younger man echoed, staring at Cadayle. “He’s married to you?”

“Aye,” said the woman. “My beloved. We’re for Delaval to see if any of the monks there might be helping him.”

The soldiers shared a look. The younger one slid down from his saddle and moved beside Bransen and Callen.

“What’s your name?” he asked, but when Callen started to answer for Bransen, the man held up his hand to hush her.

“Bra… Br… Brrrran,” Bransen sputtered, spraying the man with every forced syllable.

“Bran?”

“Sen,” Callen added, and the man hushed her with a scowl and a sharp retort.

“Bran?” he asked again.

“S… Sssss… Brranssen,” said the Stork.

“Bransen?” the soldier asked, walking a circuit about him.

“Y… Y… Yes.”

“Stupid name,” said the soldier, brushing into Bransen, which sent the Stork into an exaggerated stumble, one hand flailing, the other desperately trying to get the walking stick under him for support.

The honesty of that awkward gait and those fumbling movements had the soldiers glancing at each other again with a mixture of disgust and sympathy. The younger one grabbed Bransen roughly and helped steady him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said to Cadayle.

“He’s not dead,” the woman replied, obviously trying hard to fight back her anger at the soldier for bumping Bransen.

“Sorry for that, too,” said the man with a snicker. “Monks ain’t to help this one. Better for him and for yourself if he’d’ve just died out on the field.” He gave a derisive snort and walked away from Bransen, toward the wagon, visually inspecting it as he neared. “You’re loyal for bringing him to the monks, I expect. But if he ain’t for pleasing you, then you just let me know,” he added with a wink and a lewd smile.

Cadayle swallowed hard. Callen moved immediately to Bransen and put her hand on his forearm, fearing that he would leap ahead and cut the fool down for the insult.

Abruptly other sounds could be heard from behind, plodding hooves and the creak of a coach.

“Or maybe she’s liking those jerking movements in their lovemaking, eh?” the young soldier asked his older companion, who frowned at him in response.

“Just get the wagon off the road,” the gray beard said.

“But the ground is uneven and full of roots,” Cadayle complained as the younger man moved around to the side of the horses. “And our wheels are worn and will not-”

“Just shut your pretty mouth and be glad that we’ve not the time for other things,” the younger soldier said to her. “Or the time to take the horses and wagon in the name of Laird Delaval.” He gave a disapproving look at the wagon and team and old Doully the donkey tethered behind, adding, “Not that any of ’em’re worth stealing.”

“Don’t, I beg!” said Cadayle, but the man grabbed the nearest horse’s bridle and roughly tugged the creature to the side, guiding the wagon down a small embankment, where it rolled fast for a few seconds, coming to rest up tight against a tree.

Up on the road across the way, the gray beard walked his horse at Callen and Bransen, forcing them to move off the other side of the road, pulling his companion’s horse beside him as he stepped farther along.

“Bow your heads for Prince Yeslnik, Laird of Pryd!” he instructed, staring at Callen all the while, making sure to keep his horse between the two wanderers and the approaching coach. As it rolled by, all gilded in shiny gold and pulled by a fine and strong team, Bransen noted the drivers, a pair of men he had seen before. He saw, too, the Lady Olym, Prince Yeslnik’s annoying and spoiled wife, as she stared out the window.

He smiled as he glanced up at her from his half-bowed head. She regarded him with a start, which seemed a bit of recognition. Bransen winked at her for that, and she fell back, putting her gloved hand to her mouth.

That made Bransen smile all the more, but he kept his face aimed at the ground to make sure the gray-bearded soldier didn’t catch on.

“He is a prince, you say?” Callen asked the man. “Or a laird, for you’re calling him both.”

“Prince Yeslnik of Delaval,” the gray beard confirmed, moving his horse onto the cobblestones. Across the way, his younger companion rushed up the embankment to join him and quickly mounted.

“Named Laird of Pryd soon to be Laird of Delaval,” the younger man insisted.

“Aye, and the king of all Honce, don’t you doubt,” said his companion. “Ethelbert’s soon to break, and when we’re done with that one, we’ll put the other lairds in place in short order.”

“Aye,” agreed the younger. “Now that we’ve got the river running free o’ wild northmen and goblins, and Palmaristown’s joined in Laird Delaval’s cause, the ships’re moving and it’s not to be long. Ethelbert’s city of Entel will find herself blockaded by the spring, and without his supplies and warriors flowing in from the southland he won’t last long.”

The gray beard shot his young and boisterous companion a scolding expression, clearly willing him to silence by showing him that he was wagging his tongue too much.

Bransen caught the nuance and understood that they were speaking of something terribly important.

To him, though, it all seemed meaningless banter, for he cared not at all which side won this fight, or what Honce came to look like thereafter. He had no love for any laird and could only hope that they would all kill each other in the last throes of the seemingly endless war. One thing did strike him, though: the notion that Prince Yeslnik had already been named as the replacement laird for Prydae, a man dead because of Bransen. It amused Bransen to think that Yeslnik was in line to become Laird of Delaval, and even king of Honce. The man was a fool and a coward, Bransen knew all too well. He had come upon the very coach that had just rolled past a long time before, when vicious bloody-cap powries had forced it from the road. Yeslnik, his wife, and their two drivers (one of whom had been seriously wounded) were surely doomed, but Bransen, the Highwayman, had come to save the day.

Of course, he had taken some reward for his efforts-much more than the stingy and ungrateful Prince Yeslnik had offered-and so the tale of his heroics had been buried by the prince’s wounded pride.

Bransen closed his eyes and reconnected with the soul stone set under his black silk bandanna, leaving the Stork far behind.

“Laird Yeslnik?” he whispered under his breath as the two soldiers moved off. Cadayle called to the departing men, begging them to help her get her wagon back on the road, but of course they just ignored her.

“King Yeslnik?” Bransen asked quietly, shaking his head as if the possibility was truly incomprehensible. And indeed, to him, it surely was.

Still, given his experience with the nobility of Honce, he was hardly surprised.

“We should have gone straight out for Behr, as we’d planned,” Cadayle said to Bransen as he coaxed and tugged the horses to get the wagon back on the road.

“No choice to us,” he answered, and not for the first time.

Cadayle sighed and didn’t argue. Both of them had wanted to get out of Honce to board a ship in the port of Ethelbert dos Entel and sail around the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains into Behr. Bransen’s greatest desire-at least, that which he expressed to his two companions-was to find the Mountains of Fire and the Walk of Clouds, the home of the Jhesta Tu mystics. Their centuries of wisdom had created the tome that Bransen’s father had penned. Bransen’s mother, Sen Wi, had been of their order. In their midst, Bransen believed, he would find the answers to his dilemma. There, he would attune himself more fully to his ki-chi-kree, his line of life energy, and would thus free himself of having to wear the soul stone strapped to his forehead. That soul stone allowed Bransen to keep his line of life energy straight and strong; without it, his energy sputtered and flitted in every different direction, leaving him the crippled Stork.

The Jhesta Tu had his answers, he believed, and he prayed. But he could not go there at that time, as he had hoped, not through Ethelbert dos Entel, at least, for the place was locked down, and any man who entered the holding of Laird Ethelbert without proper authorization would find himself pressed into service or hanged by the neck.

And so the trio had come southwest instead of southeast and now neared Delaval, the principal city of the land, the seat of power for Laird Delaval, the man who would be king of Honce. Rumors along the road said that passage could be gained to Behr from that city, though it would be a roundabout journey indeed, sailing up the great river, the Masur Delaval (recently named for the ruling family), then through the southern expanse of the Gulf of Honce, and down along the broken region of small holdings known as the Mantis Arm.

It would be an expensive journey, no doubt, and perhaps one full of danger, but the roads simply were not an option at this time of intense warfare.

Or perhaps they were, but Bransen wasn’t quite ready to make that all-important journey.

They were moving again soon after. Around a bend in the road less than a mile to the west the trio came in sight of the renowned city nestled at the base of southern hills, surrounding three fast-flowing tributaries that swept down through the streets and joined in a deep pool before the city’s northern wharves. This was the head of the Masur Delaval, a river whose currents swirled and backed with the varying tides of the northern gulf.

The city itself was everything Bransen, Cadayle, and Callen had imagined, with rows and rows of stone and wooden buildings, many two or even three stories high. A stone wall surrounded much of the town, including all of the central region. Within it sat the most impressive structure that any of the three had ever seen, a castle so imposing and expansive that it dominated the landscape wholly, a series of three connected keeps whose walls towered so high and strong that Laird Delaval’s designs on ruling the entirety of Honce as the one king suddenly seemed all too tenable.

By late afternoon, the trio had come to the outskirts, crossing through lanes bordered by trade shops of every type and with a large produce market set in a wide square just outside the city wall. A few peasants moved about the market, old women mostly, trying to get in a last purchase before the vendors closed their kiosks.

“Rotten goods,” Callen whispered to the others, for Cadayle had come down from the wagon now to walk beside them, the three of them leading the team slowly. “Kitchen throwaways from the castle, no doubt.”

“No different than in Pryd Town,” Cadayle said. “The lairds and their closest take all the best, and we get what’s left.”

“Except the best that we never let go their way in the first place,” Callen remarked with a wry grin.

“Or the best that a certain black-clothed highwayman took from them,” added Bransen, and all three shared a laugh.

Cadayle was the first to stop, though, as she caught the undercurrent of the statement. She stared at her husband suspiciously until at last he looked her way with a puzzled expression.

“You can’t be thinking…” she said.

“I often am.”

“Of letting him out here,” Cadayle finished. “The Highwayman, I mean. You keep yourself in the guise of the Stork while we’re in Delaval.”

“No guise, I fear,” said Bransen as he reached up and popped the soul stone out from under his bandanna, quickly pocketing it. Instantly he felt the first twinges of separation, the first sparks of discord from his line of ki-chi-kree. “It is who… oo I ammm.”

Cadayle winced at the stutter, despite her insistence.

“You hate seeing me like that,” Bransen remarked, his voice relatively strong and steady. Cadayle looked at him in surprise. In response, he merely glanced down at his hand, still in his pocket, still holding the soul stone. He was getting much better at maintaining that connection even when the stone was not strapped to the focal point of his chi, up on his forehead.

Cadayle frowned, though, and Bransen immediately began his awkward gait.

“Don’t you be thinking of stealing anything in this town,” Cadayle whispered. “Laird Delaval frightens me.”

Bransen didn’t reply, but of course he was thinking precisely that.

They were turned away at the gate, for no wagons and horses were allowed inside other than those owned by the fortunate nobility who lived within the walls and the higher-priced merchants and tradesmen who had to pay dearly for a license to bring a horse or donkey or wagon inside. The guards did point them at a nearby stable outside the wall, however, and assured them that the proprietor was a man of high regard.

His reputation didn’t matter much to them anyway. They had little of value in the wagon other than Bransen’s silk clothing and the pack they simply would carry away with them. Doully was old and more a friend than a worker, and they had planned to sell the horse team upon their arrival anyway, for the poor beasts had seen too much of ill-groomed roads and broken trails.

“They’ll both need shoeing, to be sure,” Yenium the stablemaster informed them. He was a tall and very thin man with a dark complexion and darker beard that grew in every day. “Ye been walking a long way.”

“Too long,” said Callen.

The man stared at Bransen.

“Bringing him to the monks,” Cadayle explained. “He was hurt in the war.”

Yenium laughed aloud. “But they’ll do ye no good,” he said, waving his hands in apology even as he spoke the words. “Not unless ye got good gold to pay, and lots of it.”

Callen and Cadayle exchanged sour looks, though neither was surprised, of course. It seemed as if some things were constant throughout the land of Honce.

“Our funds run short,” Callen said. “We were hoping that you would have need of the horses and the wagon.”

“Buy ’em?”

“They’ve walked too much of the roads,” Callen explained.

“True enough,” Yenium said. “And the donkey?”

“We’ll be keeping that one,” said Callen. “We’ve a long way to go yet.”

Knowing their negotiations to be in good hands, Bransen let Cadayle lead him off to the side. Sure enough, Callen joined them shortly after, jiggling a small bag of silver coins and even a single piece of gold. “And he’s to board Doully for us free for as long as we’re in Delaval,” Callen said with a satisfied grin. “A fair price.”

“More than,” Cadayle agreed and slung the pack over her shoulder. She was about to suggest that they go and see the city proper before the daylight waned but was interrupted by the blare of horns from inside the city wall. Cheers followed, and many of the peasants outside the wall began streaming for the gates, moving eagerly and chattering with obvious excitement.

Callen and Cadayle flanked Bransen and moved him along swiftly to beat the rush. Fortunately, they weren’t far from the gate, and with a rather lewd wink at Cadayle, the young guard let them through. Not that the view was any better beyond the wall as thousands had gathered around the grand square, all jumping and shouting, lifting their arms high and waving red towels.

“What is it, then?” Cadayle asked a nearby reveler.

The woman looked at her as if she must be crazy.

“We’ve just come in,” Cadayle explained. “We know nothing of the source of the celebration.”

“The laird’s come down,” the woman explained.

“The king, ye mean!” another corrected.

“Laird Delaval-King Delaval soon enough, by the graces of Abelle and the Ancient Ones,” the first said.

Bransen shook his head shakily, continually amazed at the manner in which the peasants always seemed to hedge their bets regarding the afterlife, citing both of the dominant religions.

“He’s come down with his lady and all the others,” said the woman. “Tonight the brave Prince Yeslnik’s to be formally named as Laird of Pryd Holding. That and a host of other honors on the man. Oh, but he’s handsome, and so brave! He’s killed a hundred of Ethelbert’s men, don’t ye know?”

Cadayle smiled and nodded, hiding her knowing smirk well as she turned to regard Bransen, who of course knew better than to believe any such supposed heroics attributed to the foppish Prince Yeslnik. But Cadayle’s smile disappeared in a blink, for Callen stood there alone with no sign of Bransen. Immediately Cadayle brought a hand up to her pack, realizing as she grasped it that it had been relieved of some of its contents. It was not hard for her to guess which things might have been taken.

She gave an awkward bow and moved away from the peasant woman, catching her mother by the elbow and leading her to a quieter spot.

“What is he thinking?” she asked.

“That with all of them down here…” Callen motioned with her chin toward the castle.

Cadayle heaved a great and helpless sigh.

Her husband was a stubborn one, she knew.

And that stubbornness was likely to get him killed.

Bransen didn’t change into his black silk suit until he reached the shadows at the base of the stone wall to the castle’s highest and most fortified keep. The exotic cloth had held up well through the years, and was still shiny, as if through some magic the dirt could not gain a hold on it. The right sleeve of the shirt had been torn away by Bransen, to make both his mask (for he unrolled the gem-holding headband down to the tip of his nose, with eyeholes cut in appropriately) and a strip of cloth that he tied about his upper right arm to hide an easily identifiable birthmark.

As he had expected, almost all of the soldiers had gone down to watch the pomp and ceremony of the anointing of Laird Yeslnik. The main gates were guarded, he noted as he crossed about the side streets and back alleys, as were all the entry points to the castle proper.

But Bransen was Jhesta Tu, or a close approximation at least, and he didn’t need a doorway. So he moved to the back wall, out of view, and donned his black suit.

He glanced around, hearing the distant sounds of the growing celebration. He saw no guards in the area and held confidence that any who were supposed to be here, behind the structure and thus blocked from the merrymaking, were likely away from their posts, watching the happenings in the lower bailey.

He couldn’t be sure, though, and that truth gave him pause.

“But you are the Highwayman,” he reminded himself, his grin widening beneath the black mask.

Bransen fell within himself. He thought of the gem-stones, of the malachite, and used the feelings its touch had inspired to reach that corresponding energy within his ki-chi-kree. If he had had the magical gemstone in his possession he could have floated off the ground, he knew, but even without it, even just remembering its powers, Bransen lightened his body greatly. He reached up with one hand and pulled himself up the wall.

Like a spider he scrambled, his hands and feet finding grooves in the stone. So weightless had he become that it mattered not how deep the ledge or how firm his grip. In less than a minute the Highwayman had scaled the seventy-five feet of the highest tower, all the way to the one narrow window on this back side of the structure. He peeked inside, then settled himself securely on the ledge. With a look all around at the wide and glorious rolling countryside south of Delaval, he slipped into the dimly lit room.

This was the tower of royalty, he knew at once from the many valuables-paintings, tapestries, vases, and a plethora of other trinkets and utensils and artworks.

The Highwayman rubbed his hands together and went to work.

It is long overdue, and less than you have earned,” Lady Olym called back behind her as she entered her private bedchamber. “Your uncle should have named you Laird of Delaval and been done with it. His only son is not worthy, of course.”

A murmur of protest came back to her from Yeslnik’s room, too garbled for her to decipher-not that she cared to, anyway.

“Laird of Pryd Town,” Olym said. If she was thrilled her voice did not reflect it. “Now I suppose we will have to live in that dreary place.”

She pulled off her bulky bejeweled dress and an assortment of accessories. Stripped to her sheer nightdress, she sat down at her vanity, admiring her powdered face in the pretty mirror set atop the small marble table. One by one she pulled off her oversized rings, each set with a fabulous precious stone.

They paled in comparison to the necklace she wore, though, which was set with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, one after another, three rows thick and from shoulder to shoulder. Olym gently stroked the precious stones, staring at them in the mirror as if in a trance. So fully did they hold her attention that she didn’t even notice the black-clothed figure that had moved up to stand directly behind her.

Olym jumped indeed when a hand settled on her own and a soft voice whispered, “Allow me to help you with that, dear lady.”

She started to scream, but the hand clapped tightly over her mouth.

“Do not cry out, I beg of you,” the Highwayman said. “I will not harm you, dear lady. On my word.” He brought his head down to rest his chin on her shoulder so that they could look each other in the eye through the mirror. For a moment Olym seemed to swoon, her chest heaving.

“On my word,” the Highwayman said again, and he gave her a plaintive and questioning look and eased his hand away from her mouth just a bit.

Olym nodded her head, and the Highwayman pulled his hand away.

“You have come to ravish me!” Olym wailed.

The bemused Highwayman stared at her, for her tone sounded more hopeful than terrified.

Olym turned on him sharply. “Take me, then,” she offered. “But be quick and be gone and know that I shan’t enjoy it!”

Without the soul stone Bransen always stuttered badly, but never had he found words harder to find than at that moment, though the soul stone was, of course, strapped securely to his forehead.

Olym turned further about and threw back her head, the back of one hand across her forehead as if in despair. The movement thrust forth her breasts, of course, and the sheer nightdress did little to hide her obvious excitement.

“Take me, then! Ravish me! Have at me with your animal savagery.”

“And force you to make little barnyard noises?” the Highwayman asked, trying hard not to laugh.

“Oh, yes, if you must! If that is what I need do to escape murder at the end of your blade!”

The Highwayman didn’t quite know how to say, “But all I want are the jewels,” so he stuttered again-until footsteps sounded in the hall, coming their way. “I beg your silence,” he whispered, putting a finger over his pursed lips, fading into the shadows so seamlessly behind a tapestry that Olym had to blink and stare stupidly, wondering if he had ever really been there.

“Ah, wife,” Yeslnik said, entering the room. “I am randy from the excitement of the day.” He paused and looked at her admiringly, at her nearly naked form and obvious state. “Apparently I am not alone in my humor!”

Now it was Olym’s turn to stutter. She glanced repeatedly at the shadows where the Highwayman had disappeared.

Yeslnik sidled up to her and pulled her tight against him, his eyes narrowing. “I am the Laird of Pryd Holding,” he said, and then again and again. With each proclamation he squeezed Olym tighter to him.

“My laird,” Olym said, looking past him as he turned, again to the spot where the Highwayman had gone.

Had gone and returned, she noted, for he stood there, leaning against her vanity, one arm bare and one blanketed in black silk crossed over his chest, a look of utter amusement on his face, his so-handsome face.

Olym took a deep breath and gave a mewling sound.

“Oh, my princess,” Yeslnik gasped. “I am the Laird of Pryd Holding!” He shuddered as he squeezed her against him more tightly still.

“So you have mentioned a dozen times,” a masculine voice said behind him. Yeslnik froze in place. “If you say it a dozen more, perhaps you will convince yourself you are worthy of the title.”

Yeslnik spun about. “You!” he cried.

“I could be no one else,” the Highwayman said with a shrug.

“How?”

“Your interrogation techniques leave much to be desired, I fear,” the Highwayman said. “More so when one considers that if anyone here is a prisoner, it is not I.”

“Not you?” Yeslnik stammered, trying hard to catch up.

“Yes you, not I,” said the Highwayman.

“Not I?”

“Yes, you!”

“You?”

“Now you have it!” the Highwayman said, and pointed at Yeslnik and emphatically added, “You.”

“Do not harm him!” Olym cried, and she threw herself in front of Yeslnik, her arms wide to hold him back-and also to give the Highwayman a complete viewing. “Take me as you will. Ravish me!”

“Olym!” Yeslnik cried.

“I will do anything for you, my laird,” Olym wailed.

“Back to the barnyard, always there,” the Highwayman remarked. Yeslnik stared at him incredulously.

“I will suffer his passion for you, my love,” Olym said to her husband. “I will save you with my womanly charms.”

“With your jewels, you mean,” the Highwayman corrected. Faster than either of them could react, he came forward and snatched the necklace from Olym’s neck, then, for good measure, scooped the rings from the vanity.

“Not again!” Yeslnik cried. In a moment of uncustomary courage (or more likely it was just his anger overruling his good sense), he threw Olym aside and raised his fists threateningly. He snapped his hand to the near side of the vanity, where Olym kept a sharp knife she used to scrape the dark hairs from her chin. Yeslnik stepped forward, waving the knife out before him.

The Highwayman dropped his hands to his side, sighed, and shook his head.

“You’ll not make a fool of me again,” Yeslnik declared.

“I fear you reached that marker long before I arrived,” the Highwayman replied.

The Laird of Pryd Holding finally sorted that insult out and stabbed at the man in rage. The Highwayman turned, and the blade slipped past harmlessly.

Yeslnik retracted and stabbed again, and the Highwayman dodged the other way.

Yeslnik slashed across at the man’s head, but of course the agile Highwayman easily ducked the awkward strike, then came up again and with even less effort sidestepped the next futile stab.

“Truly, Prince Yeslnik, you are making this more difficult,” the Highwayman said. He ducked another slash, sidestepped another stab, then caught the move he had been waiting for, an uppercut thrusting the knife for the bottom of his chin.

It never got close. The Highwayman’s left hand caught the prince’s forearm, and his right hand clamped over Yeslnik’s at just the right angle for the thief to buckle the prince’s wrist, bending the hand forward suddenly. The Highwayman pressed, overextending the bend, driving Yeslnik’s knuckles down toward his wrist. Under that strain and pain, Yeslnik could not hold his grip on the knife. Even as he realized he had let it go, the Highwayman’s left hand shot out and slapped him across the face, backhanded him the other way, and slapped him a third time for good measure.

“Do you insist on making this harder?” the Highwayman asked, presenting the knife out, handle first, toward the prince.

Infuriated beyond reason, Yeslnik grabbed the blade and slashed wildly, again hitting nothing but air. In sheer frustration he threw the knife. His eyes went wide indeed when he noted that the thief had caught it so easily.

Yeslnik turned and cried out, bolting for the door. “Take my wife!” he shrieked.

The Highwayman sprang into a sidelong cartwheel, catching his hand on the edge of the vanity, planting his other hand flat on its top, and springing away to intercept Yeslnik at the door.

“Your knife,” he said, tossing the blade into the air.

Yeslnik’s eyes followed its ascent as the prince skidded to a stop. To his credit Yeslnik caught the blade, but when he looked back down he found the tip of a fabulous and too-familiar sword an inch from his face. He gave a curious sound, strangely similar to his wife’s earlier mewling, and let the knife drop to the floor.

The Highwayman shook his head. “Now what am I to do with you?”

“Oh,” Lady Olym wailed, throwing her arm against her forehead and falling back, conveniently onto the room’s rather large bed.

Both the Highwayman and Yeslnik sighed.

A noise from somewhere down the hall reminded them that the ceremony had ended and many of the castle’s inhabitants were returning from the lower bailey.

“Under the bed,” the Highwayman ordered Yeslnik abruptly, prodding the prince with his sword, guiding him around. Finally he stepped up and pushed Yeslnik forward.

“While you ravish my wife above me?”

“Oh,” wailed Olym, and her knees drifted apart.

The Highwayman shoved Yeslnik harder for that, putting him down to his knees at the side of the bed. “You with him,” he ordered Olym, and all humor had left his tone. “Under the bed!”

“But…” Olym protested, as sadly as any bride left at the altar.

“Under the bed. Now! The both of you.” He prodded Yeslnik as he spoke, driving the man under with the tip of his sword. Grabbing Olym with his free hand, he yanked her off the bed. She fell heavily at his feet, but nothing other than her pride was hurt, he saw, as she looked up and reached for him desperately.

Yeslnik grabbed her and dragged her under the bed with him.

“In the middle,” the Highwayman ordered. He dropped down and prodded at them with his sword, forcing them back from the edge. He looked all around, thinking to block the four openings of the bed. But alas, there was not enough furniture in the room to seal them in.

Sounds from outside the room heightened the Highwayman’s urgency. Improvising, he leaped in a roll across the end of the bed, coming to his feet facing the foot. He looked from its thin legs to his sword and back. His eyes scanned the headboard. He could clear it and easily, he realized, as the movements sorted out before him. He had to be precise; he had to be quick.

But he was Jhesta Tu.

The Highwayman presented his sword before him and took a deep and steadying breath. Underneath the bed Yeslnik and Olym chattered but he left their voices far behind, concentrating on the task before him. Both hands grasped the hilt of the sword as he lifted it slowly before his right shoulder, keeping the blade perpendicular to the floor.

He stepped out with his left foot suddenly, slashing the blade down low, then reversed the swing so quickly that it passed over the severed bed leg before the bed had even dropped. Now he stepped right, finishing the move as his backhand took out the other leg.

The foot of the bed dropped as the Highwayman leaped back to the right in a twisting somersault. He came to his feet beside the bed, his back to it. Halfway up its length he continued his spin, his blade neatly severing the third leg.

Yeslnik and Olym cried out in protest, but their initial escape route, anticipated by the Highwayman, had been lost with the collapse of the bed’s right side.

The Highwayman let go of the sword with his right hand as he came around. As soon as he faced the bed squarely again his legs twitched, lifting him in a dive ahead and to the side. He turned his free right hand under and caught the top of the headboard, allowing him to turn about as he lifted a straight-legged somersault that ended with a sudden tuck that spun him over and a more sudden extension that landed him upright facing the bed. But only for a moment, for he dropped and slashed to the right, and the fourth and final leg fell away, dropping the full weight of the bed onto Yeslnik and Olym, mercifully muffling their annoying cries.

The Highwayman stepped back and regarded his handiwork with a nod that reflected both surprise and satisfaction. He looked down at the small sack tied to his belt, bulging with coin and jewels, and nodded again.

“Do remember that I did not kill you, and it would have been an easy thing,” he said to Yeslnik, bending low and peering under at the grunting and outraged man. “And do remember that I did not ravish your wife.”

Yeslnik cursed and spat at him, but the Highwayman had perplexed himself with his own words. He leaned back to consider them and didn’t even notice the feeble insult, verbal or watery.

“You remember that I did not ravish her,” the Highwayman clarified, looking back at Yeslnik. “I do hope that dear Lady Olym will forget that fact, for I am certain that my lack of action angers her more than anything else I might have done, murdering you included.”

“How dare you?” Yeslnik demanded.

“It is really quite easy,” the Highwayman assured him, and with a tap of two fingers to his forehead, he rushed away to the window.

But darkness hadn’t fallen yet, and the upper bailey teemed with guards.

Nearly an hour passed before Prince Yeslnik finally managed to squirm out from under the heavy bed. His howls took some time to get the attention of some servants, who at last rushed in and helped him pull the bed up enough to allow Olym to unceremoniously slither out.

“You!” Olym screamed at her husband. She made no effort to cover herself, though more and more people were charging into the room to see what was the matter. “You fancy yourself the laird of a holding, and you cannot deal with a single thief? You are a hero among men, and yet a single, small man chases you under your wife’s bed like a frightened rabbit?” She moved to slap him, but Yeslnik caught her arm then her other one and held her fast.

“Would you be less angry if he had ravished you?” Yeslnik asked, more an accusation than a question. Lady Olym wailed-the first sincere wail she had offered that day-and collapsed onto what was left of her bed.

It seemed as if Yeslnik only then realized that the room was full of people, many of whom were staring at his revealed wife. “Out! Out!” he demanded, chasing them from the room. He gave a last, disgusted look at Olym and followed, ordering the guards to find the Highwayman and not return without the bastard’s severed head.

Olym brought her hands to her face and sobbed for a long, long while as the room darkened. She was near sleep when soft lips brushed her forehead.

“Marvelous lady,” said the Highwayman, who had never left the room. Olym’s eyes popped wide open, and she thrust herself up to her elbows to face him directly.

“I cannot ravish a married woman, by the code of honor that guides me,” the thief graciously explained. “But I assure you that the code is sorely tried when I glimpse a creature of such beauty.” He reached up and gently stroked her face. Olym closed her eyes and swooned, falling back to the bed, her fingers kneading at the plush blankets.

“Think of me,” the Highwayman bade her, “as I travel the wilds of the northland.”

And then he was gone, sprinting to the window and going through so easily and swiftly that he was out before Olym had even glanced his way.

Not to fear,” Bransen assured Callen and Cadayle the next day when they walked down the road out of Delaval, leading Doully the donkey. “For I told Lady Olym that I would be in the North.”

“But our road is to the north,” Callen replied. “And there you will truly be.”

“Exactly,” said Bransen and he flashed that grin, smug and disarming at the same time.

Sure enough, Laird Delaval’s guards, at the request of Prince Yeslnik, streamed out of the city that same morning, heading south in search of the Highwayman as the Lady Olym had directed.