The Highwayman

10

The Loss of Control SenWi awakened with a start and immediately tried to rise. A wave of nausea sent her tumbling back to the cot, and she gave a little cry.

As soon as she saw Garibond coming through the door toward her, she realized where she was-in the tunnels beneath his house-and she remembered her last conversation with her husband. Dynard had wanted to return at once to Chapel Pryd with the Book of Jhest. He was convinced that he would sway the brothers of Abelle, that he would enlighten them as he had been enlightened.

SenWi didn't believe it for a moment. She had counseled Bran against returning-or at least against returning with the book.

But he was angry, livid over the dismissal of their marriage by his brethren and outraged at the notion that SenWi would be "turned over" to anyone.

The discussion had gotten heated, SenWi remembered, with Dynard shaking his head so violently that it seemed as if he were using the movement to physically deflect her nay-saying.

Then, in the excitement of the moment, the dizziness had returned, had knocked SenWi off her feet. She remembered being carried to a cot and gently laid on it by Dynard. She remembered his bending low and kissing her, and leaving her with the promise that he would make them understand.

She settled back down and closed her eyes, finding her center and inner balance.

"Trust Bran," Garibond was saying as he came and straightened the blanket over SenWi. "He's a good one. He'll let them know the truth of it all."

SenWi kept her eyes closed and remained focused internally, though the man's words did register with her. She didn't doubt Garibond, nor did she lack faith in the abilities of her husband-hadn't he won over the entire enclave of the Walk of Clouds? But SenWi understood, where these other two apparently did not, that the monks at the chapel-Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais-already understood the truth, at least from a practical point of view. They understood perfectly well that Dynard honestly believed that he had found an extension of their religion, a supplement that strengthened and did not diminish the words of Blessed Abelle.

SenWi believed the same thing.

But she also recognized that the folk of Honce would not likely open their ears to that call. Nor would the monks, nor could they at this time when their religion was vying for the approval of the lairds.

She was desperately afraid for her husband, but SenWi couldn't hold her focus upon that. She was Jhesta Tu, attuned to the rhythms of her body, and she was beginning to understand that something was very wrong inside her. The lightheadedness, the overwhelming weakness, the nausea-all of that could be explained simply because she was with child. But there was something more, she understood. It wasn't just the symptoms but the intensity of them. She had seen other Jhesta Tu women through their pregnancies, women who were not nearly as accomplished in the way of Jhest as she, and they had almost always been able to use their chi to overcome any and all symptoms.

That was the problem here. When SenWi tried to find her center, to align her thread of life energy, she could not. It was as if that line of energy were somehow creased and unbalanced, and the problem went far beyond the normal bounds of what a pregnancy might cause. SenWi knew that, but she had no answer.

She did have a guess, though. She thought back to the poor battered girl hanging by her wrists from a pole at the end of the road.

SenWi put a hand over her face and fought hard against her welling tears.

"He'll be all right," Garibond said softly, and he stroked her black hair. "You must trust Bran."

She started to shake her head to explain her deeper concern, but it didn't matter. Brother Bathelais wasn't opening up. Brother Dynard could see that clearly as he sat across from him. Dynard clutched his precious Book of Jhest to his chest, huddling over it like an eagle protecting its kill.

"You presume much, brother, to think that we are in need of further enlightenment," Bathelais said slowly and deliberately. "The teachings of Blessed Abelle are not open-ended and inviting of addition."

"But even Blessed Abelle was ignorant of the truths of the Jhesta Tu," Brother Dynard said before he considered his words. As soon as they left his mouth, Bathelais widened his eyes and recoiled, and Dynard knew that he had erred.

"Th-those truths are extensions," Dynard stammered, trying to bring back a level of calm that seemed fast eroding. As he spoke, he uncurled from around the book and slowly presented it to Bathelais. "Contained herein are beauteous revelations that enhance all that Blessed Abelle has taught us."

"Then you are saying that Brother Abelle was not God inspired? You are saying that the words God spoke to Brother Abelle were not revelations of divine truth but merely revelations to him of a truth that already was known to man?" Bathelais shook his head, a sour look on his face. "A truth already known to the beasts of Behr?"

Brother Dynard forced himself to continue to present the book. He even leaned closer so that Brother Bathelais couldn't ignore the large tome.

Finally, his face a mask of suspicion, Bathelais took the great book and set it upon his lap. Still looking at Dynard, his eyes narrow, he flipped the cover open and read Dynard's letter-a two-page introduction that was virtually the same argument that Dynard had been making to him for more than an hour now. When he finished Bathelais paused and looked back at the hopeful Dynard-and to the enlightened monk, Bathelais seemed more bemused than intrigued.

Could his mind be so closed? Brother Dynard wondered. Was his heart so encased in absolutes that he would not allow for an expansion of the beauty he had learned?

Brother Bathelais turned the next page and glanced down, perplexed. "What is this?" he asked.

"It is written in the language of Jhest, one similar to that of Behr," Brother Dynard tried to explain.

"I did not know the beasts could write."

The continuing racism struck hard at the heart of Brother Dynard. He wanted nothing more than to reach across and grab Bathelais and give him a good shake! He wanted to tell Bathelais about the culture of the southern people, about the intricacies of their language-which in many ways was superior to that of Honce-about their clothing of silk, and the fabulous colors of their rugs. He wanted to describe artifacts he had seen, hundreds of years old, predating any known art in all Honce. He wanted to tell Bathelais about the architecture of Jacintha, an ancient and wondrous city. He wanted to do all of that; he thought it imperative that his brethren came to see and appreciate this reality.

All he could do was point at the book, although emphatically.

"What would you have me do?" Bathelais asked. "Admire the curvature of your lines?"

"I will instruct you in the language."

"Could you not have simply translated the work?"

"It would not be exact," Brother Dynard explained. "And it was a condition of the Jhesta Tu that any who would peruse their secrets do so in their language-learning the language is part of the discipline required to truly appreciate the knowledge contained within, you see."

"A condition of the Jhesta Tu? They do not willingly share their insights?"

"They do not proselytize, no," Brother Dynard replied. "Theirs is a light that must be attained by the willing, not forced upon the reluctant."

"Are you not proselytizing right now?"

The question had Brother Dynard nonplused. He finally managed to string a few words together in a coherent fashion. "I am not Jhesta Tu."

If Brother Bathelais was convinced of that, his expression did not show it. "What are you, then?"

"I am your brother," Dynard insisted. Though he believed that with all his heart, he could not infuse his voice with any strength under the increasingly hostile stare of Bathelais.

Brother Bathelais looked back at the cursive and stylized writing on the page, then gently closed the book as his eyes rose to regard Dynard once more. "And you will teach us how to read this language of the Jhest?"

"I will."

"And when we read this book, we will learn that Blessed Abelle was not wholly correct?"

The form of that question left it unanswerable by poor Dynard.

Brother Bathelais stood up, the tome wrapped in his arms. He looked hard at Dynard for a moment longer, then gave a curt nod, turned, and left the room.

Brother Dynard sighed and slumped in his chair, glad of the reprieve. He held no illusions that this initial discussion of the delicate subject had gone well. She stood before the rising sun, her breathing perfectly even, her stance completely grounded, not a muscle twitching.

She focused on the sun, climbing slowly above the eastern horizon. She imagined its rays permeating her, linking with her chi, and she used the vertical climb of that burning orb to focus her inner strength on the vertical line of her ki-chi-kree. In the sun, SenWi found balance. In the sun, she found inner warmth.

As slowly as the great ball rose, she lifted her arms before her. As so many minutes passed and her arms lifted before her face, she brought her hands together, linked six fingers, and pressed both thumbs together and index fingers together in salute.

The sun continued its climb and her arms moved as if lifting it. She meant to stand here until noon, until her arms above her head were in complete concert with the heavenly cycle. But she didn't make it. As her hands began to lift above her forehead, SenWi felt a stretch in her belly, constricting at first and then suddenly so painful that it had her doubling over and clutching her midsection.

The line of her ki-chi-kree could not hold the straightened posture; her life energy had been wounded, and badly-and not just her own, she feared.

"The snake venom," she whispered, her teeth clenched. She understood it all then. When she had healed the poor girl, her own inner-heated hands had taken the venom of the adder into herself. But how had that so wounded her? A Jhesta Tu mystic could do this, with little danger, for the Jhesta Tu mystic could overcome poison with ease.

And then SenWi understood; and her breath came in short gasps and she wanted nothing more than to scream in outrage.

A Jhesta Tu mystic was possessed of the inner discipline to defeat poisons. But the unborn child of a Jhesta Tu mystic… He knew as soon as Father Jerak entered the room with Brother Bathelais that things had not gone well between the two of them, for the old man's face was locked in such a scowl as Brother Dynard had never before seen.

"You have come to question Blessed Abelle?" Jerak asked, and it seemed to Dynard as if he were trying, quite unsuccessfully, to keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

"No, father, of course not," Brother Bran answered.

"And yet, there is this," Father Jerak said, and he turned, extending his open hand toward the Book of Jhest that Brother Bathelais still held close to his chest.

"Father," said an exasperated Dynard, "as I tried to explain to Brother Bathelais, this book, these truths of Jhest, are no threat to our order or the teachings of Blessed Abelle. If we are to believe in divine inspiration, then are we to claim sole province over it?"

"And thus you believe that this ancient order-" again he indicated the book "-received this divine inspiration many years before Blessed Abelle?"

Brother Dynard felt as if he were sinking. He could clearly see on their faces that they had made up their minds. They weren't questioning him now in hopes of understanding. No, they were allowing him to damn himself and nothing more. "It is not…There is no threat here," he tried to explain. His frustration turned to hopelessness when a pair of armed soldiers of the laird appeared in the doorway.

"Where is the woman?" Father Jerak asked.

When Dynard continued to stare incredulously at the soldiers, Jerak repeated his question in even sharper and more insistent tones. Then Dynard did look at him, and old Jerak's scowl seemed even more pronounced.

"Where is she?" he asked again.

"She left." Dynard's thoughts were swirling. He tried to concentrate, reminding himself that he had to cover for SenWi at all costs, that he had to be convincing! "She could not tolerate the prejudice and the unwillingness."

"The unwillingness?" came Father Jerak's sharp reply. "To convert to her heathen ways? Did you expect to come here with some false prophet from the land of beasts and undo the blessings of Abelle's teachings? Did you believe that your revelations of a few tricks from these…Jhesta Tu creatures would turn us aside from our path to spiritual redemption? Brother Dynard, did you truly believe that one misguided brother-"

"No!" Dynard shouted, and he sat back and went silent as the soldiers at the door bristled, one even drawing his bronze short sword halfway from its sheath. "No, father, it was never my intent."

"Your intent? Wherever did you come to the conclusion that your intent meant anything, Brother Dynard? You were given a specific mission, entrusted with a duty to spread the word of Abelle to people deserving, though ignorant. You were sponsored by and of the Church of Blessed Abelle. You were sent by our arrangements and with our money. You seem to have forgotten all these things, Brother Dynard."

Dynard couldn't give voice to any objections. For he could not argue with Jerak's reasoning. He thought the man's perceptions skewed, to be sure, but in looking at all of this from that viewpoint, it struck Dynard for the first time that these brothers of Abelle were afraid of the Book of Jhest.

Truly afraid.

"You misunderstand," he finally found the courage to reply. "The Jhesta Tu-"

"Are heathens in need of enlightenment," Father Jerak finished.

The silence hung in the air like the crouch of a hunting cat.

"Do you not agree, Brother Dynard?" Jerak said.

Dynard swallowed hard.

"Where is your concubine?"

"She is my wife," Dynard insisted.

"Where is your concubine?" Jerak asked again.

Dynard's lips went very tight. "She left. This place, this chapel, this town. This land of Honce itself. She could not tolerate."

"She would go south and east then, back toward Ethelbert Holding," Father Jerak reasoned, and he turned toward the soldiers as he spoke. Both men nodded. He turned back to Dynard. "She'll not get far."

Panic coursed through Dynard and he licked his lips and glanced all around. "Leave her alone," he said. "What reason…She has done nothing."

"Be easy, Brother Dynard," Father Jerak said. "Your concubine is in no danger as long as she has truly departed this holding. Laird Pryd has promised me this."

"What are you saying?" Brother Dynard demanded, and he leaped out of his seat and moved to tower over the stooping Jerak. But Bathelais was there, staring him down. The soldiers came forward suddenly, interposing themselves between the furious Dynard and Jerak.

"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?