The Highwayman

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 through 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.

Garibond recognized the man, though he didn't remember his name.

"My greetings, brother," he said, moving up the short path toward the monk, who seemed to be just leaving the farmhouse.

"And to you," the monk replied. "I have no time to hear your woes, I fear, but must be straightaway back to Chapel Pryd."

"I know you," Garibond said in leading tones.

The monk paused long enough to look over the man carefully.

"I am afraid that your recognition is one-sided, friend."

Garibond tried hard to place the man, and finally, as the monk started away once more, just blurted out, "I was a friend of Brother Bran Dynard's."

Again the monk stopped and studied Garibond, his gaze soon dropping to the man's waist area, which told Garibond that he had been recognized. "You are the one the Samhaist took for Laird Pryd," he said.

"Aye, and that's a reputation to put forth, is it not?" Garibond said with a helpless laugh.

"I am sorry, friend, that you fell victim to the brutish old man," the monk said. "But there is nothing I can do to alleviate-"

"I'm not here about that, Brother…"

"Reandu. Brother Reandu."

"Ah, yes, I remember our meeting after my friend Brother Dynard left for the north. Has there been any word at all?"

"Brother Dynard is believed to have been murdered on the road," said Reandu. "That, or he rejoined the Behrenese woman and fled the land of Honce, as many brothers believe."

"He did not, for she did not survive." Garibond saw that he suddenly had Reandu's complete attention.

"What do you know of it?"

"I know that she is dead. Long dead, to the loss of the world."

"And yet you ask me of Brother Dynard?"

"Of him, I know nothing, beyond that he departed from your chapel ten years ago."

"Nor do any of us, master…"

"Garibond."

"Master Garibond. I feel for your loss, for your friend and for…well, your ill treatment by Bernivvigar."

Garibond nodded.

"I need the help of the Church," Garibond stated. "Not for me and my ailments-those I accept well enough. But for my son."

Reandu looked at him curiously.

"You know of him, no doubt," said Garibond. "He is…unique and difficult to miss."

"The damaged one? The one they call Stork?"

Garibond winced at the disparaging name, but let go his anger for the sake of Bransen. "Yes, for him."

"If we believed that there was ever anything our soul stones might do for one so damaged, we would have undertaken the task years ago, brother."

"You cannot heal his maladies, of course."

"Then what?"

Garibond gave a profound sigh, and was surprised at how painful this was. He had not considered how lonely his life might be, how much less fulfilled and fulfilling, without Bransen in it. "He is a lot of work, of course, and I am growing old-and more frail because of the Samhaist beast. I fear that I will soon not be able to care for Bransen."

Reandu's wide eyes betrayed his shock. "You would ask us to take him in?"

"I would. He needs protecting."

"We have not the means, brother. We are not a house for wayward-"

"Not wayward," Garibond corrected. "I do not ask you lightly to take this burden."

"You should ask a friend."

"I cannot, for I fear for the boy. Bernivvigar got me, aye, but that did little to satisfy his blood thirst. He wants the boy."

"Speak to Laird Prydae."

Garibond knew that he didn't even need to respond to that ridiculous suggestion. They both understood that Prydae wouldn't do much to go against Bernivvigar, not at present, at least. "I do not ask lightly you to take this burden," he repeated and then added, "nor without offering you gain for your Church."

Brother Reandu started to respond, but stopped short and looked curiously at him. "Gain for the church of Blessed Abelle? You are not a man of wealth or influence, good master Garibond."

"Rightly noted," he said dryly. "But I am in possession of an item that would prove quite valuable to you in your dealings with Laird Prydae."

He paused for effect. Reandu licked his lips and bade him, "Go on."

"Do you remember Brother Dynard's wife, the Behr woman named SenWi?"

"Yes."

"A mighty warrior, so it was said?"

"Her exploits against the powries were spoken of, yes."

"With an amazing sword, a sword more grand than anything in all the land of Honce?"

Reandu stared at him hard but did not respond.

"I assure you that if you heard any tales of that magnificent weapon, they were not exaggerated. Indeed, if anything, the people who saw the blade could not begin to understand its beauty and craftsmanship. It is a sword fit for a laird-indeed, it is beyond any weapon that any laird in all Honce now carries, or has ever carried."

"That is quite a claim."

"One I can back up, on your agreement to take Bransen into your chapel and care for him."

Reandu considered the words for a moment, then said, "I am not authorized to make such an arrangement."

"Of course, but you are capable of relaying my proposition to Father Jerak in the strongest possible terms."

"You would wish us to care for the boy until his death? For decades, likely?"

"Yes, but he is not without use. He can work for his meals, as long as the tasks are within his physical limitations. Oh, yes, and there is one more thing. I want you to teach him to read our language and to allow him access to books."

"The idiot?"

"He is no idiot," Garibond snapped back. "Do not confuse physical deformity with mental weakness-it was a mistake that I long made. He can read, I am certain. It is a skill that will allow him to transcend the limitations of his flesh."

Reandu kept shaking his head, his expression sour, but he did reply, "I will take this matter to Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais."

Garibond could ask for nothing more. He nodded and rushed away, hoping that Bernivvigar had not learned in the meantime that Bransen was all alone. "He has her sword," Brother Bathelais mused aloud. He stared out the window of Father Jerak's audience chamber, overlooking the windy courtyard inside the chapel's outer front wall. Bathelais remembered Dynard out there sweeping the leaves. He remembered SenWi, a wisp of a thing, really, and quite beautiful in her exotic southern way. He had never seen this supposed sword, but he had met a few who had, and their description of it was nothing short of incredible.

"We are to take in this creature and care for him?" Father Jerak asked doubtfully. "Are we to throw wide our doors to all with maladies, then?"

"This is an exceptional matter, and an exceptional malady, perhaps," said Reandu. "And Garibond has assured me that the boy can do menial tasks and needs little care."

Father Jerak snorted.

"Perhaps this is an opportunity to display compassion," Reandu said.

"Have you not heard the chanting of the Samhaists at night?" Brother Bathelais interjected. "Do you not see Rennarq ever at Laird Prydae's side? What venom might he be whispering into Prydae's ear? This is the time for strength, brother, not compassion."

"Less than a century ago, a wise man proclaimed compassion to be strength, I believe," Reandu replied. He knew from Bathelais's immediate scowl that perhaps he had crossed a line in invoking the words of Blessed Abelle.

"It might well be compassion that costs us nothing," Father Jerak remarked. "This sword-you have seen it?"

"No, father."

"Then go to this peasant Garibond-both of you. Bid him to show it to you, and if you judge this sword as valuable as we believe, agree to his terms. I know this young Prydae, and if we are in possession of a weapon that will elevate his warrior status, it will prove a marvelous incentive to help us move the Samhaists from his side."

"This boy, this creature, slobbers," Bathelais reminded.

"And we have duties appropriate for one of his idiocy," said Jerak.

At that point, Brother Bathelais sighed, looked at Reandu, and said, "Let us go, then. I pray the sword will be naught but a line of rust, but we shall see." Garibond held the package up before him and slowly unwrapped the cloth holding the fabulous sword of SenWi. And as he pulled the layers of cloth from the weapon, he saw the layers of doubt melt away from Brother Bathelais's face. The silverel steel gleamed in the sunlight and the snake-head hilt sparkled. Not a speck of rust marred the blade, not a sign of wear or age. It was as SenWi had crafted it, and as she had left it.

"It has no equal north of the mountains," Garibond said with great confidence. "Not in all of Honce."

"It seems thin," Bathelais said.

"Because the metal is stronger than bronze and stronger than iron," Garibond explained. He drew forth the sword completely from the wrapping and waved it, then nodded to the two monks and snapped it suddenly to the side, where it cut deep into the trunk of a tree. He extracted the sword, pulled it back, then stabbed the tree, and the fine tip dove in to an impressive depth.

Again Garibond pulled the sword out, and he rolled it over in his hands and presented it hilt first to Bathelais.

The monk took the extraordinary weapon and moved it around slowly, marveling at its light weight and balance.

When both Bathelais and Garibond looked at Reandu, they saw that he was smiling, and that drew a nod from the ever-doubting Bathelais.

"Do we have an agreement?" Garibond asked, taking back the weapon. "You take Bransen in and you keep him safe from Bernivvigar. He'll work for you, and without complaint. You give him a chance."

"There is nothing we can do for the…boy with our gemstones," Bathelais said. "We will not waste the time and energy in trying."

Garibond suppressed his anger and managed a nod. He handed the sword to Bathelais and went to the house, emerging a few moments later with Bransen, who was carrying a large sack, beside him.

"The Stork," Bathelais whispered to Reandu.

Brother Reandu didn't respond and didn't let Bathelais see his disdain at the remark. In truth, Reandu was hardly certain from whence that disdain had come or why the name, which he himself had often used, struck him as so unseemly coming from Bathelais. He watched Bransen's awkward but determined approach. The boy was afraid, he could plainly see, but he also appeared eager to please. Perhaps behind the ungainly hip-swerving, stiff-legged strides and behind the smears of drool on his crooked face there was something else.

A boy, perhaps?

Just a boy?