The Highwayman

22

I Will Not Fail Garibond Garibond said this is important. He needs me to work here, so the brothers will heal him and feed him. I will not fail Garibond. Bransen let this litany repeat over and over in his head, leading him through his dreary days at Chapel Pryd. He had come there full of hope and excited at the prospect of having so many people around him who, Garibond had assured him, would not push him to the ground or laugh at him.

They hadn't done anything like that, and that was good. Unfortunately, they also weren't really around him at all. He had been given a room in the substructure of the chapel, a windowless, empty little square of stone and dirt. There was only one way in or out, a ladder and trapdoor that Bransen couldn't hope to operate on his own. Thus, every morning, one of the younger brothers came and opened the door, then reached in and lifted him out so that he could go about his chores, which amounted to carrying the chamber pots down to the river for emptying and cleaning, two at a time. It took him most of the day, and at the end of his journeys, another brother set him back in his hole, along with a single candle, a flagon of water, and a plate of food.

That was Bransen's day, his life, his solitude. I will not fail Garibond, got him through it.

He knew that his work here was making life better for his father, for the man who had given so much to help him.

I will not fail Garibond.

Bransen brought his mother's black outfit with him and used it as a pillow. The soft silk smelled of her, he decided, and that gave him comfort. And it was comfort he needed, despite his resolve that he wouldn't fail Garibond, because as much as he missed the company of his father, he missed the company of his real father's work and of his mother's philosophy. He didn't have the Book of Jhest; he didn't have any books. He often tried to broach the subject with one of the brothers or another, but these men had no patience for his stuttering and never let him get the request out. In fact, they never really listened to anything he tried to say.

Every night as he lay there, every day as he made his uneven and awkward forays to the river, Bransen thought of that wonderful book and pictured its many pages. In his mind, he saw again the flowing script so meticulously copied by his father. In his mind, he recited the text, beginning to end, over and over again. He feared that he didn't have it perfect, but in the end, this was all he had.

As the days became weeks and the recital more rote, Bransen began to do something that had never before occurred to him. He began to roll the words in his thoughts and apply them to himself. He considered the source of Jhesta Tu power in the context of his own broken body, and searched for his chi. And he thought that he found that line of power, or what was supposed to be a line of power, for in him there were just inner flashes of energy, dispersing to his sides and his limbs, and no discernable and focusing line at all.

He thought that he must be doing something wrong in his inner search. Perhaps he was recalling the words of the book incorrectly. If only he could see it again, to compare his memory to its pages.

Several times, Bransen considered walking, along the river-bank to the little bridge that would lead him east to Garibond's house.

But suppose he angered the monks and they refused to help Garibond? Did he dare do such a thing?

If only they would listen to him long enough so that he could explain! From a narrow window along the back wall of Chapel Pryd, Brother Reandu watched the boy stumble out through the mud, a pot sloshing and splashing at the end of each skinny arm. Strangely, those balancing chamber pots seemed to steady the Stork somewhat, though there remained nothing smooth about his movements and more than a bit of the contents of the pots wound up on his bare legs and woolen knee-length tunic.

Reandu sighed and wished that it could be different for this poor creature. He wished that he could gather up a soul stone and give the boy a more normal existence. That task was far beyond him, he knew. Far beyond any of them.

"But I will see to it that you are cleaned at least," the monk whispered, his words lost in the groan of the wind rushing through the narrow rectangular opening in the stone. He made a silent vow that he would begin assigning various brothers to take the last trip of the day to the river with Bransen, that they could scrub him clean before putting him back in his miserable little room.

He would have to get permission from Brother Bathelais, of course.

Brother Reandu gave a helpless laugh at that thought. Bathelais wasn't open to much of anything concerning the Stork. Keep him as far from the others as possible, give him enough to eat and drink, and make sure he doesn't freeze in his stone room at night. That was enough, by Brother Bathelais's interpretation, despite the fact that he, at the behest of Father Jerak, was preparing a grand celebration during which he would present the magnificent sword to Laird Prydae. Bathelais expected a large return for that gift-the brothers at Chapel Pryd who were knowledgeable about metals and weapons had told him that the sword was everything Garibond had claimed it to be and more.

But that optimistic outlook had done little to take the edge off Brother Bathelais concerning this poor, tortured creature.

With that in mind, and determined to at least help the boy wash the excrement from his legs, Brother Reandu went out from the chapel and quickly caught up with Bransen. The boy turned bright eyes upon him-and stumbled and nearly fell. In steadying him, Reandu got splashed by one of the chamber pots. He forced himself to hold back his automatic, angry response, reminding himself that it wasn't the poor boy's fault.

"Is this your last journey to the river this day?" he asked.

Bransen looked at him, as if in surprise. Of course he was surprised, Reandu realized. Had anyone asked him a question in all the days he had been at the chapel? Had anyone even spoken to him?

"Nnnnn-nyeah…nyeah, n…yes," the boy stammered.

Reandu had to take a deep breath to compose himself, the aggravating speech only reminding him all too clearly of why others like Bathelais simply could not tolerate being anywhere around this smelly one.

"Yes?"

The boy started to stammer.

"Just nod," Reandu prompted, and the boy did, and he managed a crooked smile.

Brother Reandu smiled as well.

"Uh…uh…I w-w-wa…" the boy stuttered.

Reandu shook his head and patted the air to try to calm the blabbering creature. Bransen responded and seemed to be trying to compose himself.

"B-book," he blurted suddenly.

"Book? What book?"

"Re-re-read b-b-boo-k."

"Read a book? You?"

The boy managed another smile and nod-or at least, something that approximated both.

"You want me to give you a book to read?"

Still the smile.

Then Reandu understood, as he remembered what Garibond had demanded of him as part of the deal. "You want me to teach you to read?"

"I r-r-re…re…read."

Reandu grinned and nodded and glanced back at the chapel. "Well, that was part of the bargain, I suppose. I should speak with Brother…" He turned back on the boy and winked. "I will see what I can do."

Bransen actually laughed at that, and the sudden jerk of his mirth overbalanced him and he fell to the mud. Reandu rushed over and picked him up.

"I cannot," Reandu started. "Do not expect…I must speak with Brother Bathelais. It is not my decision and I do not want to cause your hopes to soar."

Bransen was giggling with glee.

"You understand that?" Reandu asked, holding him steady and looking him right in the eye. "It is not my decision to make."

The boy stared at him-so stupidly, it seemed-and Brother Reandu thought himself a fool for even beginning to entertain such a thought as trying to teach this poor creature to read!

"Come along," he said. "The hour grows late and the river is still some distance." He hoisted one of the pots and helped Bransen gather up the other one, then took the boy under his arm and helped him to the river to complete his chores and so that both of them could get a much-needed washing. Bransen was surprised, even frightened, when his overhead door opened unexpectedly late that night. A smile widened on the startled boy's face when he saw the face of Brother Reandu behind the glare of the candle.

"B-b-boo-" he started to say.

"No books, Bransen," Reandu replied.

The tone in the man's voice spoke volumes beyond the actual words to Bransen, a boy not unused to disappointment.

"Brother Bathelais will not be persuaded on this," Reandu admitted, and as Bransen's expression became crestfallen, he added, "You must understand, my boy, that our books are our greatest treasures. If you were to drool on them or dirty them-"

"No!" Bransen blurted.

"Even handling them causes damage," Reandu went on. "Please understand that it is not possible. Perhaps I can find some parchments on which a brother has spilled ink or otherwise damaged them. They might have words upon them. But you cannot read, of course."

Bransen started to stutter and pointed at the monk.

"Yes, Garibond wanted me to teach you to read," Reandu admitted. "But it would not be possible. I am sorry, boy. I wish that things could be different for you."

Bransen saw the true regret in Reandu's eyes, but that did little to fill the empty hole that had been dug in his heart. No books? Nothing at all but the dozens of walks to the river each day?

I will not fail Garibond, he repeated over and over and over as the trapdoor closed, leaving him with only the dim light of a single candle. Sobs and tears accompanied the litany.

He cried for many minutes, and only gradually managed to translate his heartbreak into anger. He picked up one of the many loose stones at the base of the wall and tried to throw it, but it slipped out of his hand and fell to the ground at his feet. He picked it up again, and again failed to propel it any distance. A third time he cocked his arm back to throw.

Symbols and curving script appeared in his thoughts, as if floating in the air before him. He held his pose and read the words, the words his father had meticulously copied, the words of chi and alignment, of the movement of muscles.

For one brief moment, it all came together for Bransen. For one beautiful and miraculous instant, one flicker of clarity in a decade of fuzziness, his core energy aligned and with a movement that could only be described as graceful, he threw the rock across the room to smack hard against the opposite wall.

Bransen stood in shock, staring into the darkness of the far end of the chamber. His legs quickly became shaky again as his line of life energy dissipated. But his mind held that moment of clarity.

Bransen shifted back to the wall and fell to his knees, then into an awkward half-sitting half-kneeling position. He lifted another stone and brought it against the wall and scratched out a shaky line.

No, that would not do, he realized as he studied the scratch.

Bransen concentrated more deeply. He remembered the writing in the book, the opening sequences. He could see them clearly in his mind, and his hand followed that guidance as he scratched out another line. He sat back and inspected his work. It was better than the first but still far from perfect.

The third line was a bit better.

The fourth line was better yet.

The hundredth line was almost perfect.

But the candle was gone soon after that, and Bransen allowed exhaustion to overtake him, there at the base of the wall on the cold, hard floor.

When he finished his chores the next day and was put back in his hole with another candle, he went right back to his real work.

And so it went, day after day, week after week. Brother Reandu tried to convince himself that his inattention to Stork was merely a matter of his being too busy with his many duties. With several of the older brothers called away on missions or to Chapel Abelle, he was now the third highest ranking monk in Pryd, behind Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais.

His justifications held his conscience in check until one blustery, cold autumn night, the coldest by far since Stork had come to stay with them. Late that night, Reandu checked on the window hangings along the lower chambers of the chapel, making sure they were secured against the wind, while other brothers brought in wood to keep the hearth fires burning.

As he passed along the northeast corner of the building Reandu unconsciously glanced at the trapdoor leading to the substructure and to Stork's room.

How cold was it down there on a night such as this?

Brother Reandu took a torch from one of the nearby wall brackets and moved to the trapdoor, pulling it open gently and as quietly as he could so that he did not disturb the boy's sleep. He lay flat on the floor and poked his head through the opening, and was relieved to find that the room, though a little chilly, wasn't really uncomfortable and certainly wasn't dangerously cold. Hearing the boy's sleeping wheeze, Reandu brought the torch closer to the opening.

There lay Stork on his small cot, sleeping contentedly. The image warmed Brother Reandu's heart. Perhaps in sleep, at least, the tortured boy knew some peace.

He brought the torch back and began pulling himself up, but as he did the torch moved. Brother Reandu froze in place, his attention grabbed by the scratches, a hundred scratches, a thousand scratches, ten thousand scratches on the wall!

The monk blinked many times as the writing-it had to be writing!-became more clear, as the staggering scope of it began to be apparent. Now too curious to consider the boy's slumber, Brother Reandu climbed down into the underground chamber. He moved to the end of the wall nearest the boy's cot and found what had to be the beginning of this work: a large scratch, a squiggle, and nothing that made any sense to Reandu. Brother Reandu was no expert on linguistics; in fact, he had been among the worst of the scribes during his work at Chapel Abelle, but he instantly recognized patterns here, with words repeated.

"Amazing," Reandu said, and he was quite amused. Had Bransen, in his frustration, written his own book? Had he concocted a series of squiggles, a gibberish all his own?

Reandu's smile disappeared and he turned to consider the sleeping boy. Then he looked back at the wall, then back at the boy.

Then back at the wall again.

Even the first letter of the work was larger than all the others, a definitive beginning point. How had Stork possibly known to do that?

Shaking his head, Reandu slipped out of the room and went right to the door of Brother Bathelais.

He knew at once, as soon as Bathelais had squeezed into the cramped chamber beside him, that the older brother wasn't nearly as delighted. Bathelais stood there, staring at the markings, squinting and chewing his lip. He motioned for Reandu to follow, and they went back out of the hole.

"We will return in the morning, when we can study this without fear of disturbing the boy," Bathelais said.

"We should ask him about it."

"In time. I have little patience for listening to Stork stutter through some incomprehensible and ridiculous response."

Even though sympathetic Reandu always thought of Bransen as "Stork," hearing the name spoken by Brother Bathelais made him wince.

After more than an hour in the hole the next day, Bathelais's mood seemed to sour even more. He had brought with him some paper and charcoal and had done a rubbing of the work.

Reandu kept remarking that perhaps this was a miracle, but Bathelais just brushed him off over and over, muttering, "The boy has obviously seen a book."

"But to do such intricate work reveals an intelligence-"

"There are birds in Behr that can mimic human speech, brother. Should we kneel before them?"

Brother Reandu quickly realized that he would be better off remaining quiet as Brother Bathelais took over the investigation. He had little choice, in any event. He wasn't even invited to go along with Bathelais when he took the paper to Father Jerak later that day, and he only began to comprehend the level of Bathelais's disdain when the brother walked out of Father Jerak's room muttering, "Damnable Dynard, there were two." Garibond was feeling particularly uncomfortable this day. He sat on the rocks beside the lower cottage, absently casting his line. He thought about Bransen; he was always thinking about Bransen, and he could hardly believe how lonely and empty his days had become since the boy had gone off with the monks.

But it was for Bransen's own good, he had to continually remind himself. That, or he would simply sit and cry.

He heard the horses, but was so entangled in his thoughts of his lost boy that the sound didn't register for several moments. When he finally glanced to the side, the riders-three monks and a pair of soldiers-were almost to the stones leading to his front door.

Garibond hurried to set his pole down and meet them. He recognized two of the monks and one large soldier that he knew to be Bannagran, the close friend of Laird Prydae. His presence more than anything warned Garibond that something was amiss, and he immediately thought of the Samhaists. Had they gotten to Bransen?

"Greetings to you, Brother Bathelais," he said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

"Where is it?"

"It?"

"Apparently, Brother Dynard kept another secret, did he not?" Brother Bathelais said.

Garibond rocked back on his heels, his mind spinning.

"You would be wise to speak openly and truthfully," Bathelais added. "For your sake and the sake of the boy."

"He is Bran Dynard's son," Garibond blurted, and he was surprised at the shock that came over Bathelais, as if he had caught the man completely off guard with the admission he believed the man to be anticipating.

"Bran Dynard," Brother Reandu said. "And SenWi." With both names, he emphasized the first syllables. "Bran and Sen," he clarified to those astride the horses about him.

"Bransen," said the third monk, whom Garibond did not know.

"When was the boy born?" Bathelais demanded. "Soon after Dynard departed?"

"Or soon before," Garibond admitted.

"And so the mother was here, all the while," reasoned the monk. "When all the holding was searching for the outlaw SenWi, she was kept safe through her pregnancy in the home of Garibond Womak." As he spoke, Bathelais looked at the soldiers, particularly at Bannagran, whose lips went very tight and whose dark eyes bored holes in old Garibond.

"She was no outlaw," Garibond managed to whisper, and his voice grew even weaker as all the riders began to dismount.

"Save yourself more trouble, and more for the boy, do not doubt," Brother Bathelais said to him. "Tell us where it is."

"SenWi is dead."

"Not the creature of Behr. The heretical book that Brother Dynard scribed. We know that there were two."

Garibond shook his head. "Two? No, there was only the one."

"Destroyed in the hearth in Father Jerak's room?" asked Bathelais.

"So I have heard."

Bathelais's smile became that of a predator that had finally cornered its meal. "And pray tell me how you heard of such a thing?" he asked. "Certainly few even in Chapel Pryd knew of the destruction, for few even knew of the work. How could Garibond Womak, who lives out here on the edge of the wilderness, know of such a thing as that?"

Garibond swallowed hard. "Word spreads quickly."

"Not that word!" Bathelais snapped. To the others, he said, "Tear out every stone of the walls if you must. I will have that book."

He looked back at Garibond, his scowl increasing. "Make it easy, master Womak. Your trouble has only just begun, and it will soon end, I assure you, but if you make it easy, then I will make your passing easy."

There it was. Bathelais had just branded him a heretic, and from that, there could be no appeal. He felt his knees go weak beneath him, but he stubbornly held himself up.

"For the sake of the boy, then?" Bathelais added.

The weakness was gone, replaced by a wall of anger. Garibond tried to respond with a barrage of insult and accusation, tried to scream out that this Church of Blessed Abelle was a sham under the leadership of Father Jerak, that Bran Dynard was the finest man he had ever known, and SenWi the finest woman, that all of the monks' pretense could not hide the awful truth.

He wanted to say all that, but all that came out was a wad of spit, aimed at Brother Bathelais's face.

The monk didn't flinch, and he slowly brought his arm up to wipe his face. He stared at Garibond hatefully all the while, and that was the last image he knew before a sudden burst of pain erupted on the side of his head and he fell away into blackness.

He awoke much later-he knew not how much time had passed-to the sound of voices and the crackle of wood. Immediately he was assaulted by a wave of smoke, stinging his eyes and throat.

And he felt the pain suddenly in his feet and shins. He squirmed and realized that he was lashed tightly, his hands behind his back and around a stake.

"I had hoped you would not awaken," came a sympathetic voice. Garibond managed to open his eyes enough to see Brother Reandu, with Brother Bathelais lurking right behind.

The waves of heat and smoke engulfed him. He heard himself screaming as the fires of Church justice curled the skin of his legs, as his woolen tunic ignited, and a million points of pain screamed out in protest.

He thrashed and he cried. And he choked and gagged, and couldn't find any air at all to draw into his burning lungs.

Just beyond the pyre, the soldiers, the monks, and a few curious neighbors watched the man pass from life.

"You could have made a grand spectacle and example of him," Bannagran said to Brother Bathelais.

"That is what Bernivvigar would do," Bathelais replied, and his voice was subdued and full of regret.

"It teaches proper respect."

"Respect?" Bathelais said, turning to regard the soldier. "This is an unpleasant necessity. This"-he held up the book the soldiers had found in a secret cubby in Garibond's tunnel complex-"is not an issue for public discourse." He looked down at the book for a long moment, then tossed it into the fire.

"This all ends here," Bathelais instructed. "All of it. Garibond is gone and the pagan tome is finally destroyed. We will speak of it no more."

And he went to his horse, and the others followed.

And the neighbors were left to watch the flames roar against the late afternoon sky and to bury the husk of Garibond's body the next day. Part III God's Year 74