The Highwayman

26

Paralysis of Another Sort When the trapdoor slammed shut, its reverberations felt to Bransen as if someone had driven a stake right through his chest. He sat in the near darkness of his barren and cold room, the light of a single candle the only barrier between him and a blackness so profound that he could not see his own hand if he waved it an inch in front of his face.

He was in emotional tumult, his thoughts flying from Tarkus Breen to Cadayle. Cadayle! Bransen could hardly believe that she had arrived in his moment of need. He hadn't seen her in years, and there she was, right when he most needed her, just as she had so often been before Bransen had come to Chapel Pryd. And as if all that turmoil and confusion, elation and fear weren't enough, Bransen saw the scowl of Bernivvigar and the trembling rage of Master Bathelais.

And one more thing swirled through his roiling emotions: the feel of the touch of hematite.

In his deepest dreams, in his moments of the purest concentration over the Book of Jhest, Bransen had not imagined anything as crystalline as the sensation that gemstone had provided.

Now he had to consider the hematite in a different light, and for a different purpose. He had tried to warn Brother Reandu that Cadayle was in danger. He had heard Tarkus Breen's whispered threat. But he hadn't succeeded and Reandu had merely reassured him that everything was all right, that bluster was just that and that the boys were "feisty"-yes, that was the word Reandu had used several times to describe the bullies-but were not criminals.

Bransen knew better. He had seen the look in Tarkus Breen's eyes. He had heard the hateful tone of Breen's voice. All that led him to the inescapable conclusion that Cadayle was in danger.

And no one would help her. And he was here, in a hole in the dark, hardly able to help himself.

Bransen forced himself to stand on his wobbly legs. He recalled the head to groin, conscious alignment of the energy line, of ki-chi-kree. Even though Bransen could hardly hope to achieve or sustain such a state, the effort to do so allowed him to throw aside his jumble of thoughts, one by one.

He dismissed the humiliation he had suffered outside. He dismissed Bernivvigar's threatening glare. He dismissed the unsettling comments of Master Bathelais. He dismissed the implications of the reference to his mother's sword. He even put aside his thoughts of Cadayle.

Temporarily.

Now he was in control of his tormented body. Now he stood straight and strong, and he stretched his arms out, then brought them in slowly and in perfect coordination, working through some of the Jhesta Tu exercises.

With a deep breath, Bransen fell into stillness and let thoughts of Cadayle come back to mind, hearing again the threat from Tarkus Breen. He focused the inevitable rising anger into his meditation, into his determination.

He knew he had to do something, but how could he even begin?

He thought again of the gemstone, of the moment of not just physical wholeness, but of easy physical wholeness.

Bransen stepped forward, walking swiftly before this effort of smooth movement weakened him. He went below the trapdoor and pushed it open, hoping that no brothers were around in the lower levels of the chapel at this late hour.

Bransen lifted his arms and planted his hands firmly on the lip of the opening. Only as he pulled himself up did he come to understand that his years of torment, of twisting and struggling for every movement, had actually done something wonderful: his muscles were strong. Now moving with coordination, his often-flailing arms easily hoisted him out of his hole.

He was beginning to tire, though, as he walked across to the desk and he nearly fell with exhaustion, his mind beginning to lose focus, his chi beginning to scatter once more. With great effort, Bransen pulled open the small side drawer, where Brother Reandu had dropped the gemstone-filled pouch.

He pulled it forth and carefully emptied its contents onto the desk, then sifted through the stones to find the one he needed. As soon as he had the smooth gray hematite in hand, Bransen felt the cool pull of its depths. He had never been trained in gemstone use, and he had only rarely seen the brothers of Abelle employ them. He wasn't sure how to begin to access and employ the magic.

But he found himself in the swirl of the stone almost immediately, and he understood its properties clearly. Amazed, Bransen quickly realized that the mental state that permitted gemstone use was almost identical to Jhesta Tu concentration.

His arm was shaking again, so much so that he actually punched himself in his still-sore nose-which sent a wave of nausea rolling through him-as he lifted the soul stone to his forehead. Finally he got it in place, and he let his thoughts flow through its inviting depths and then back into his chi, starting right there at his forehead.

Bransen's breathing steadied, and his arms and legs stopped shaking almost immediately. He saw his line of energy coalesce and straighten, and he felt a harmony within.

A perfect harmony, even more complete than he had achieved in those few moments when Brother Reandu used the stone on him. The combination of Jhesta Tu and gemstone magic held his life energy, his chi, strong and tight.

Bransen stood straight. He wanted to move through some of the Jhesta Tu exercises, for all weariness had suddenly flown, but he couldn't bring his arm down. He wanted to revel in this feeling of freedom, this feeling that all healthy people took for granted. He wanted to stand there and bask in the moment or to jump for in joy in an impromptu dance.

Could Cadayle wait for him to calm down?

He began replacing the other stones in the pouch; with each one he handled, he felt its magical energy, and its knowledge of its various properties flitted through his mind. He felt the tingling of the lightning-inspiring graphite and the weightlessness afforded by malachite. He felt the inner heat of ruby, the protective shield of the serpentine, and the warmth and light of diamond. The stones seemed strangely familiar to him. He couldn't dwell on it now, though. He put the pouch away and returned to his chamber. He fumbled with his bedding and pulled forth the black silk suit. It was still in amazing condition, but a seam at the right shoulder had begun to open. Bransen knelt on the main part of the black shirt and with his free hand pulled the right sleeve off. Then he wrapped it around his head, using it to secure the hematite in place.

Gingerly Bransen tied the ends together and brought his hands down to his sides, then breathed a huge sigh of relief: the gemstone effect was continuing even without his hand holding the stone. The connection remained, and it was strong.

Bransen smiled as he considered the expressions he might elicit if he walked out of his hole and to Master Bathelais's private quarters! What would Bernivvigar think of him now? Would he apologize? And what of Tarkus Breen and his cohorts? Bransen was free of his limitations; Bransen was also schooled in the martial ways of Jhest. He felt confident that Tarkus Breen couldn't even hit him, let alone hurt him!

Indeed, what might the world think of the Stork now?

Bransen's smile disappeared and a wave of fear nearly buckled his legs, every hopeful possibility fast replaced by dread.

With that in mind, he removed his bandana. Working carefully, one hand holding the gemstone, the other manipulating the material, he brought the fabric over the candle and held it there, once and then a second time. When he put the bandana back on his head to hold the gemstone, he spread it over his face so that it covered his nose and all the way to his upper lip. An adjustment showed him that he had burned the eyeholes correctly.

Cadayle.

That one thought stayed with him. He quickly pulled off his tunic and began donning the black silk suit. He recognized one error almost immediately, though, for he had removed the right sleeve, showing his bare arm and the unique birthmark. Thinking quickly, Bransen removed his bandana and tore a narrow strip off it. He put his mask back in place, then tied the strip around his right arm, hiding the mark.

When he put on the soft shoes, he felt as if he could leap to the stars or run faster than any deer. He was complete, dressed in his mother's outfit of station and blessed by the powers of both Jhest and the Abelle gemstone. He blew out the candle and scrambled out of his hole, closing the trapdoor behind him; and he quietly crossed out of the chapel, across the courtyard, and out into the night. As he tried to get his bearings, he moved from shadow to shadow, though there were few people milling about anyway. Cadayle lived at the western end of town, he remembered from long ago, or at least she had lived out there.

Bransen ran off.

He ran off!

His legs moved swiftly and he didn't have to throw them by jerking his hips forward. His legs strode in balance, his feet planting firmly with each long running stride. Bransen couldn't believe the feeling of freedom, of elation, and pure joy. He had never imagined this release from the bonds of his infirmity. He had never imagined the feel of the wind in his hair quite like this. He almost felt as if he were flying; and to him, this ability to run was almost as much of a leap as true flight would have been to a normal man.

So rapt was he that he nearly forgot his purpose, and he had gone quite a long way before remembering Cadayle and the possible danger. He slowed-how he hated doing that!-oriented himself, and realized that he had no idea where he was, for never in his life had he been west of Castle Pryd.

The farther he got from the castle, the more sparse lay the houses, scattered about small fields, clusters of simple houses separated by walls of piled rocks. All the structures looked the same, one- or two-room hovels of plain stone with thatched roofs. A few had small gardens under their windows, flowers and vegetables with colors dull in the pale moonlight. Some cows lowed and a few goats skittered past Bransen as he made his way along the winding roads. Some of the houses had candles burning inside; and whenever he noted the lights, Bransen slipped to the window and peeked in, hoping every time that he had at last found Cadayle's house.

He walked for hours, all the lights going down, even the moon setting in the west, so that he was alone in the quiet dark. He went farther out than he had intended, out to where the houses were even more widely spaced, out where fields and forests dominated, and cows and chickens and goats far outnumbered people. Bransen had no idea that Pryd Town was this big, for there were certainly more houses here in the west than in the east where he had grown up, where Garibond lived quietly with few and widespread neighbors around the small lake. Given the scope of the town, the young man only then realized the magnitude of the task before him in even finding Cadayle, let alone protecting her.

Frustrated, but with the eastern sky beginning to brighten with the first light of dawn, Bransen sprinted back along the roads toward Castle Pryd, whose massive dark outline could be clearly seen even from this distance. The light was growing by the minute, and Bransen realized that he might have erred. He understood clearly that he did not want to reveal his new secret, he did not want the monks or anyone else to know that there was another side to the Stork.

Each stride became more desperate as Bransen realized that he wouldn't make it back to the chapel before the brothers had begun to stir. How would he explain himself? He thought of running right by, of going all the way out to Garibond's house, but his place was Chapel Pryd, especially since he had one of their prized possessions, a magical gemstone, with him.

Bransen sprinted. He thought of the Book of Jhest, about its lessons concerning breathing and stamina. He loosened his fists and let all his muscles relax, save those pumping his legs.

He passed Castle Pryd and moved to the side of the chapel, sidling up to one window in the room above his chamber. He peeked in and saw a couple of brothers sweeping and dusting. "Come along, Stork," one of them called.

Bransen fell back against the wall and held his breath, trying to figure out some escape. He thought that perhaps he should just slip in and tell them the truth.

And then he thought of the Book of Jhest, the book that seemed to have the answers to everything buried in its graceful lines of script.

Barely making a sound, Bransen turned back and studied the two working brothers, soon discerning their patterns, soon predicting their turns and movements. He found his timing and slipped over the stone sill and in the window, sliding down to the floor and crawling along it like a snake. He reached the trapdoor and paused, silent and still, watching the two brothers moving in the dim light. As one brother lifted a candelabra from the desk, Bransen lifted the trapdoor, just enough so that he could slither through the opening. He touched on the floor below hands first, and held himself there, his feet slowly descending and quietly lowering the trapdoor closed as they did.

Bransen dropped to all fours and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Stork!" he heard one of the brothers call more insistently.

Now he moved fast, to his bed, where he stripped and pulled his woolen tunic on. Last, and with great remorse, he removed his mask and the gemstone it held. He worried about keeping the stone for just a moment, until he realized that there had been several of the soul stones in the pouch, after all, and the brothers didn't seem to keep close watch on them.

Bransen tucked everything out of sight, and not a moment too soon, for his trapdoor banged open. "Come along, Stork," said the monk. "Daylight is wasting."

Bransen rose from his bed, or tried to, and only then did he understand the toll his previous night's exploits had exacted upon his tortured body. A wave of such weariness came over him that he staggered forward and dropped hard to the floor, blackness engulfing him. Only distantly did he realize that he was being hoisted from the hole. Only distantly did he hear the calls of the monks.

He awoke much, much later, with darkness again settled on the land. He was on a blanket on the floor of the room above his own, a monk sitting in a chair above him, his head to one side, his breathing rhythmical in slumber.

Cadayle.

The thought stabbed at him. Had he failed her? Was it too late to go back and find her house?

Bransen tried to roll over and rise, but before he even really began to pull himself up, the monk grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Easy, Stork. It's almost dawn. Come on, now, go back to sleep. You had us all worried. We thought you had just decided to die!" The monk gave a chuckle, and Bransen hardly paid him any heed, but he did clearly hear the man's next words.

"I suppose that might be a good thing for you, though, eh, Stork? Poor wretched thing. Might be that we'd all be better off, yourself most of all, in just giving you to Bernivvigar. Ah, you poor thing."

Bransen wanted to scramble into his hole and gather up the soul stone, then come back in a rampage and teach this fool better!

But he didn't and he couldn't. He slumped back and hoped desperately that Cadayle was all right.

He went through his duties absently the next day, and was glad that the monks had reduced his workload since the incident with Tarkus Breen. When he finally managed to get back down into his hole, he was relieved to find that the monks had not found his hastily hidden black suit and the stolen soul stone. A crooked smile crossed Bransen's face as he considered that. Why would they find any of it, after all, since none of them ever came down to see him? On the one occasion when he had found visitors in his subterranean lair, they had been too consumed by the writing he had done on the wall even to notice the roll of black material that had so long served him as a pillow.

Realizing his limitations, Bransen dared to slip out earlier that night. He had to move more carefully, as there were people around, but the sky was heavily overcast, and the darkness gave him ample opportunity to hide.

And he used the lessons of the book, the deeper understanding it offered of how individuals perceived their surroundings. As he fell into those words, it almost seemed to Bransen as if he could see the world through the eyes of those from whom he wished to hide; and moving past them without being noticed presented very little challenge.

Bransen felt as if he were truly Jhesta Tu, as if the secrets of the mystics were more than simply known to him but actually were a part of him. How could he move so gracefully with his newfound freedom so fresh? How could he run, and fast, when he had never done anything like that before? And yet, he knew how, as if he saw every movement of his muscles, as if he understood every twist and its result, as if his thoughts, his chi, had so perfectly aligned that his body had become a perfect extension of that life energy, perfectly guided.

As he walked to the west end of Pryd, Bransen moved through the various routines of Jhesta Tu fighting, working his arms in a series of movements both defensive and offensive. He thrust his hand forward or sideways, precisely snapping at the end of each strike as if to crush a windpipe or stiffening his fingers as if jabbing them through flesh.

Many more lights were on as he moved through the western reaches of Pryd Town, affording him a better chance to locate Cadayle. The shadow that was Bransen drifted through the lanes and small yards, one by one, peering into house after house. And finally, he found her.

She lived with her mother at the end of a lane in a small stone house with flowers all around the yard. She was inside going about her nightly routines. Bransen's heart leaped at the sight. He watched the two eat their dinner, laughing and talking. He listened as they sat before the small hearth later, sometimes talking and sometimes sitting silent, taking in the meager heat on this unseasonably chilly night.

When at last Cadayle rose and moved to a small cot and began to undress, Bransen froze and nearly panicked.

She pulled her tunic up, and Bransen turned away, putting his back to the wall and fighting for every breath. How he wanted to watch her, to bask in the beauty of her soft curves and delicate limbs! His curiosity and something deeper, something he didn't really understand, something deep in the base of his line of life energy, in his loins, tugged at him to watch.

But he knew that it would be wrong.

He stayed by the house until late in the night, protecting his dear Cadayle. And while he was there, he practiced the Jhesta Tu exercises, the precise movements designed to instill memory and precision into the muscles of a warrior.

Any Jhesta Tu mystic watching him would have thought he had spent years at the Walk of Clouds.

No trouble came to Cadayle that night, nor the next, nor the next after that. And through each night, Bransen was there, outside her house, keeping watch and examining, too, his newfound physical prowess and the implications that it might hold.

"How will Master Bathelais and Brother Reandu accept this change?" he asked himself quietly. The young man found himself speaking aloud quite often these nights. The sound of his voice, without the stuttering, without the wetness of unwilled saliva, without the tortured twists and tugs of uncontrolled jaw muscles, amazed him and pleased him in ways he had never imagined. "Or Bernivvigar? Yes, the old one will be surprised and not pleased. What will he say when I look him in the eye and declare him a criminal? What will he say when I knock him down and kick him hard for the pain he brought Garibond?"

Bransen's eyes gleamed as he considered that, as he pictured Bernivvigar helplessly squirming on the ground before him. He shook the dangerous fantasy away, when he reminded himself that Bernivvigar had acted on behalf of Laird Prydae. Would he challenge the whole of Pryd?

"Garibond," he whispered to the night. "My father of deed, not blood. You will see your efforts rewarded. You will see your prayers answered. You will see your son stand straight. I will tend to you as you did for me all those years. Never again will you have to sit huddled in the cold rain, trying to catch a fish or two to silence your growling belly. Never again will you stagger toward the house, an armload of firewood in your weary arms.

"Never again, my father."

As he finished, Bransen leaped high into the air and spun one leg flying out in a circular kick, muscles working in perfect harmony, joints moving smoothly and without pain. He heard the crack of wind at the end of that kick, so sharp and swift was its motion. He landed easily in a crouch, arms flowing side to side before him as if fending off enemies.

He stopped abruptly and looked back at the house. "Cadayle," he whispered. He tried to imagine the look upon her face when he revealed himself to her, when he showed her that he was the Stork no more-or at least, not all of the time. "My love, my all."

A sudden stab of fear stole his voice. He thought he would rush forward and profess his love to her, tell her that there was nothing in all the world more precious to him than her smile and her gentle touch, that there was nothing warmer to him than the feel of her breath.

He realized that she wouldn't reciprocate. He knew in his heart, then and there, that she would never be able to see past the shit-covered Stork, wallowing in the mud. How could someone as beautiful and perfect as Cadayle ever hold any feelings other than compassion and pity for the wretched creature he had been all his life?

"How could I begin to think myself worthy of you?" he asked the empty night.

No, not empty, he only then realized, as his senses reached outward and caught the movements of several forms, distant laughter, and the crash of a bottle thrown to the road.

Bransen ducked into the shadows of a tree a dozen yards to the side of Cadayle's house. He stared back to the east, back down the lane, and noted the approach of five dark forms. He couldn't make out any details from this distance, but he knew at once that it was Tarkus Breen and his friends, come at last to make good on their threat. Bransen's hands trembled so hard that his fingers tapped against the rough oak bark. His legs turned weak beneath him and his mouth went suddenly dry.

"This is why you came out here," he reminded himself, but the words sounded hollow against the fear, the terror that was welling within him. He thought himself a fool, a pretend hero who kicked at the air and imagined he could do anything.

Anything at all.

For he was just the Stork, just a boy, who had never been to war, who had never fought back against anything other than pounding his dirty hand into the dirt after being thrown down.

A movement before him brought him from his thoughts, and he caught a flash, a reflection of glass in the starlight, as the bottle soared and smashed against Cadayle's door.

The three walked right past, taking no notice of him.

"Cadayle," Tarkus Breen called. "Come out and play, girl. I've a weapon too long sheathed!"

The others laughed.

The group strode right up to the house, one going left, another right, to ensure that no one got out.

Bransen wanted to shout. He wanted to charge at the group and demand they leave. He wanted to run back to town and call out the guard.

He couldn't bring himself to move. Not an inch. He couldn't bring himself to swallow, let alone cry out!

Everything seemed to move before him so slowly and yet very quickly as if his mind couldn't properly take in the unfolding scene. He saw candlelight inside the house. He watched a large man walk up to the door and kick it hard, and then again, knocking it wide open.

He heard a protest-Cadayle's mother.

And Tarkus Breen and two others went in.

He heard a scuffle, saw the two other men coming back around the house; and the sound of a slap jolted him straight.

Cadayle appeared in the door, wearing only a white nightshirt. She started to run out, but Tarkus himself caught her by her thick hair and tugged her back. She fell to her knees right there in the doorway.

Bransen shook violently. He silently cursed his cowardice. How could he watch this and not go to her? How could he stand here, ready to pee in his pants?

"Shut up, you old hag, and be glad that you're too ugly to feel the sting of our weapons!" one of the brutes shouted from inside. And Bransen jumped at the sound of another slap.

Cadayle crawled out and started to rise, but Tarkus's foot planted on her back and sent her sprawling to the ground.

In a moment, four of the five were around her, taunting her, while the fifth remained inside with her mother.

"You should know your place, girl," Tarkus Breen said. "You interfere where you're not wanted."

Cadayle looked up at him. Even at this distance, Bransen could see her eyes full of hate and fear.

"You defend that creature," Tarkus Breen said, and he spat upon her. "Do you not understand who we are and what we have done for you? We fight in the south and we die! We defend you, whore, and you side with that creature over us?"

Cadayle shook her head.

"You should welcome us with your legs wide," Tarkus Breen said, and he kicked her and started to roll her over. "You should be honored that we think you worthy of our seed!"

"Take her!" one of the others eagerly prompted, and the other three laughed.

Bransen told himself to move, ordered his legs to take him out there and intervene. And yet, he stood huddled against the tree, hardly breathing.

He looked at Cadayle, offering a silent apology for his weakness.

She didn't see him, but as if in response, she seemed to go suddenly weak, all defiance falling into hopelessness, and she began to cry.

Those tears, lines of wetness glistening in the starlight, crystallized Bransen's thoughts. All his personal emotions fell aside in the face of that sight, of dear and wonderful Cadayle crying and broken, the surrender of the woman who had been one of the pillars of strength in his life.

Bransen was moving without even thinking. Bransen's subconscious and muscles were falling into the martial lessons of the Book of Jhest. He hardly realized that he was approaching the group; he hardly even saw the closest man, the big one who had kicked in the door, turn and stare.

Bransen slid to one knee as he came up on that man, who was just beginning to cry out in surprise. Without breaking his momentum, Bransen drove the heel of his right hand hard into the big man's groin, lifting him up to his toes.

Bransen sprang up, snapping his foot up to kick the man in the face. As the victim straightened, Bransen hit him a left, right-left-right combination, finishing with a left hook that had the man flying sideways. Bransen leaped forward going right past the reacting attacks of the two men at the sides of Cadayle and going right over her to land before Tarkus Breen.

Breen's arm flashed out, a knife in his hand, but to Bransen he almost seemed to be moving under water. Bransen turned his fingers upward and pushed the striking arm harmlessly wide.

Reacting on instinct, he leaped straight in the air, tucked his legs beneath him, then kicked out on both sides, stopping the charges of both men beside him. He landed with his arms crossed over his chest, then flung his arms out, the backs of his hands smashing against the faces of his attackers. Bransen slipped to the right, bending his right arm, then lashing out once and again with his elbow. He felt the crunch of the man's nose with the first blow.

He dropped as that man fell and snapped out his leg into the kneecap of the other attacker, stopping him short. The man stiffened and stumbled backward, and Bransen used the distance to begin a charge of his own, easily deflecting another stab from Tarkus Breen. Two short steps and he leaped and spun, turning nearly horizontal in the air, adding even more weight behind his kick to the man's midsection.

As one leg flew out hard, Bransen lowered his other leg. He landed, absorbing the impact by letting his knee bend deeply and using the movement to regain his center of balance as he dropped nearly to the ground.

Then, with all his strength, he came up hard and threw all his strength and weight into the move to gain enough momentum to again lift him from the ground. Around he went as he rose, sending his free leg into a circle kick. It was too high, and cut the air above Tarkus Breen's head as he ducked and charged ahead, arm extended.

But Bransen's kick had been too high on purpose, in accordance with the movements taught in the Book of Jhest. As Breen ducked, Bransen launched his intended attack, his other foot snapping straight up into Breen's face.

Bransen landed easily on both feet, Tarkus Breen staggering backward. To Bransen's left, an attacker was rising but scrambling away, one leg broken. To his right, a man squirmed on the ground and clutched his broken face. Behind him, Cadayle cried; and beyond her, the big man lay very still.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Tarkus Breen said, the confidence long gone from his voice.

"I am…" Bransen paused, as if awakening from a dream, as if for the first time actually realizing what he had done. While his body had come in here, fighting perfectly, his thoughts were stalled back at the tree. Now he was waking up.

But what was he to say? He recalled some of the brothers at the chapel complaining that the roads were becoming unsafe again, with powries and highwaymen. He recalled pieces of their stories of older times and great deeds. He seized on that without even thinking.

"I am the Highwayman," he said, hardly considering the implications.

Tarkus Breen wasn't listening, Bransen then realized, but had used the pause only so that he could gather himself for another attack. He came forward hard, slashing his knife back and forth.

But Bransen, though he had regained his awareness of himself, was no longer afraid. There was no paralysis in him, and the lessons of the Book of Jhest flowed through him as easily and fully as if he were reading the book. His line of chi, formed so solidly by his discipline and by that soul stone set under his black mask, held tight and straight, relaying his thoughts to his muscles perfectly, and calling them to action.

Breen's knife slashed, left to right, then back again, but Bransen retreated and veered, so as not to trip over Cadayle. Tarkus Breen followed, stabbing straight ahead. Bransen's hand pushed the strike out wide, but then his attacker surprised him by breaking off and turning back to Cadayle.

Tarkus Breen stabbed the knife out toward her.

He never got close to connecting.

For Bransen rushed back to Cadayle, catching Breen's wrist with his left hand. He lifted Breen's arm and went under it, turning it and forcing the bully to come up straight. Bransen kept twisting as he stood up straight. He lifted his right arm and drove his elbow against Breen's.

The snap of bone sounded like the breaking of a thick tree branch.

Bransen hardly heard it and hardly slowed, ducking under the shattered arm and turning to come face-to-face against the agonized man, the twisted and broken arm between them.

The look in Breen's eye-somewhere beyond pain, somewhere in the realm of shock and horror-was the first indication of something serious to Bransen. He leaped back, letting go, and Tarkus Breen stood still, his right arm hanging at his side, his left hand coming in slowly, trembling every inch, approaching the hilt of his knife, which he had driven hard into his own diaphragm.

Shaking fingers moved around the hilt and started to close, but Tarkus Breen seemed to lose all strength then. He looked at Bransen. His arm fell to his side.

He fell over dead.

Cadayle screamed, but Bransen hardly heard it. He knew his enemy was dead. He knew that he had killed a man.

He searched through the Book of Jhest for an answer to this sudden realization. He tried to remember to breathe.

Another woman's cry behind him took it all away, and Bransen spun and charged into the house.

A moment later, Callen staggered out, crying, one eye swollen. She caught the door with one hand as she passed and managed to pull it partially closed behind her. She stumbled to Cadayle, who rose to embrace her, and the two turned back to the house, to the sounds of fists connected repeatedly, to the sound of grunts.

The door slammed closed then exploded outward, the assailant flying through it backward. He hit the ground hard, groaned, and rolled over, giving the two women a view of his bloody face.

The Highwayman appeared at the door.

"Be gone, all of you!" he demanded of the beaten attackers. "Be gone and return to this place only on pain of death."

They staggered and scrambled, hoisted their friend with the shattered kneecap, dragged Tarkus Breen's body, and managed to move away.

"They'll not return," Bransen said to the two women.

"How can we ever thank you?" Cadayle said to him breathlessly as she continued to hug her crying mother.

Bransen went to her and helped both women to rise. "No need, of course," he said, trying to show some measure of calm so that the two would follow that lead. "I consider it an honor to be able to help."

Despite his cool demeanor, Bransen was churning inside. How he wanted to pull off his mask and proclaim his love for Cadayle! How he wanted to kiss her and hold her and tell her and her mother that everything was all right. How could he blend this moment of heroism into a moment of personal revelation?

The sound of a neighbor's call defeated any hopes he might have. No doubt, the defeated gang were beginning to draw attention.

Bransen smiled and tapped his hand to his forehead in salute.

"Good evening to you, beautiful ladies," he said. "Blessed am I to be granted the good fortune to aid you this night."

"But-" Cadayle started.

"The look on your face is all the gratitude any man would ever need, and more than any man would ever deserve, milady," he said, and he thought himself clever in sounding like the monks when they told their great tales of old heroes. Stealing a line directly from one of those overheard stories, Bransen added, "In all a man's life, might he hope to see a single instance of such pure beauty as your face. I am the fortunate one this night." He saluted again as both Cadayle and her mother looked to the road and the neighbors' approach. When they looked back, he was already gone, melting into the night.

The road back to the chapel was a long one for Bransen. So many truths assailed him from every side, so many conflicting emotions. He had performed brilliantly. He had saved Cadayle and her mother, had beaten the bullies.

He had killed a man.

Out behind the castle, in the darker predawn shadows within a copse of trees, Bransen Garibond, the self-proclaimed Highwayman, fell to his knees and threw up.