The Highwayman

34

Behind Two Doors So consumed was Bransen by the discovery of Garibond's knife that he did not go to visit Cadayle the next night. Of course he wanted to see her-he always wanted to be by Cadayle's side-but he knew deep in his heart that something simply wasn't right. Garibond would never have willingly parted with that blade, Bransen knew, for the knife was more than a utensil to him. It was a piece of Garibond's identity, a tool he had clearly valued because of how well it served him throughout his daily routine. He used it for cutting line and skinning fish, for taking small branches for firewood, and for eating his meals. He always carried it. Always.

Yet the man at the campfire claimed that he had possessed it for ten years. Doubts clouded Bransen's thoughts. Was it really Garibond's knife? Or was it, perhaps, that his own memory was not quite as reliable as he believed? He had seen Garibond's knife every day, practically, in the decade he had lived with him. But it was, after all, just a knife, of a simple and common design. And that was, after all, a decade ago, when Bransen was a child.

But why, then, Bransen wondered as he watched from the shadows of some trees, were these strangers living in the two houses of Garibond Womak? He could see them in the firelight behind the small windows of the lower cottage, milling about and making themselves perfectly at home. But how could they be at home in there? And where was Garibond?

He would find out, he decided. He would walk up and demand an explanation. But in what guise? As the Stork? The Highwayman?

He sat and he waited, so many questions spinning about in his thoughts. He watched as the scattered houses all around the area went dark, one by one, and as the upper house on the island similarly dimmed. All the forms moving in the lower house were adults, he could see, the two couples-two generations of a family, he believed. Gradually, the candles burned down and the windows darkened and the fire died out.

But even after the house was dark and quiet, Bransen sat there. He clenched his fists repeatedly at his side; he squinted against the stinging possibilities. He kept hoping that Garibond would walk up to the house, but he knew deep in the truthful recesses of his heart that it would not be.

The night deepened around him. No use in going to Cadayle now, he knew, for she was likely fast asleep. Almost all the town was fast asleep.

He watched the moon-the goddess Sheila to the Samhaists-pass her apex above him and wind down to the western horizon. And still he sat there, paralyzed by a fear more profound than any he had ever known, more so even than on that night he had first watched Tarkus Breen and his cohorts at Cadayle's.

"I must," he whispered to the night wind, and he pulled himself to his feet. "I must," he repeated, more loudly and assuredly, when he realized that his feet were not moving.

He thought of Garibond, recalling images of him as clearly as if he were seeing them all over again: at the lake; showing off a large catch; flashing one of his rare smiles; tousling Bransen's hair; splitting firewood; or just sitting calmly at the window, watching the world flow past.

Bolstered by the memories, the young man began to move, forcing one foot in front of the other. He owed this to Garibond, he reminded himself. He had to find out what was going on and where his father had gone. Outwardly, he just kept repeating, "I must."

Then he was at the door, and never had he seen a more solid barrier. He lifted his fist to knock, but lowered it, and then repeated the movement several times.

And then he began banging on the door, softly at first, but growing in intensity with each frustrated rap. "Answer me!" he called, and his fist slammed hard against the wood.

After several minutes, he had made up his mind to kick the door down, but just then he saw a light come up inside, and a form appeared at the window.

"Open the door," he demanded. "I must speak with you."

" 'Ere, who are you, then?" asked an older man.

Bransen slammed the door hard. "Open the door or I shall knock it down."

" 'Ere now, you be gone, knave!" the man at the window cried.

In response, Bransen leaped over, flashed out his sword, and put its tip near the man's face. "Knave it is," he said. "And growing angrier by the moment. Open the door, I ask and demand."

"You be gone!" the man shouted, and behind him, Bransen heard a woman cry, "The Highwayman!"

"We've got no coin for you to take," the man said, backing safely out of the sword's reach and sounding less sure of himself.

"I want not your coin," Bransen replied, and he lowered his sword. "Answers I need, and nothing more." He forced all sounds of fury and impatience out of his voice and calmly added, "My apologies, good sir. But please, it is important."

"If talk is all you need, then do it out there," said the obviously terrified man.

"How did you come by these houses?" Bransen asked.

"What do you mean?"

"We been here near to ten years now," the woman added. Bransen heard other voices from inside, off to the side and out of sight.

"How did you come by these houses?"

"Why is that your concern? You're not to take them from us!" the man answered.

"I've no need of any such thing. But I once knew a man who lived here on this lake. He was a friend, and I wish to know why I find you here now, where he should be."

There was some murmuring from within, a whispered conversation that Bransen could not follow.

"His name was Garibond," Bransen said, daring to utter it, though he was concerned about making any connection between Garibond and the Highwayman. But his mounting desperation would not allow for caution at that time. "Garibond Womak. A good and fine man."

More whispering ensued, and then, to Bransen's surprise, the door opened a crack. He moved over to see the two couples standing there in the light of a pair of candles, with the older pair just inside the door and the younger in the shadows behind them. None of the four seemed pleased at that moment.

"Ye knowed Garibond, did ye?" asked the younger woman, a short, plump, and dirty thing with a pug nose and dark rings under her sullen eyes.

"Aye, a good and fine man," said the man standing beside her, his arm draped across her shoulders. "From what I knew of him, I mean, and that weren't much."

"He had that damaged boy," said the older woman. "The one the monks took in when…" Her voice trailed off and she looked away.

"This was his house," Bransen blurted, growing nervous.

"For all his days," replied the older man who had addressed Bransen through the window.

Bransen started to nod, and then the words hit him hard as he came to understand their clear implication.

" 'Twas Taerel, me da there, that buried him them ten years ago," said the younger woman, and she indicated the previous speaker.

"You must be mistaken," Bransen managed to say, trying hard to keep his jaw from quivering. "Ten years, you say?"

"Aye, was ten years," said Taerel.

"Garibond was dead when the monks came and took this…this damaged boy?" Bransen asked, trying desperately to destroy the logic of their claim.

"Was a few weeks later that the monks returned for Garibond," said Taerel, "with the soldiers."

The hairs on the back of Bransen's neck began to stand up.

"Aye," the younger man added. "I was just a boy then, but I'm never to forget that day. They went all through this house, tearing it up, and then they took him." He stepped forward and pointed down the lakeshore to Bransen's right. "Right over there's where they did it."

"Did what?" Bransen's words were hardly more than a whisper.

"They burned him," said the man, who was just a few years older than Bransen.

"Staked him up, branded him a heretic, and burned him alive," Taerel added.

"Bah!" snorted the younger woman. "And them's the ones who're saying that their's is the gentle way and the gentle god, and not like old Bernivvigar. Bah!"

"The m-monks?" Bransen stuttered. "The monks from the chapel murdered Garibond?"

"Aye, Master Bathelais and the others. With the help of Laird Prydae's soldiers, of course. And it weren't murder if Garibond was guilty of heresy as they claimed, I'd say," said Taerel.

"Murder's murder," muttered the younger woman.

Bransen felt his knees go weak and he knew that he had to get out of there. His stomach began to churn. He half turned.

"Highwayman, you've got quite the tale growing about you," said Taerel. "All the town's talking of you, and glad they are that someone's telling Laird Prydae that he cannot keep taking all of our food and…"

The man's voice drifted off behind Bransen as he staggered away, back toward the trees. He couldn't believe what the four had just told him-Master Bathelais and the others would never do such a thing! But Bransen's inner denials rang hollow. He pictured again the knife held by the stranger at the campfire. He wondered suddenly why Garibond had never once come to Chapel Pryd to visit him. Never before had he even considered that fact, but why had his beloved father stayed away for all these years?

A sense of profound aimlessness washed over Bransen, a complete unhinging of all his focus and purpose that manifested itself in his lifeline of chi. He staggered and stumbled and fell more than once as he made for the copse, finally leaning heavily on one tree.

And still there was nothing but the confusion, the scattering of his life energy, the sporadic bursts and twitches-a profound aimlessness. Not even hopelessness, for hopelessness inferred some design and forward thinking, and in Bransen there was none of that. For all his life, he had lived with daily tragedy, with bullying and his helplessness, with the frustration of having a keen mind trapped in a damaged body. For all his life, the dominant feature had ever been pain.

But not like this. Garibond was dead. Branson knew it, he believed it, he held no doubt of it. Garibond, the uncomplaining man who had given so much to him, was simply no more. And all the fantasies that Bransen had entertained of returning to his beloved father whole and strong were no more. All the hopes that Bransen had about living again with Garibond-but in a completely different relationship, one in which he could care for his father as his father had always cared for him-were no more. But Bransen couldn't even focus on any of those things specifically. They were all there, spinning and intertwining in the scattered jumble of his mind, finally settling to a sense of emptiness, a hole he knew he could never fill.

He slipped down to the ground, all strength gone, tears filling his eyes. The knock startled the two women, but before either could begin to react, a second, more impressive banging burst the door askew. Behind the kick came Bannagran, commander of the laird's garrison, the most notable and feared warrior in all central Honce.

Cadayle fell back, as did her mother, and the two started for each other suddenly, needing the comfort of each other's arms.

But Bannagran cut in between them and shoved them apart. And before the women could react or protest, a second unexpected figure strode into their house, one that froze them in place.

"A fine day to you, ladies," said Laird Prydae. Hulking soldiers moved behind him, blocking the morning sunlight as it tried to stream in through the now-open door. "I forgive your lack of preparedness for my visit."

"My liege," said Cadayle's mother, and she fell to one knee and lowered her gaze. Cadayle took the cue and did likewise-or started to, until Bannagran grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back upright. She reached back and pulled at the big man's wrist, but his mighty grip did not weaken at all.

"You were awake late into the night, I expect," Laird Prydae went on. "Meeting the Highwayman, no doubt."

"No, my liege," Cadayle started to say, but she just shrieked instead as Bannagran reached over with his free hand, grabbed the front of her nightdress, and tore it from her, leaving her naked in the room-naked except for a jeweled necklace.

Cadayle looked down at the floor and quickly lifted her hand to cover the stolen necklace.

"You leave her!" her mother cried from across the way, and Cadayle glanced over just in time to see Callen's approach stopped suddenly by a backhanded blow from Bannagran, which sent Callen flying to the floor. Cadayle instinctively started to react, but the big man pulled all the harder on her hair.

"Enough of this foolishness," Bannagran said. "You are fairly caught, young lass. Make your death an easier thing with a bit of cooperation."

Callen shrieked at the blunt remark and charged again, only to be thrown aside once more by the giant Bannagran.

"My liege, pray you get those soldiers in here to control this wench," Bannagran said with a chuckle, but he bit the words off suddenly, noting Prydae's transfixed expression. "My liege?"

Prydae stood there staring at the naked Cadayle, at the softness of her curves, at their odd familiarity. The laird was no stranger to the sight of a naked woman, and so he was not leering like some giddy adolescent. But he was transfixed, by a memory the sight of Cadayle had inspired. The curve of her belly, the way her wheat-colored hair cascaded in layers across her lowered face. He thought of a bonfire, of an adder, of an adulteress and a knave. His gaze went from Cadayle to her mother, who, like Bannagran and Cadayle, was now staring at him curiously.

"Callen Duwornay," Laird Prydae remarked, the name springing from memories he didn't even know he possessed.

The woman blanched, something that neither Prydae nor Bannagran missed, and fell back a bit.

"N-no, my liege," she stammered.

"Callen Duwornay," Prydae said again, more confidently. "Not the poison of a snake nor the powrie dwarves could kill you."

"No, my liege, I am-"

"You are Callen Duwornay, and that is your daughter," Prydae interrupted. He looked back to Cadayle, at her curves, as images of that long-ago night began to stir within him. He remembered Callen in the firelight-remembered her looking exactly as this young woman now appeared to him. He remembered her curves, and the regrets he had that he would never bed her; and as that last thought played in his mind, he felt a stirring in his loins.

"That one," he said breathlessly, pointing to Cadayle. "She comes to Castle Pryd."

"What of the old wench?" asked one of the soldiers moving into the room past the laird.

Prydae fixed his gaze upon Callen, who seemed too afraid to say anything at that terrible moment.

"What do you know of the Highwayman?" Prydae asked sharply.

"She knows nothing!" Cadayle blurted, and Prydae turned a fierce scowl upon her.

"But you do," he said.

"My liege, I will tell you everything I know," Cadayle pleaded. "But please, do not hurt my ma. She's done nothing. She knows nothing. She's innocent. Please, my liege."

Prydae motioned with his head, and Bannagran dragged Cadayle from the room as the other two soldiers descended upon Callen. Only when Cadayle was long out of sight did Prydae turn on the woman.

"How you survived is of no concern to me," he said. "I admire it, I would say."

"Please, gentle Laird Prydae, do not harm my girl," Callen said, her voice a whimper, her body seemingly broken by the weight of it all.

"Harm her? Nothing could be further from my intentions, Callen Duwornay."

Callen began to cry.

"My liege?" asked one of the soldiers flanking her.

"Give her to Bernivvigar," Prydae said, turning and exiting, hardly seeming to care about Callen. "Perhaps he will be merciful, perhaps not. It matters not at all to me."

The woman, too broken by the suddenness of it all, by the shock of being discovered and the horror of having her daughter so unceremoniously dragged away, offered no resistance, offered nothing at all, as the two men hoisted her up. She didn't, couldn't, walk as they started out, but that hardly seemed to matter.

They just dragged her.