So many memories flooded Bransen as he sat on that hill. He tried to put them in context with the new reality that he now understood. There had been very few pleasant times in the years of his youth, but those precious few struck him now. He thought of the many hours sitting by the lake with Garibond while the man fished for their dinner. He remembered as if it had occurred only the day before the first time he had opened the Book of Jhest, the tome copied by his father and protected from the outraged monks by Garibond.
He thought of Brother Reandu and his days at the chapel in a cellar hole. To keep his sanity then, Bransen had re-created the Book of Jhest, scratching the walls with a stone. His youth had been filled with long hours of grueling work, for even the simplest task had been brutally difficult to the boy known as the Stork, the boy whose muscles would not answer the demands of his mind. His youth had been filled with the torment of the other boys, often brutal and violent.
But in that youth, he had known the friendship and the courage of one young girl.
In the flailing hopelessness of Bransen Garibond, the image of Cadayle’s hand, reaching down to help him to his feet, came to him again, reaching into the darkness of his heart and soul, the ache of his helplessness. Reaching for him and demanding that he take it.
He looked back to the southeast and envisioned the doorway at Cadayle’s old house and thought again of that fateful fight when he, the fledgling Highwayman, had killed his first man. Bransen was not proud of that act, was not happy that it had been forced upon him, but he had done a good thing that day. He had acted for justice and for the defense of those who could not defend themselves.
“The call of the Highwayman,” Bransen whispered into the predawn air, but he couldn’t help but wince at the end of his only partly true proclamation.
Had it really been a selfless pursuit of wider justice? Bransen laughed softly, admitting to himself the truth of the Highwayman. Finding his power with his studies of Jhesta Tu and through the transformation offered by the soul stone—becoming the Highwayman—had been more a matter of personal satisfaction than any altruistic endeavor. He knew that and wasn’t about to revise history for the sake of his pride. He had battled the tyranny of Laird Prydae because doing so afforded him a sense of control he had never experienced in his crippled youth. He was fueled and made powerful by the simmering rage that had flooded through him for all those years of torment, against the insults and the constant beatings of the bullies, against the softer but no less painful pity and disgust of the monks and many other condescending adults. How many times had Bransen heard the whispers that he would have been better off if they had just smothered him as a baby, when his infirmity had first been revealed? How many times had he heard the whispers that Laird Prydae or Father Jerak would do him a favor by putting him to swift death?
Anger, not altruism, had driven the Highwayman in those early days.
Bransen closed his eyes and pictured Cadayle’s small hand reaching down to him, toward the Stork who lay in the mud after being decked by more ruffians. There, alone on the hill, he mentally took her outstretched hand and let it lift him once more from the darkness that had welled up inside of him since the disaster in Ethelbert, the murder of Jameston Sequin, the betrayal of Affwin Wi, the loss of his sword and gemstone brooch, and the horrors he had just witnessed in the ravaged southland.
He stood tall on the hill, tall and straight though he had no hematite, no soul stone, to support him. He felt his line of life energy, his ki-chi-kree, running solid and strong from his forehead to his groin. He was no more the Stork and would never again be the Stork. The world around him had gone mad, perhaps, and the terrible events and turmoil were beyond his control, but up there before the dawn, Bransen Garibond reminded himself that for most of his life this simple act of standing straight—of having a measure of discipline over his own body—was all that he wished in the world.
The notion brought a smile to his face, but only briefly. He was whole; it was not enough.
Because he was lost and he knew it. He had found a measure of senselessness to life’s journey that mocked the very concept of purpose. He had walked the wider world and found it to be too wide, too uncontrollable, too much a cycle of inevitable misery and grief.
He started off the hillock heading for the lake, thinking to look in on the old stone house that had been his home for all of his youth. A small stumble, perhaps an honest trip, confused him and terrified him. He shook his head and started once more but veered almost immediately, turning toward the north, walking straight for Chapel Pryd. He needed to go there, needed to hear the counsel of Master Reandu. Bransen the agnostic sought some comfort.
Like all the communities of Honce proper in the summer season, the town of Pryd awakened before the dawn. Many people were out and about in the growing light as Bransen approached the large chapel, going about their chores before the hotter hours descended. Many sets of eyes fell upon him as he slowly and calmly walked the main road of Pryd Town, and he heard the whispers of “the Highwayman” following him. It was a more muted response than the one that had greeted him when he had come through here a month earlier beside Jameston Sequin. Bransen was glad of that. He didn’t want any cheering; he couldn’t bear the hopeful expressions that would inevitably come his way, as if he could do something to better the miserable reality of a peasant’s existence.
Bransen didn’t need that responsibility at this dark moment. He didn’t want any responsibility for anything or anyone, even for himself.
He walked up the path through Chapel Pryd’s gate. The front doors were open, a pair of brown-robed monks on the porch sweeping away the leaves. They stopped in unison and leaned on their brooms, watching Bransen’s approach. One stepped toward the door and shouted inside for someone to get Master Reandu.
“You could just take me to his chambers,” Bransen said as he neared.
“Better to meet him out here . . . at first, at least,” the brother replied.
Bransen considered that for a moment, then glanced over at Castle Pryd and shook his head. “In case Bannagran comes running, you mean,” he said, and the monk did not disagree.
“Well, it is a fine day anyway,” Bransen said. “So better to speak out under the sun.”
And so he wasn’t surprised to see Bannagran rushing through the gates of the courtyard before Reandu even made his appearance. The man was not alone, flanked by a dozen warriors armored in bronze and with swords in hand.
Bannagran looked Bransen over dismissively. “I have received no word from King Yeslnik that you are pardoned,” the Laird of Pryd warned.
Bransen didn’t answer, seemed as if he did not care.
“I warned you about returning here.”
“I had nothing to do with the death of King Delaval,” Bransen said calmly. “I was in Alpinador and Vanguard and nowhere near to Delaval City.”
“So you have claimed before.”
“I know who killed him.”
Bannagran stood up very straight and took in a deep breath, his massive and muscled chest straining the straps of his fabulously decorated bronze breastplate. He didn’t blink as he held his penetrating stare over Bransen, who, caring about nothing in the world, was not intimidated in the least.
“Bransen,” Master Reandu said suddenly from the chapel stoop behind them. Bransen turned about to see him. “What news brings you to Pryd? Evidence of your innocence?”
“No.”
Reandu looked at him curiously.
“Where is your proof, boy?” Bannagran demanded.
“I didn’t kill him. I was nowhere near Delaval City.”
“Who killed him?”
“A woman—a woman from Behr.”
“On what proof?”
“None but my word.”
Bannagran paused for a few heartbeats, looked at Bransen, then to Reandu. He turned to his guards. “Take him.”
“I came to speak with Master Reandu,” Bransen said.
“If he re
sists at all, kill him on the spot,” Bannagran ordered.
The soldiers fanned out around Bransen, iron swords in hand. They came at him with measured steps, each looking nervously to the man on his right and left, clearly intimidated, for some had witnessed the fighting prowess of the Highwayman and all had certainly heard the many stories of Bransen’s martial exploits. Each step seemed a bit shorter than the one previous.
Bannagran growled, “Take him!” more ferociously. None of the soldiers needed a reminder of the power and severity of their laird. A soldier to Bransen’s right lowered his shoulder behind his shield and rushed in suddenly, an obvious path and one that Bransen could have easily sidestepped.
But he didn’t. He turned back to look plaintively at Master Reandu. “I need to talk with you,” he said right before the shield slammed against him and sent him flying. He would have tumbled to the ground, but a second shield-rushing soldier hit him hard before he fell, jolting him upright. The man drove ahead as his companion from the other side continued to advance, pinning Bransen between them.
“With ease!” Master Reandu shouted. “He is not resisting!”
But the soldiers, as if considering the apparent submissiveness to be a dangerous ruse, came on in full. Several sheathed their swords as they huddled in, freeing up fists covered in metal gauntlets so that they could launch heavy punches at Bransen.
He curled up, protecting his most sensitive areas as the gang jostled him and slammed him, punched and kicked him.
“Bannagran!” he heard Reandu yell as he was smashed to the ground, but the monk’s voice already seemed far, far away. Bransen curled up tight on his side, and a barrage of kicks battered him to semiconsciousness. He felt himself tugged over to his stomach, his hands wrenched behind his back and bound at the wrists with heavy, coarse rope. From that rope a second rope was strung, this one wrapping about the front of his waist, holding his hands fast and tight against his back. His captors slid a long pole under his elbows and across his back.
A man grabbed each end of the pole and roughly hoisted Bransen up from the ground. “Stand!” the guard leader called. Bransen stumbled to comply, but the man slugged him hard on the back of the head.
By then a crowd had gathered outside of Chapel Pryd’s gate, and they began wailing and calling out in protest at the treatment of the Highwayman, the man who had brought such hope and justice to them in times not so distant. More soldiers appeared, and Bannagran faced the peasants down with an awful stare.
“Clear the way!” he ordered his soldiers and warned the peasants all at once. He turned to the crew, handling Bransen very roughly, punching him and tugging him, keeping him off balance as if they feared he would suddenly burst into motion and slay them all.
“He is not resisting, Laird Bannagran!” Reandu pleaded, but his words fell on deaf ears. The soldiers dragged and carried Bransen away, past Bannagran, who fixed him with a hateful stare.
Reandu rushed from the porch. “Don’t kill the boy. He is just a boy,” Reandu begged.
Bannagran moved to intercept him. “He said he knows who killed Delaval,” Bannagran replied. “That is his only possible salvation.”
“You will spare him?”
“It’s not my choice to make.”
“The people of Pryd will not forgive you, Laird Bannagran.”
Bannagran looked at him as if it were foolish for Reandu to even believe that Bannagran cared.
But Reandu hit the laird with a different truth, one less easy to brush aside. “And you won’t forgive yourself,” he said.
Bannagran blinked.
“I will attend to him personally with a soul stone,” Reandu offered.
“Once he is secured, you will have your chance to heal the outlaw.”
Reandu seemed satisfied with that until Bannagran added, “The more you heal him, the more we can hurt him without killing him.” The ferocious Laird of Pryd, the Bear of Honce, spat on the ground and turned away. As he neared the gate, many peasants still clustered before it, he barked, “Move aside!” How they scattered!
Master Reandu stood on the chapel walkway, rubbing his face wearily and trying hard to keep his breathing steady. Several brothers crowded behind him, assaulting him with a barrage of questions about why Bransen had come or whether he would really be executed. Reandu didn’t answer any of them but just looked toward Castle Pryd. The sounds of the crowd informed him of the moment when Bransen was dragged through the strong iron gates and to the dungeons soon after, Reandu knew.
The cold and wet, filthy dungeons that smelled of death.
I trust that you are comfortable,” Bannagran said to Bransen, a ridiculous question. The gaolers at Castle Pryd were well prepared to handle this dangerous man. They had the Highwayman chained by his wrists and ankles, the top chains lifting him a couple of feet from the floor by his arms, the bottom set securing his feet with just enough give to allow the ruffians to bow Bransen at the waist, wrapping him about a central beam. In deference to the man’s inexplicable physical abilities, the gaolers had added a devious twist to the harness by cutting a ridge into the center of the beam where his belly rested. Into that ridge they slid a sword blade, edge out, then adjusted the chains to pull Bransen snugly into the beam, the blade tightly secured against his belly. Any struggling, indeed, even if he relaxed his weight onto the beam, would surely eviscerate the miserable prisoner. Hanging there, arms and legs locked at a forward angle, Bransen could only gain relief by sucking in his gut and turning back his shoulders so that the bottom of his rib cage hooked the edge of the beam and supported much of his weight. He couldn’t hold that stressful position for very long, however, and the mere act of hanging there pushed Bransen to his limits of emotional and physical discipline.
The sun was nearing its high point in the day-lit world above, though Bransen was hardly aware of the time, when Bannagran at last entered the chamber. He walked around Bransen slowly, taking full measure. Bransen had been stripped to the waist. Bannagran nodded in apparent respect that the man had lasted this long without bloodying his belly.
“Have I thanked you for your hospitality?” Bransen asked, though he could do no more than whisper without inflicting pain.
“You appreciate your accommodations?”
“Eating will be difficult, but I have found some sleep already,” the impertinent Highwayman replied.
Bannagran snorted and shook his head as he walked before the captive. He peered over the beam for a closer look at Bransen’s midsection. “No blood yet,” he said. “Impressive.”
“You could always walk behind me and pretend I am one of your barnyard lovers,” said Bransen.
Bannagran stared at him hatefully, then slapped him hard across the face. “This is no game, boy,” he warned. “Your life’s hanging by a rope.”
“A chain, actually. Two!”
“And I hold the other end,” Bannagran finished.
“Then let it go and be done with me.”
“You pray that I’ll make it that easy for you.”
“You assume that I anticipate justice or fairness. I have learned to expect differently from Laird Bannagran.”
The Bear slapped him again, a stinging blow that nearly pushed him onto the blade.
“Why have you come back to Pryd?” Bannagran demanded. He paused and looked past Bransen to the cell door to ensure they were alone. “Why have you done this to me?”
“To you?”
“I warned you, publicly, that you could not return here until King Yeslnik determined your innocence,” said Bannagran.
“But you know I am innocent.”
“That matters not at all!” Bannagran growled. “And you know it!”
“But it should matter.”
Bannagran growled again.
“And if it doesn’t matter, then nothing does,” Bransen went on. “Nothing. And nothing that you can do to me matters one bit.”
“Do not be too assured of that,” Bannagran warned.
; Bransen stared at him in response, his eyes flaring with intensity. He exhaled and relaxed suddenly, allowing his weight to come forward onto his waist against the sword. A line of blood appeared on Bransen’s naked belly almost immediately, the sharp blade digging in.
But Bransen’s expression didn’t change; if he felt any pain at all, he didn’t show it.
“I am Jhesta Tu,” he explained. “My mind and body are one. I can deny pain, however much you choose to inflict. You cannot hurt me, Bannagran. You can slay me, but you cannot hurt me. I’ll not let you.”
“You are mad,” Bannagran retorted, his voice full of revulsion. “Ever were you a strange creature.”
“I am the Stork, remember? My whole life has been spent in misery—or was, until I learned to dismiss the pain.”
“That easily?”
“That easily.”
“If you wish to rethink that challenge, then do so now. For I will succeed in making you cry out for mercy, I warn.”
Bransen didn’t blink.
“Fool,” said Bannagran. He moved over to the wall where a table was set with various torture implements. Reviewing them carefully, he lifted a long, serrated blade.
“You know the truth of it,” Bransen said. “You know that any torture you inflict upon me will harm you. Every cut to me will be a cut to Bannagran’s soul.”
“You believe that I care at all for—”
“Yes,” Bransen interrupted. “What were your words when first you walked in here?”
Bannagran closed his eyes and rolled the blade over in his hands. Then he looked at Bransen, and the young man knew, without doubt, that the game was over. Bannagran turned to him and lifted the blade and advanced—to kill him and be done with it and be done with him, once and for all.
Bransen considered his options. He had already tested the strength of the chains and the fit about his wrists. If he was to resist and attempt an escape, the moment was upon him. But did he even really care enough to try?