The Highwayman by R. A. Salvatore
“Father, there is a joining here of beauty and possibility,” Dynard started to explain.
“In you and SenWi?”
“In Abelle and Jhest,” Dynard continued.
“Brother, you went to Behr to enlighten, not to be enlightened.”
“But if such was an unintended consequence—” Dynard started to argue, but Father Jerak held up his hand to cut him short.
“Brother,” the old monk said gravely, “do you ask me to detail the possibilities before you if you have moved away from the teachings of Blessed Abelle?”
Brother Bran found it hard to breathe. How could he explain to Father Jerak and to doubting Brother Bathelais that he had not moved away from Blessed Abelle through learning the ways of Jhest, but rather that he had enhanced his understanding of magic—gemstone and other—and thus of godliness? How might he best illustrate to these suddenly hostile brothers that, far from being a threat to the glory of Blessed Abelle, the ways of the Jhesta Tu would only enhance the beauty of the Blessed One’s teachings?
After a long pause wherein Brother Dynard could merely shake his head and mumble under his breath helplessly, Father Jerak cleared his throat.
“There may be a place for your concubine here at the chapel,” he said. And he sat back and smiled, as if he seemed to think that he was acting quite generously. “I would ask for a measure of discretion, though. You, we all, must serve as examples to those around us, after all, and while your physical needs are understandable and perhaps undeniable, you would do well…”
Brother Dynard wasn’t listening, for his mind had wandered down a sand-swept Behrenese road and to a place that he realized he badly missed at this terrible moment. Had he erred by returning to Honce? To his Church and his home?
Father Jerak’s voice trailed off, and Dynard, thinking that his inattentiveness might have caught the man’s attention, hurriedly glanced back up.
There sat Jerak, seeming perfectly content, having had his say.
Brother Dynard simply had no answer and no argument.
“I trust her not at all,” Prydae told his father. “The idea that a dangerous and armed beast of Behr is living right beside Castle Pryd bodes nothing good.”
“Rest easy, my son,” Laird Pryd replied. He seemed his old self again after his week-long bout with sickness—through no fault of Brother Bathelais, who had done little in the way of real healing, Prydae knew. “This Brother Dyn—what was his name?” the old man asked Rennarq, who stood in his customary spot behind the throne.
“Brother Bran Dynard, my laird,” Rennarq dutifully replied. “A man of little consequence, so I was told. By you, I believe.”
“But this woman—” Prydae started to say.
“Yes, she would indeed seem more formidable, my laird,” Rennarq agreed. “By all reports, she slew several powries in fair combat in a single fight.”
Prydae did not miss the man’s emphasis on the notion of “fair combat,” the subtle reference Rennarq was making to his own exploits in an armored chariot.
“She is in the care of the monks?” Pryd asked.
“Yes,” Prydae answered before Rennarq could, drawing Pryd’s gaze back his way. “Brother Bathelais has informed me that this beast of Behr will likely remain in the chapel as a worker.”
“What would you have me do in that case?” asked Pryd. “Am I to deny her my trust when the brothers of Abelle have seen fit to take her in?”
“It is not within their province to deny your claim,” Rennarq put in; the harshness of his tone served as another reminder of his general feelings toward the brothers of Blessed Abelle.
“She should be surrendered to the laird until her disposition can be properly determined,” added Prydae.
“You fear her,” Laird Pryd remarked as if suddenly realizing it. “Or is it, perhaps, that you fear that her reputation will outshine your own?”
Prydae narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, one foot tapping on the stone floor. A moment later, Laird Pryd laughed at him.
“Forgive me, my son.” The old man was quick to explain, “I have seen this creature from Behr from afar, and she is but a wisp of a thing.”
“Who slew several powries in combat,” said Rennarq, for no better reason, apparently, than to thicken the tension in the air.
Laird Pryd stopped laughing and turned to offer a stern glance to his longtime friend, then turned back to his son.
“Would you have a stranger, a foreigner, a beast of Behr capture the hearts of the peasants as a hero?” Prydae asked. “A foreign creature who is allied with the brothers of Abelle and not with the Laird of Pryd Holding?”
Put like that, Prydae’s words seemed to have a greater effect on his father. Laird Pryd settled back in his chair and assumed a pensive pose.
“She should be surrendered to Castle Pryd at once,” Prydae pressed now that he had his father’s sudden interest. “Father Jerak is not over fond of her anyway, from what Brother Bathelais has told me. I doubt he will argue against your request.”
“You would have me take her into Castle Pryd, and what—imprison her?”
“Until we can understand her true nature and her intent in being here, yes.”
Laird Pryd paused and took a couple of deep breaths, then looked back over his shoulder at Rennarq, who merely shrugged.
“I will go and speak with Father Jerak,” the laird agreed, and with some effort—a lingering weakness from his illness, perhaps—he pulled himself off his throne.
A wave of dizziness had SenWi leaning back in the cool shadows of an alcove, broom in hand, when the main door banged open and Laird Pryd and his entourage entered the chapel. The woman watched him with interest, measuring his strides and recognizing that something might be amiss here.
SenWi had been uncomplaining, accepting the position offered her by Brother Bathelais as a cleaning servant in the chapel. Dynard had not been pleased of course, but SenWi had counseled him to patience. At least the two of them could spend some time together by this arrangement, which was much better than an alternative that had him serving in this dark place, with her somewhere away. As a disciplined Jhesta Tu, SenWi didn’t fear work, after all.
Without apparently noticing the woman hidden by the shadows, the laird and his escorts swept through the room and down the side corridor toward Father Jerak’s private quarters.
SenWi stepped out of the alcove and glanced all around. She knew that this was an unusual visit, and she sensed something deeper, some notion that the secular leader’s presence here had something to do with Bran Dynard’s return. Seeing no one watching her, SenWi leaned the broom against the wall and moved off, silent as a shadow. She headed down the corridor, turning the corner to see the laird enter Jerak’s private room. SenWi paused at the wall and gathered her concentration, then lifted her chi, lightening her body weight as she scaled the decorated wall.
She crawled sidelong atop a ledge, moving right above the now-closed door to a transom, so she could look down upon the private meeting. They were exchanging formal greetings, and SenWi reconsidered her course. What was she doing here? What business was this of hers? Shaking her head at her foolishness, she began to ease away, but stopped short, when she heard Laird Pryd say to Jerak, “It would not be wise for the brothers of Abelle to harbor a dangerous animal.”
“We are assessing her,” the old monk replied.
It hit SenWi then that they were speaking of her. As she quickly moved away, she heard Laird Pryd say something about the need for proper security during such assessments.
She hit the ground running, slipping back into the main area of the chapel and then out the door. She thought that she should go to Dynard but wasn’t sure where he might be. In the tiny prayer rooms, likely, but he would not be alone.
SenWi went out and around the corner of the building, moving into the alleys between the chapel and the castle. She found a quiet, secluded spot and leaned back against the brown stone wall, overcome by lightheade
Her hand went instinctively to her belly, to the child growing there.
“They are going to tell you that I must be turned over to Laird Pryd,” SenWi told Dynard, in the language of Behr.
“They will not—” Brother Dynard started to argue, but he stopped short and leaped forward, grabbing his suddenly swaying wife. “Are you all right? SenWi!”
She put her hand comfortingly on his shoulder and managed a weak smile. “I am with child,” she explained. “I am pregnant with your child.”
Suddenly it was Dynard who needed the support to stand.
He gasped out a few unintelligible sounds, then, his eyes moist, he hugged his wife close, burying his face in her black hair and wondering if anything in the world could be more wonderful.
Finally, after a long while, Bran managed to move back to arm’s length. “My Church will sanction our marriage only if you disavow the teachings of the Jhesta Tu.”
SenWi’s expression went cold immediately.
“Which of course you cannot do,” Dynard quickly added. “Nor should you. I embrace Jhest as wholly now as I did in the Walk of Clouds.”
“But your brethren will not approve.”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “These things take time. I will show them the truth, SenWi. It is my place in the world now—well, that and serving you as husband and our child as father.” He couldn’t suppress a grin, but his smile did not soften SenWi’s concerned expression.
“I will teach them and persuade them,” he promised her, taking her by the shoulders so that she had to look at him directly, had to see his determination.
“They will insist that I am handed to the charge of Laird Pryd,” SenWi countered. “I heard them myself. He fears me, for some reason.”
“Or he wishes to learn from you. Might it be that Laird Pryd has heard of your exploits against the powries?”
“He likely would have, since you boasted of it to his soldiers.”
“Then perhaps he wishes to have you teach his soldiers or his son.”
SenWi’s lips went very tight and she shook her head.
Brother Dynard hadn’t expected any different reaction, of course, for he understood that the Jhesta Tu weren’t about to divulge their secrets of combat. To the southern mystics, the learning of martial arts was part of the process of learning the Book of Jhest, and to remove the specifics of combat from that overall process went against everything they believed. Dynard had made the suggestion of intent only to place a less menacing twist on the laird’s apparent interest in SenWi, to try to lighten their shared fears.
“I just mean—” he started to explain.
“I am vulnerable now,” SenWi interrupted, and she took Bran’s hand and placed it on her belly.
He could hardly draw breath. He turned his hand over and clasped SenWi’s tightly, pulling her close. He looked up at the sky as late afternoon turned to twilight. “Come,” he bade her. “We will get you out to Garibond’s house, where you will be safe. I will tell my brethren that you have departed for Behr, that you could not accept the terms of their demands.” He was thinking as he went, improvising. “And I will remain steadfast in my support of your choice. I will teach them—I must teach them. I see my duty now to my brethren as clearly as Blessed Abelle must have seen his own when he discovered the glories of Pimaninicuit and the sacred gemstones. This is my place in life.” He looked back down at SenWi’s delicately curving belly and added, “My place in the wider world.”
The couple went out soon after, as darkness fell across the land.
Before the dawn, Brother Bran was on his way back to Chapel Pryd, clutching the Book of Jhest, his expression one of complete determination.
He would teach them.
10
The Loss of Control
SenWi awakened with a start and immediately tried to rise. A wave of nausea sent her tumbling back to the cot, and she gave a little cry.
As soon as she saw Garibond coming through the door toward her, she realized where she was—in the tunnels beneath his house—and she remembered her last conversation with her husband. Dynard had wanted to return at once to Chapel Pryd with the Book of Jhest. He was convinced that he would sway the brothers of Abelle, that he would enlighten them as he had been enlightened.
SenWi didn’t believe it for a moment. She had counseled Bran against returning—or at least against returning with the book.
But he was angry, livid over the dismissal of their marriage by his brethren and outraged at the notion that SenWi would be “turned over” to anyone.
The discussion had gotten heated, SenWi remembered, with Dynard shaking his head so violently that it seemed as if he were using the movement to physically deflect her nay-saying.
Then, in the excitement of the moment, the dizziness had returned, had knocked SenWi off her feet. She remembered being carried to a cot and gently laid on it by Dynard. She remembered his bending low and kissing her, and leaving her with the promise that he would make them understand.
She settled back down and closed her eyes, finding her center and inner balance.
“Trust Bran,” Garibond was saying as he came and straightened the blanket over SenWi. “He’s a good one. He’ll let them know the truth of it all.”
SenWi kept her eyes closed and remained focused internally, though the man’s words did register with her. She didn’t doubt Garibond, nor did she lack faith in the abilities of her husband—hadn’t he won over the entire enclave of the Walk of Clouds? But SenWi understood, where these other two apparently did not, that the monks at the chapel—Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais—already understood the truth, at least from a practical point of view. They understood perfectly well that Dynard honestly believed that he had found an extension of their religion, a supplement that strengthened and did not diminish the words of Blessed Abelle.
SenWi believed the same thing.
But she also recognized that the folk of Honce would not likely open their ears to that call. Nor would the monks, nor could they at this time when their religion was vying for the approval of the lairds.
She was desperately afraid for her husband, but SenWi couldn’t hold her focus upon that. She was Jhesta Tu, attuned to the rhythms of her body, and she was beginning to understand that something was very wrong inside her. The lightheadedness, the overwhelming weakness, the nausea—all of that could be explained simply because she was with child. But there was something more, she understood. It wasn’t just the symptoms but the intensity of them. She had seen other Jhesta Tu women through their pregnancies, women who were not nearly as accomplished in the way of Jhest as she, and they had almost always been able to use their chi to overcome any and all symptoms.
That was the problem here. When SenWi tried to find her center, to align her thread of life energy, she could not. It was as if that line of energy were somehow creased and unbalanced, and the problem went far beyond the normal bounds of what a pregnancy might cause. SenWi knew that, but she had no answer.
She did have a guess, though. She thought back to the poor battered girl hanging by her wrists from a pole at the end of the road.
SenWi put a hand over her face and fought hard against her welling tears.
“He’ll be all right,” Garibond said softly, and he stroked her black hair. “You must trust Bran.”
She started to shake her head to explain her deeper concern, but it didn’t matter.
Brother Bathelais wasn’t opening up. Brother Dynard could see that clearly as he sat across from him. Dynard clutched his precious Book of Jhest to his chest, huddling over it like an eagle protecting its kill.
“You presume much, brother, to think that we are in need of further enlightenment,” Bathelais said slowly and deliberately. “The teachings of Blessed Abelle are not open-ended and inviting of addition.”
“But even Blessed Abelle was ignorant of the truths of the Jhesta Tu,” Brother Dynard said before he considered his words. As soon as they left his m
“Th-those truths are extensions,” Dynard stammered, trying to bring back a level of calm that seemed fast eroding. As he spoke, he uncurled from around the book and slowly presented it to Bathelais. “Contained herein are beauteous revelations that enhance all that Blessed Abelle has taught us.”
“Then you are saying that Brother Abelle was not God inspired? You are saying that the words God spoke to Brother Abelle were not revelations of divine truth but merely revelations to him of a truth that already was known to man?” Bathelais shook his head, a sour look on his face. “A truth already known to the beasts of Behr?”
Brother Dynard forced himself to continue to present the book. He even leaned closer so that Brother Bathelais couldn’t ignore the large tome.
Finally, his face a mask of suspicion, Bathelais took the great book and set it upon his lap. Still looking at Dynard, his eyes narrow, he flipped the cover open and read Dynard’s letter—a two-page introduction that was virtually the same argument that Dynard had been making to him for more than an hour now. When he finished Bathelais paused and looked back at the hopeful Dynard—and to the enlightened monk, Bathelais seemed more bemused than intrigued.
Could his mind be so closed? Brother Dynard wondered. Was his heart so encased in absolutes that he would not allow for an expansion of the beauty he had learned?
Brother Bathelais turned the next page and glanced down, perplexed. “What is this?” he asked.
“It is written in the language of Jhest, one similar to that of Behr,” Brother Dynard tried to explain.
“I did not know the beasts could write.”
The continuing racism struck hard at the heart of Brother Dynard. He wanted nothing more than to reach across and grab Bathelais and give him a good shake! He wanted to tell Bathelais about the culture of the southern people, about the intricacies of their language—which in many ways was superior to that of Honce—about their clothing of silk, and the fabulous colors of their rugs. He wanted to describe artifacts he had seen, hundreds of years old, predating any known art in all Honce. He wanted to tell Bathelais about the architecture of Jacintha, an ancient and wondrous city. He wanted to do all of that; he thought it imperative that his brethren came to see and appreciate this reality.