The Highwayman by R. A. Salvatore
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 mad
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
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.