The Highwayman by R. A. Salvatore
Or did it even matter?
He looked at Bransen for a long, long time, then barely believed his own words as he said, “Get out of Pryd.”
Epilogue
Brother Reandu stood at the gate of Chapel Pryd long after the carriage had rolled out of sight, contemplating the momentous changes that he would have to steward. Master Bathelais had succumbed to his injuries, leaving Reandu as the highest-ranking monk in Pryd, behind the shell that was Father Jerak. Already, brothers were on the way from Chapel Abelle to discuss the disposition of their Church in Pryd Holding, which, it was commonly believed, would soon cease to be Pryd Holding.
For even as Reandu was preparing himself for the inquisitors of Chapel Abelle, Bannagran and the others at the castle made their preparation for the arrival of Laird Delaval himself, along with Prince Yeslnik, who, it was widely assumed, would be granted the holding as his own, under the auspices of Greater Delaval.
Reandu couldn’t help but smile a little as he considered how greatly the old wretch Rennarq would despise this takeover by Laird Delaval. But Rennarq, after all, was now a babbling idiot, a storklike creature who could not control his movements. He could hardly eat, by all reports, gagging on every bite, and was likely to choke to death soon. Reandu had tried to help with his gemstones, but whatever the surprising Bransen had done to Rennarq was far beyond Reandu’s meager powers to correct.
Good enough and proper justice for the brutal Samhaist, Reandu supposed, though he was not completely without sympathy.
He could not follow any course of sympathy at that time, though, for Reandu had much to accomplish in the short time before his superiors arrived. They would demand of him a complete report, and he knew that the report would not be viewed favorably if the chapel was not in perfect order. Every brother was hard at work, Reandu knew, and that thought reminded him that he, too, had much to do.
He turned toward the chapel, away from the road, but not without one last wistful glance at the long and empty lane. He missed Bransen already and lamented that he had not tried to learn more from the surprising young man. He hoped that the brothers from Chapel Abelle wouldn’t take too close an inventory of Chapel Pryd, because he knew that he couldn’t begin to explain his decision to allow Bransen to keep the soul stone he had stolen.
But Reandu, despite his fears, was still smiling as he considered his decision. Had he ever met a person in all his life as deserving of a gift from God?
“Farewell, Bransen Garibond,” he said softly to the empty lane.
The simple wagon bounced along the flagstone road, the bumps rolling and soft as the wagon moved along at a leisurely pace. Holding the reins, Bransen didn’t prod the horses, for he was in no hurry this day, no more than were Callen and Cadayle, flanking him. Tied to the back of the wagon, old Doully the donkey meandered along in step.
“I never knew the world was so wide,” Callen remarked every so often, and her eyes were filled with a sparkle of adventure that backed up her claim.
“Wide and scary,” said Cadayle, and she hooked her arm under Bransen’s and moved a bit closer.
“Scary?” Callen replied doubtfully. “With the Highwayman here to protect us?”
Bransen smiled widely. He didn’t look much like the Highwayman at that moment, in his simple woolen tunic and sandals and with not a weapon to be seen. But the black suit was there, tucked neatly under the wagon’s bench, and beside it rested his mother’s sword. His sword.
“And where shall we go in this wide, wide world?” Callen absently asked. “To where the wind begins and the gods do battle?”
“To whatever lands we find that are free of battle,” Cadayle answered. “And few are those, these times in Honce.”
“Then to Behr,” Bransen answered, and both women looked at him in surprise.
“To the wide blowing sands of the southern lands, to the temple of the Jhesta Tu in the Mountains of Fire.”
“You speak of places I do not know,” Callen said. Bransen smiled, for in truth, he was merely spouting names that Garibond had told him in his youth and distant references in the book he had committed to memory so long ago.
“Are there any places we do know, beyond the boundaries of Pryd Holding?” Cadayle asked. Though her tone was light, there was substance to that question that was not lost on any of the three.
“To where the wind begins, then,” said Bransen, and he gave the reins a little snap. “And where the gods do battle. That is something I wish to see.”
And so they rode from the only place any of them had ever known as home, into new lands and new adventures.
Tor Books by R. A. Salvatore
The Highwayman
The Ancient
The Dame
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE HIGHWAYMAN
Copyright © 2004 by R. A. Salvatore
Originally published in 2004 by CDS Books.
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN: 978-0-7653-5870-7
R. A. Salvatore, The Highwayman
(Series: Saga of the First King # 1)
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He looked at Bransen for a long, long time, then barely believed his own words as he said, “Get out of Pryd.”
Epilogue
Brother Reandu stood at the gate of Chapel Pryd long after the carriage had rolled out of sight, contemplating the momentous changes that he would have to steward. Master Bathelais had succumbed to his injuries, leaving Reandu as the highest-ranking monk in Pryd, behind the shell that was Father Jerak. Already, brothers were on the way from Chapel Abelle to discuss the disposition of their Church in Pryd Holding, which, it was commonly believed, would soon cease to be Pryd Holding.
For even as Reandu was preparing himself for the inquisitors of Chapel Abelle, Bannagran and the others at the castle made their preparation for the arrival of Laird Delaval himself, along with Prince Yeslnik, who, it was widely assumed, would be granted the holding as his own, under the auspices of Greater Delaval.
Reandu couldn’t help but smile a little as he considered how greatly the old wretch Rennarq would despise this takeover by Laird Delaval. But Rennarq, after all, was now a babbling idiot, a storklike creature who could not control his movements. He could hardly eat, by all reports, gagging on every bite, and was likely to choke to death soon. Reandu had tried to help with his gemstones, but whatever the surprising Bransen had done to Rennarq was far beyond Reandu’s meager powers to correct.
Good enough and proper justice for the brutal Samhaist, Reandu supposed, though he was not completely without sympathy.
He could not follow any course of sympathy at that time, though, for Reandu had much to accomplish in the short time before his superiors arrived. They would demand of him a complete report, and he knew that the report would not be viewed favorably if the chapel was not in perfect order. Every brother was hard at work, Reandu knew, and that thought reminded him that he, too, had much to do.
He turned toward the chapel, away from the road, but not without one last wistful glance at the long and empty lane. He missed Bransen already and lamented that he had not tried to learn more from the surprising young man. He hoped that the brothers from Chapel Abelle wouldn’t take too close an inventory of Chapel Pryd, because he knew that he couldn’t begin to explain his decision to allow Bransen to keep the soul stone he had stolen.
But Reandu, despite his fears, was still smiling as he considered his decision. Had he ever met a person in all his life as deserving of a gift from God?
“Farewell, Bransen Garibond,” he said softly to the empty lane.
The simple wagon bounced along the flagstone road, the bumps rolling and soft as the wagon moved along at a leisurely pace. Holding the reins, Bransen didn’t prod the horses, for he was in no hurry this day, no more than were Callen and Cadayle, flanking him. Tied to the back of the wagon, old Doully the donkey meandered along in step.
“I never knew the world was so wide,” Callen remarked every so often, and her eyes were filled with a sparkle of adventure that backed up her claim.
“Wide and scary,” said Cadayle, and she hooked her arm under Bransen’s and moved a bit closer.
“Scary?” Callen replied doubtfully. “With the Highwayman here to protect us?”
Bransen smiled widely. He didn’t look much like the Highwayman at that moment, in his simple woolen tunic and sandals and with not a weapon to be seen. But the black suit was there, tucked neatly under the wagon’s bench, and beside it rested his mother’s sword. His sword.
“And where shall we go in this wide, wide world?” Callen absently asked. “To where the wind begins and the gods do battle?”
“To whatever lands we find that are free of battle,” Cadayle answered. “And few are those, these times in Honce.”
“Then to Behr,” Bransen answered, and both women looked at him in surprise.
“To the wide blowing sands of the southern lands, to the temple of the Jhesta Tu in the Mountains of Fire.”
“You speak of places I do not know,” Callen said. Bransen smiled, for in truth, he was merely spouting names that Garibond had told him in his youth and distant references in the book he had committed to memory so long ago.
“Are there any places we do know, beyond the boundaries of Pryd Holding?” Cadayle asked. Though her tone was light, there was substance to that question that was not lost on any of the three.
“To where the wind begins, then,” said Bransen, and he gave the reins a little snap. “And where the gods do battle. That is something I wish to see.”
And so they rode from the only place any of them had ever known as home, into new lands and new adventures.
Tor Books by R. A. Salvatore
The Highwayman
The Ancient
The Dame
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE HIGHWAYMAN
Copyright © 2004 by R. A. Salvatore
Originally published in 2004 by CDS Books.
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN: 978-0-7653-5870-7
R. A. Salvatore, The Highwayman
(Series: Saga of the First King # 1)