The Highwayman by R. A. Salvatore
“Then what are we to do?”
Jerak stopped and slowly turned to face the younger brother, straining his stiff neck so that he could look Bathelais in the eye. “In serving the lairds, we serve the people of Honce,” he said. “Never forget that.”
4
Sailing to Civilization
It was comforting to smell the salty air and to see the dark swells of the Mirianic again, and with good fortune on the road, Bran Dynard and SenWi made the city of Jacintha at just the right time of year, barely a week before the summer solstice, when the fearsome ocean could be well navigated. The spring storms were behind them and the dark waters had calmed somewhat.
Even in the summer, it was not easy to find transport around the eastern spurs of the Belt-and-Buckle mountains and to the land of Honce. All of the boats sailing around Jacintha were coastal vessels, and the coastline to the north was rocky and treacherous. Still, for those daring enough to try the journey, there were fine profits to be had in Honce.
Dynard and SenWi wound up on a merchant vessel, a square, flat-bottomed, and high-sided craft set with a single square sail and rows of five oars on either side. Though he could use the extra hands at the oars, the merchant sailor, a man so leathery and wrinkled and hunched over that some questioned whether he was human or powrie, had been reluctant to take them on. Only after Dynard had used his soul stone on the sailor’s blistered feet, alleviating the man’s pain, had the deal been struck; and even with that, Dynard and SenWi found themselves laboring at the oars almost continually throughout the journey.
“And if we see some sharks, you’re sure to be the ones getting fed to them!” the sailor said every time he passed the couple, always offering a wide and ridiculous two-toothed smile.
Given the sword SenWi had beside her, Brother Dynard rather doubted that.
The small craft had to swing so wide of the coast to avoid the treacherous rocks that the journey from Jacintha to Ethelbert Town, a mere fifty miles as a bird might fly, took them nearly a week. But they got onto the sandy beach that lined the harbor without serious incident, and with just the cracked lips and sunburned skin that any extended stay on an uncovered boat guaranteed.
“Lucky ones, aren’t you, that we saw no sharks?” the wrinkled sailor cackled as he walked between the couple, and he gave SenWi an exaggerated wink. Then he stopped and turned, assuming a pensive posture.
“Once more with that stone of yours?” he asked, lifting his bare foot up.
Brother Dynard was in too fine a mood to resist, so he produced the hematite, the sacred soul stone, and brought it before his eyes, quietly reciting the prayers that would allow him entrance to the gray stone’s depths. He continued to pray for some time, then pressed the stone against the sailor’s battered, sea-soaked, and rotting appendage. Dynard felt the stone’s magical energies reaching out even before the old sailor gave a moan of relief.
The boat slid against the sand beneath the shallow waters then, and the sailor pitched backward, though with the extraordinary balance that only a seaman could ever achieve, he caught himself before he tumbled to the deck. He gave another cackle and stomped his healed foot hard on the deck, then even did a little dance of appreciation.
Dynard and SenWi dropped off the side of the boat, into water that came halfway between Dynard’s knee and waist. They hardly noticed and hardly cared, for they were on dry land in seconds, navigating through the crowd that was coming down to see the southern boat and its exotic wares.
“It is one of the greatest cities of Honce,” Dynard was explaining to SenWi as they moved up the slope of the beach and more and more of Ethelbert came into view. Many cottages were spread about the lower reach of the community, which was built on several layers climbing into the foothills of the great mountains.
Brother Dynard paused and spent a long while more fully surveying the scene, then closed his eyes and tried to compare it to the vision of Ethelbert he had known as he had sailed out of the place nearly ten years before.
“The city has grown,” he remarked, as much to himself as to SenWi. “When I last journeyed through here, most of the folk of Ethelbert lived in those caves up there.” He pointed to the south, where the ground climbed sharply and where many cave openings could be seen at many different levels, connected by ladders, most with balconies carved in the stone before them.
“It is not as primitive as it might seem,” Dynard quickly added as he considered the view, and how the structures of Ethelbert paled beside the marvels of Walk of Clouds or the great man-made stone structures of Jacintha.
SenWi offered him a comforting and nonjudgmental smile.
To the southwest of their current position, Dynard pointed out Castle Ethelbert dos Entel, though he hardly needed his guiding finger to show SenWi the structure, which so dominated the landscape. It was built against the cliff wall; indeed, the bulk of the place was within the cliffs themselves, tying into the natural limestone caverns common at the lowest levels. But this castle, worked and expanded generation after generation, was much more external than internal, with huge round towers, sweeping walkways, and a magnificent gatehouse that seemed as if it alone could hold all the people of the town.
“Come,” Brother Dynard bade her, taking her delicate hand in his own. “Let us see if Laird Ethelbert will grant us audience.”
Focused on that thought, his mind spinning as he came to fully comprehend that he was back in his homeland, Brother Dynard hardly noticed that the farther he and SenWi got from the beach, the more curious grew the stares of the Honce folk.
Similarly, when Dynard approached the sentry at Castle Ethelbert and introduced himself and stated his wishes for an audience, and the man responded, “You come bearing gifts, brother monk?” it almost escaped Dynard that the sentry was looking directly at SenWi.
Several flights of stairs later, Dynard paused by a tower window to take in a wider view of the land. Only then could he comprehend how dramatically Ethelbert Holding had grown in the last decade. Out to the west of the city, the great forests had been felled to make room for many more houses—and even more striking—for tracks of land for farming.
The sentry led the pair through a short corridor that took them into the smoky inner chambers of the complex, where stone walls were mostly covered by ancient tapestries of sailors and great battles, and sculptures of the line of Ethelbert lairds decorated every hallway. The couple soon found themselves before the present laird of the holding, a burly, sun-hardened man with curly black hair and eyes the color of the sea under a blanket of gray clouds. He was older than Dynard by a dozen years, but seemed fit enough to travel the world, battling goblins and powries every step of the way.
“Greetings, Laird Ethelbert,” Dynard began with a bow. “I doubt you remember me, but once have I come before you.”
“Yes, yes,” the older man said. “From…Pryd, was it?”
Brother Dynard looked up, smiling widely. “Indeed it was, my laird. I am Brother Bran Dynard of Chapel Pryd, returned from the desert of Behr.”
“With a fine trophy, I see,” said Ethelbert, tilting his head to regard SenWi.
“My wife, SenWi,” Dynard said. He looked at SenWi as he spoke, so he didn’t see Ethelbert widen his eyes at the declaration that the two were married.
“Greetings, L—Lair…?” She looked at her husband for support.
“Forgive her, Laird Ethelbert, for her command of our language is not yet complete.” He draped his arm over SenWi’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I am teaching her, but it was much more important for me to learn the southern languages during my years there.”
“I see,” said Ethelbert, his tone a bit flatter. “Well, what might I do for you, good brother? I am sure that Father Destros would wish to speak with you. Do you know Destros?”
“Was he Brother Destros when last I came through?”
“Yes, that would be right. Only recently has he assumed leadership of our chapel. Poor Father Senizer was forced aside by issues of his health
, I am sorry to say. You might speak with him, as well, but I fear that he will not comprehend your presence and will have no memory of your previous visit.”
“Your holding has grown greatly since my last journey through, Laird,” Dynard remarked. “I congratulate you.”
“No less than has grown your Church, good brother. The teachings of the brothers of Abelle, and those marvelous stones you command, have put the Samhaists in retreat throughout the lands of Honce. Every holding has a chapel now, of course.”
Dynard couldn’t contain his smile at that. He squeezed SenWi close again and grinned at her.
“And now we are all hard at work on the roads,” Laird Ethelbert went on. “You will find your traveling far easier on the trails just west and north of my holding, and though you will have to pass through lands still wild, you will again find solid roads awaiting you as you near Pryd, if that is where you plan to go.”
“It is indeed. My mission is ended, more successfully than I could ever have imagined. Have you word of Father Jerak and Pryd Holding?”
“None of Jerak,” said Ethelbert, “but Laird Pryd is well, and his son is making quite a name for himself in driving back the powrie threat.”
Dynard nodded and smiled, though the news did catch him a bit off his guard. Prydae had been a mere boy when Dynard had left the holding, after all, and the sudden realization that the boy was now a man came as a stark reminder to him that he had been gone a long, long time.
“I will see to it that you are escorted to the borders of my holding when you are ready to go,” Laird Ethelbert said. He came forward in his seat and motioned to the nearest sentry, indicating that the audience was at its end. “Is there anything more you would ask of me?”
“No, Laird, you are most generous,” Bran Dynard said with a bow. He started to walk away with SenWi and the guard, but Ethelbert waved him back suddenly.
“Approach closer,” the laird said, waving him right up to the throne.
Brother Dynard glanced back at SenWi, who kept looking at him over her shoulder and at the guard, who kept pulling her along to the doors.
Ethelbert put his hand on Dynard’s wide shoulder and pulled him close.
“Have I offended you, Laird?” the confused monk asked.
“Me? No, no. But I offer you now a word of advice. Call it my respect for the Church of Abelle, or perhaps it is merely that I am fond of a man such as yourself who dares travel the world. I traveled extensively in my own youth, you know.”
“Indeed, I had heard as much, Laird.”
“To the desert of Behr on several occasions,” Ethelbert explained. “I would tell you then, with worldly knowledge and a better understanding than you possess, perhaps, of man’s failings, that you would not be wise to so openly announce this dark-skinned creature as your wife.”
Brother Dynard reflexively pulled away, staring hard at the laird. “Am I to be embarrassed?”
“Of course not. Her beauty cannot be denied. But you must understand that Ethelbert Holding is unique among the lands of Honce in our understanding and acceptance of the southern race of Behr. You’ll not find…”
The laird paused and smiled warmly, if a bit resignedly. “Well, take my advice as you will, good brother. I congratulate you on your safe return and on the knowledge and happiness you have seemingly discovered.”
“For so long, I feared my journey to Behr,” Dynard admitted. “I had been taught that the people south of the mountains were animal-like, and so you can imagine my surprise when I witnessed the beauties of Jacintha, and when I…” He paused, seeing that Laird Ethelbert was holding up his hand.
“Again I congratulate you, good brother, and take pleasure in welcoming you home. I pray that you will find your forthcoming journey through the lands of Honce as enlightening as your travels south seem to have been.” He waved to the now-closest guard as he finished, and Brother Bran was escorted out of the room to rejoin SenWi.
“What did he want?” SenWi asked, using the language of Behr.
“Nothing important at all,” Dynard assured her, and he leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “A private welcome for a returning countryman.”
Dynard was not so blind as to expect that SenWi believed that explanation, but she did accept it.
As she accepted the curious stares of those they had passed on the way up to the castle, he supposed.
5
Long Roots
With great effort, his limbs wearier this night than usual, old Father Jerak pulled on the brown robes set with the red trim that marked his station in the Church of Abelle. The news had just come in to him that an adulteress had been caught, and now, predictably, old Bernivvigar was demanding his rite of justice. Father Jerak could well imagine the scene of eager onlookers, and he had personally witnessed the look upon the Samhaist Bernivvigar’s face several times in the past: the satisfaction, a calm so profound that it reeked of savagery, as if this act of brutal retribution and the willingness of the laird and the people to go along with it somehow denied the changes sweeping through the land with the ascendant Church of Abelle.
There came a soft knock on Jerak’s door, and it creaked open. He turned to see brothers Bathelais and Reandu.
“Are you ready to go, father?” Bathelais asked, his tone appropriately somber.
“If anyone can ever be ready for such a journey as this,” Jerak replied, and he started toward the door.
“The legacy of Samhaist justice,” Bathelais said with a shrug that made it clear to Jerak that the younger man was not so upset by the rite.
“The woman is guilty,” young Reandu declared rather bluntly, and both of the other monks turned their surprised gazes upon him. Reandu—a short man with close-cropped black hair and a solid, if diminutive, frame—shrank back beneath those looks.
“There is always the question of proportion, brother,” Father Jerak quietly offered. “In this case, the proportion of sin to punishment was determined long ago, and it has not been within our province to modify its balance. Someday, perhaps, we will see a different measure of things and convince the lairds of our enlightened position. For now, though, our duty is to acquiesce to the law humbly and to bear witness to its legitimacy.”
Jerak paused, as if considering his own words. “But it is a long journey.”
The three monks swept up four other brothers before they had exited Chapel Pryd. By the time they had gotten outside, they could see the bonfire marking the ancient Stone of Judgment already burning brightly.
“Try not to reveal your enjoyment of the spectacle, if indeed you do find it amusing,” Laird Pryd said to his son. Lying on his goose-down bed and wearing only a cotton nightshirt that reached to his ankles, the Laird of Pryd Holding didn’t seem quite so formidable this particular evening. Laird Pryd had taken ill that very day, and now his eyes were sunken and darkly ringed, contrasting starkly to the chalky color of his face.
“You are the eyes of Pryd this night,” the laird went on. “Your presence sanctions the event under the laws of the holding.”
Prydae, dressed in his full military regalia, bronze breastplate and all, bowed.
“You need do nothing but bid Bernivvigar to commence,” Laird Pryd explained. “Take your seat and bear witness; the old Samhaist will preside over the course of events. He takes great pleasure in these things, you see.”
Prydae felt a bit of hesitance, leading to an expression that his perceptive father did not miss. “This will not be a crime paid for with coin,” Pryd said.
Prydae looked at his father directly and nodded.
“Bernivvigar is not to allow that in these times,” Pryd went on. “The Samhaists feel the press of the Church of Abelle, you see, and what have they to offer the peasants but the surety of order contained within their codes of strict justice?” Pryd raised a hand and dropped it on Prydae’s forearm. “You are prepared for this?”
Prydae shook his head at the whole question. “I will not disappoint you, father,” he
said, and he gave a low bow.
Laird Pryd waved him away.
As he exited the room, castle guardsmen sweeping up in his wake, Prydae considered the events. There could be little doubt of how the evening would proceed, given the claim of the wronged husband that he had actually caught his wife in the arms of another man. And, as his father had said, Prydae’s role was minimal; he was just there to give the weight of law to the proceedings.
Prydae hardly even realized that he was rubbing his hands with anticipation as he moved out into the warm summer night.
Whatever he might feel while witnessing this particular form of punishment, it would surely be exciting.
He noted that the brothers of Abelle were already at the clearing. Old Father Jerak and the others stood and sat off to one side, many with their heads bowed and hands folded in prayer. Not far from them stood Rennarq. Prydae knew that the man had come out here, though Rennarq was not acting as an official of the laird this night. Prydae’s father wouldn’t allow that, for where the Samhaists were concerned, he didn’t consider Rennarq to be possessed of objectivity.
Most of the townsfolk were in attendance as well, even many of the children. That surprised Prydae for a moment, but then he realized the point of it all. Harsh justice demonstrated civilization, of course, and reinforced societal expectations of behavior. Let the children learn these lessons young, and learn them well, and perhaps fewer of them would find themselves in the same situation as the guilty woman.
The guardsmen set the chairs they had brought from the castle in the proper place at the left side of the large, flat stone that old Bernivvigar would use as his dais, the customary spot for the Laird of Pryd to bear witness. When Prydae took the chair center and forward of the others, the customary seat of his father, the gathering predictably began to murmur and whisper among themselves.
Prydae stood up and stepped forward. “Laird Pryd is taken ill this night,” he said loudly, silencing them all, then he offered a reassuring smile and patted his hands in the air to calm the gasps and fearful exclamations. “A minor case of the gripe, and nothing more. Laird Pryd has bidden me to serve as the voice, the eyes, and the ears of Castle Pryd this evening.”
Jerak stopped and slowly turned to face the younger brother, straining his stiff neck so that he could look Bathelais in the eye. “In serving the lairds, we serve the people of Honce,” he said. “Never forget that.”
4
Sailing to Civilization
It was comforting to smell the salty air and to see the dark swells of the Mirianic again, and with good fortune on the road, Bran Dynard and SenWi made the city of Jacintha at just the right time of year, barely a week before the summer solstice, when the fearsome ocean could be well navigated. The spring storms were behind them and the dark waters had calmed somewhat.
Even in the summer, it was not easy to find transport around the eastern spurs of the Belt-and-Buckle mountains and to the land of Honce. All of the boats sailing around Jacintha were coastal vessels, and the coastline to the north was rocky and treacherous. Still, for those daring enough to try the journey, there were fine profits to be had in Honce.
Dynard and SenWi wound up on a merchant vessel, a square, flat-bottomed, and high-sided craft set with a single square sail and rows of five oars on either side. Though he could use the extra hands at the oars, the merchant sailor, a man so leathery and wrinkled and hunched over that some questioned whether he was human or powrie, had been reluctant to take them on. Only after Dynard had used his soul stone on the sailor’s blistered feet, alleviating the man’s pain, had the deal been struck; and even with that, Dynard and SenWi found themselves laboring at the oars almost continually throughout the journey.
“And if we see some sharks, you’re sure to be the ones getting fed to them!” the sailor said every time he passed the couple, always offering a wide and ridiculous two-toothed smile.
Given the sword SenWi had beside her, Brother Dynard rather doubted that.
The small craft had to swing so wide of the coast to avoid the treacherous rocks that the journey from Jacintha to Ethelbert Town, a mere fifty miles as a bird might fly, took them nearly a week. But they got onto the sandy beach that lined the harbor without serious incident, and with just the cracked lips and sunburned skin that any extended stay on an uncovered boat guaranteed.
“Lucky ones, aren’t you, that we saw no sharks?” the wrinkled sailor cackled as he walked between the couple, and he gave SenWi an exaggerated wink. Then he stopped and turned, assuming a pensive posture.
“Once more with that stone of yours?” he asked, lifting his bare foot up.
Brother Dynard was in too fine a mood to resist, so he produced the hematite, the sacred soul stone, and brought it before his eyes, quietly reciting the prayers that would allow him entrance to the gray stone’s depths. He continued to pray for some time, then pressed the stone against the sailor’s battered, sea-soaked, and rotting appendage. Dynard felt the stone’s magical energies reaching out even before the old sailor gave a moan of relief.
The boat slid against the sand beneath the shallow waters then, and the sailor pitched backward, though with the extraordinary balance that only a seaman could ever achieve, he caught himself before he tumbled to the deck. He gave another cackle and stomped his healed foot hard on the deck, then even did a little dance of appreciation.
Dynard and SenWi dropped off the side of the boat, into water that came halfway between Dynard’s knee and waist. They hardly noticed and hardly cared, for they were on dry land in seconds, navigating through the crowd that was coming down to see the southern boat and its exotic wares.
“It is one of the greatest cities of Honce,” Dynard was explaining to SenWi as they moved up the slope of the beach and more and more of Ethelbert came into view. Many cottages were spread about the lower reach of the community, which was built on several layers climbing into the foothills of the great mountains.
Brother Dynard paused and spent a long while more fully surveying the scene, then closed his eyes and tried to compare it to the vision of Ethelbert he had known as he had sailed out of the place nearly ten years before.
“The city has grown,” he remarked, as much to himself as to SenWi. “When I last journeyed through here, most of the folk of Ethelbert lived in those caves up there.” He pointed to the south, where the ground climbed sharply and where many cave openings could be seen at many different levels, connected by ladders, most with balconies carved in the stone before them.
“It is not as primitive as it might seem,” Dynard quickly added as he considered the view, and how the structures of Ethelbert paled beside the marvels of Walk of Clouds or the great man-made stone structures of Jacintha.
SenWi offered him a comforting and nonjudgmental smile.
To the southwest of their current position, Dynard pointed out Castle Ethelbert dos Entel, though he hardly needed his guiding finger to show SenWi the structure, which so dominated the landscape. It was built against the cliff wall; indeed, the bulk of the place was within the cliffs themselves, tying into the natural limestone caverns common at the lowest levels. But this castle, worked and expanded generation after generation, was much more external than internal, with huge round towers, sweeping walkways, and a magnificent gatehouse that seemed as if it alone could hold all the people of the town.
“Come,” Brother Dynard bade her, taking her delicate hand in his own. “Let us see if Laird Ethelbert will grant us audience.”
Focused on that thought, his mind spinning as he came to fully comprehend that he was back in his homeland, Brother Dynard hardly noticed that the farther he and SenWi got from the beach, the more curious grew the stares of the Honce folk.
Similarly, when Dynard approached the sentry at Castle Ethelbert and introduced himself and stated his wishes for an audience, and the man responded, “You come bearing gifts, brother monk?” it almost escaped Dynard that the sentry was looking directly at SenWi.
Several flights of stairs later, Dynard paused by a tower window to take in a wider view of the land. Only then could he comprehend how dramatically Ethelbert Holding had grown in the last decade. Out to the west of the city, the great forests had been felled to make room for many more houses—and even more striking—for tracks of land for farming.
The sentry led the pair through a short corridor that took them into the smoky inner chambers of the complex, where stone walls were mostly covered by ancient tapestries of sailors and great battles, and sculptures of the line of Ethelbert lairds decorated every hallway. The couple soon found themselves before the present laird of the holding, a burly, sun-hardened man with curly black hair and eyes the color of the sea under a blanket of gray clouds. He was older than Dynard by a dozen years, but seemed fit enough to travel the world, battling goblins and powries every step of the way.
“Greetings, Laird Ethelbert,” Dynard began with a bow. “I doubt you remember me, but once have I come before you.”
“Yes, yes,” the older man said. “From…Pryd, was it?”
Brother Dynard looked up, smiling widely. “Indeed it was, my laird. I am Brother Bran Dynard of Chapel Pryd, returned from the desert of Behr.”
“With a fine trophy, I see,” said Ethelbert, tilting his head to regard SenWi.
“My wife, SenWi,” Dynard said. He looked at SenWi as he spoke, so he didn’t see Ethelbert widen his eyes at the declaration that the two were married.
“Greetings, L—Lair…?” She looked at her husband for support.
“Forgive her, Laird Ethelbert, for her command of our language is not yet complete.” He draped his arm over SenWi’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I am teaching her, but it was much more important for me to learn the southern languages during my years there.”
“I see,” said Ethelbert, his tone a bit flatter. “Well, what might I do for you, good brother? I am sure that Father Destros would wish to speak with you. Do you know Destros?”
“Was he Brother Destros when last I came through?”
“Yes, that would be right. Only recently has he assumed leadership of our chapel. Poor Father Senizer was forced aside by issues of his health
“Your holding has grown greatly since my last journey through, Laird,” Dynard remarked. “I congratulate you.”
“No less than has grown your Church, good brother. The teachings of the brothers of Abelle, and those marvelous stones you command, have put the Samhaists in retreat throughout the lands of Honce. Every holding has a chapel now, of course.”
Dynard couldn’t contain his smile at that. He squeezed SenWi close again and grinned at her.
“And now we are all hard at work on the roads,” Laird Ethelbert went on. “You will find your traveling far easier on the trails just west and north of my holding, and though you will have to pass through lands still wild, you will again find solid roads awaiting you as you near Pryd, if that is where you plan to go.”
“It is indeed. My mission is ended, more successfully than I could ever have imagined. Have you word of Father Jerak and Pryd Holding?”
“None of Jerak,” said Ethelbert, “but Laird Pryd is well, and his son is making quite a name for himself in driving back the powrie threat.”
Dynard nodded and smiled, though the news did catch him a bit off his guard. Prydae had been a mere boy when Dynard had left the holding, after all, and the sudden realization that the boy was now a man came as a stark reminder to him that he had been gone a long, long time.
“I will see to it that you are escorted to the borders of my holding when you are ready to go,” Laird Ethelbert said. He came forward in his seat and motioned to the nearest sentry, indicating that the audience was at its end. “Is there anything more you would ask of me?”
“No, Laird, you are most generous,” Bran Dynard said with a bow. He started to walk away with SenWi and the guard, but Ethelbert waved him back suddenly.
“Approach closer,” the laird said, waving him right up to the throne.
Brother Dynard glanced back at SenWi, who kept looking at him over her shoulder and at the guard, who kept pulling her along to the doors.
Ethelbert put his hand on Dynard’s wide shoulder and pulled him close.
“Have I offended you, Laird?” the confused monk asked.
“Me? No, no. But I offer you now a word of advice. Call it my respect for the Church of Abelle, or perhaps it is merely that I am fond of a man such as yourself who dares travel the world. I traveled extensively in my own youth, you know.”
“Indeed, I had heard as much, Laird.”
“To the desert of Behr on several occasions,” Ethelbert explained. “I would tell you then, with worldly knowledge and a better understanding than you possess, perhaps, of man’s failings, that you would not be wise to so openly announce this dark-skinned creature as your wife.”
Brother Dynard reflexively pulled away, staring hard at the laird. “Am I to be embarrassed?”
“Of course not. Her beauty cannot be denied. But you must understand that Ethelbert Holding is unique among the lands of Honce in our understanding and acceptance of the southern race of Behr. You’ll not find…”
The laird paused and smiled warmly, if a bit resignedly. “Well, take my advice as you will, good brother. I congratulate you on your safe return and on the knowledge and happiness you have seemingly discovered.”
“For so long, I feared my journey to Behr,” Dynard admitted. “I had been taught that the people south of the mountains were animal-like, and so you can imagine my surprise when I witnessed the beauties of Jacintha, and when I…” He paused, seeing that Laird Ethelbert was holding up his hand.
“Again I congratulate you, good brother, and take pleasure in welcoming you home. I pray that you will find your forthcoming journey through the lands of Honce as enlightening as your travels south seem to have been.” He waved to the now-closest guard as he finished, and Brother Bran was escorted out of the room to rejoin SenWi.
“What did he want?” SenWi asked, using the language of Behr.
“Nothing important at all,” Dynard assured her, and he leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “A private welcome for a returning countryman.”
Dynard was not so blind as to expect that SenWi believed that explanation, but she did accept it.
As she accepted the curious stares of those they had passed on the way up to the castle, he supposed.
5
Long Roots
With great effort, his limbs wearier this night than usual, old Father Jerak pulled on the brown robes set with the red trim that marked his station in the Church of Abelle. The news had just come in to him that an adulteress had been caught, and now, predictably, old Bernivvigar was demanding his rite of justice. Father Jerak could well imagine the scene of eager onlookers, and he had personally witnessed the look upon the Samhaist Bernivvigar’s face several times in the past: the satisfaction, a calm so profound that it reeked of savagery, as if this act of brutal retribution and the willingness of the laird and the people to go along with it somehow denied the changes sweeping through the land with the ascendant Church of Abelle.
There came a soft knock on Jerak’s door, and it creaked open. He turned to see brothers Bathelais and Reandu.
“Are you ready to go, father?” Bathelais asked, his tone appropriately somber.
“If anyone can ever be ready for such a journey as this,” Jerak replied, and he started toward the door.
“The legacy of Samhaist justice,” Bathelais said with a shrug that made it clear to Jerak that the younger man was not so upset by the rite.
“The woman is guilty,” young Reandu declared rather bluntly, and both of the other monks turned their surprised gazes upon him. Reandu—a short man with close-cropped black hair and a solid, if diminutive, frame—shrank back beneath those looks.
“There is always the question of proportion, brother,” Father Jerak quietly offered. “In this case, the proportion of sin to punishment was determined long ago, and it has not been within our province to modify its balance. Someday, perhaps, we will see a different measure of things and convince the lairds of our enlightened position. For now, though, our duty is to acquiesce to the law humbly and to bear witness to its legitimacy.”
Jerak paused, as if considering his own words. “But it is a long journey.”
The three monks swept up four other brothers before they had exited Chapel Pryd. By the time they had gotten outside, they could see the bonfire marking the ancient Stone of Judgment already burning brightly.
“Try not to reveal your enjoyment of the spectacle, if indeed you do find it amusing,” Laird Pryd said to his son. Lying on his goose-down bed and wearing only a cotton nightshirt that reached to his ankles, the Laird of Pryd Holding didn’t seem quite so formidable this particular evening. Laird Pryd had taken ill that very day, and now his eyes were sunken and darkly ringed, contrasting starkly to the chalky color of his face.
“You are the eyes of Pryd this night,” the laird went on. “Your presence sanctions the event under the laws of the holding.”
Prydae, dressed in his full military regalia, bronze breastplate and all, bowed.
“You need do nothing but bid Bernivvigar to commence,” Laird Pryd explained. “Take your seat and bear witness; the old Samhaist will preside over the course of events. He takes great pleasure in these things, you see.”
Prydae felt a bit of hesitance, leading to an expression that his perceptive father did not miss. “This will not be a crime paid for with coin,” Pryd said.
Prydae looked at his father directly and nodded.
“Bernivvigar is not to allow that in these times,” Pryd went on. “The Samhaists feel the press of the Church of Abelle, you see, and what have they to offer the peasants but the surety of order contained within their codes of strict justice?” Pryd raised a hand and dropped it on Prydae’s forearm. “You are prepared for this?”
Prydae shook his head at the whole question. “I will not disappoint you, father,” he
Laird Pryd waved him away.
As he exited the room, castle guardsmen sweeping up in his wake, Prydae considered the events. There could be little doubt of how the evening would proceed, given the claim of the wronged husband that he had actually caught his wife in the arms of another man. And, as his father had said, Prydae’s role was minimal; he was just there to give the weight of law to the proceedings.
Prydae hardly even realized that he was rubbing his hands with anticipation as he moved out into the warm summer night.
Whatever he might feel while witnessing this particular form of punishment, it would surely be exciting.
He noted that the brothers of Abelle were already at the clearing. Old Father Jerak and the others stood and sat off to one side, many with their heads bowed and hands folded in prayer. Not far from them stood Rennarq. Prydae knew that the man had come out here, though Rennarq was not acting as an official of the laird this night. Prydae’s father wouldn’t allow that, for where the Samhaists were concerned, he didn’t consider Rennarq to be possessed of objectivity.
Most of the townsfolk were in attendance as well, even many of the children. That surprised Prydae for a moment, but then he realized the point of it all. Harsh justice demonstrated civilization, of course, and reinforced societal expectations of behavior. Let the children learn these lessons young, and learn them well, and perhaps fewer of them would find themselves in the same situation as the guilty woman.
The guardsmen set the chairs they had brought from the castle in the proper place at the left side of the large, flat stone that old Bernivvigar would use as his dais, the customary spot for the Laird of Pryd to bear witness. When Prydae took the chair center and forward of the others, the customary seat of his father, the gathering predictably began to murmur and whisper among themselves.
Prydae stood up and stepped forward. “Laird Pryd is taken ill this night,” he said loudly, silencing them all, then he offered a reassuring smile and patted his hands in the air to calm the gasps and fearful exclamations. “A minor case of the gripe, and nothing more. Laird Pryd has bidden me to serve as the voice, the eyes, and the ears of Castle Pryd this evening.”