R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

With that thought in mind, Dynard turned from Brother Bathelais and called out for SenWi.

He turned back in time to see the astounded expressions of both the monks when his beautiful Behrenese wife walked into the chapel. Bathelais even made the sign of the evergreen before his chest, a triangular movement that was fast becoming a staple signal of devotion among the followers of Blessed Abelle, for Blessed Abelle had reportedly lived for three years sheltered under the boughs of the sacred evergreen tree.

"This is SenWi," Dynard introduced as the woman moved up beside him, and he casually draped his arm across her shoulders and pulled her close to his side. "My wife."

He saw Brother Bathelais fighting hard, but with only limited success, to keep the incredulity off his face.

Brother Dynard didn't think much of it at that time-how could the man not be surprised, after all?

Little did Brother Dynard understand. "Three dead powries, so he said," Captain Deepen told Prince Prydae. "Who can know what powers the beast of Behr brought with her?"

"Bah, but Prince Prydae killed five in the last fight!" one of the other soldiers in the room blurted.

Prince Prydae accepted that accolade with a nod, though all in the room, including the speaker, knew it to be an exaggeration. Prydae could claim only four kills in that particular fight, and three of those would more correctly be credited to his chariot than to his battle prowess. While he would accept the compliment, the prince recognized that if the returning Brother Dynard had spoken truthfully about the foreign woman's exploits, they were well worth noting.

He saw one young, promising, and amazingly strong warrior, Bannagran by name, looking at him almost apologetically.

"You did not see her sword?" the prince asked Deepen.

The captain shrugged. "Just the hilt of it, and that alone was impressive."

"The peoples south of the Belt-and-Buckle are well known for their crafts," Prydae admitted. "On my last journey to Ethelbert Holding, I saw this clearly. Keep a close watch on this visitor. I would know her movements."

Captain Deepen bowed. "She is with Brother Dynard now in Chapel Pryd."

"Any news of Callen?"

"The powries took her, so said Brother Dynard. If that is the case, then we'll never find enough of her corpse to bother about."

"Make sure that you take down the hanging pole early in the morning," Prydae instructed. "It may serve to remind our workers of a powrie presence, and I'll have no such distraction at this time. We have far yet to travel and much more road to construct before the season's turn, and many are already grumbling that they must be back to their fields before harvest."

Captain Deepen bowed again, and Prydae motioned that it was time for him and the others to go. As soon as he was alone, the prince took up his favorite mug and filled it with mead, which he drank quickly. Then, not satisfied, he moved to a small cabinet across the castle room. He pulled open the door and sorted through the metal flasks within, at last settling on one nearly full of a light brown liquid, a fine Vanguard whiskey.

Again he filled the mug, and he wasn't slow to drain it.

All the while, Prydae kept glancing at the door on the right-hand side of the audience room, the portal to his father's wing of the castle. Pryd was still in bed and still feeling ill, and Prydae was beginning to worry that perhaps his father was more sick than he was admitting.

That notion elicited a myriad of thoughts in the ambitious young man. He was ready to assume the mantle of laird of Pryd Holding, so he believed-indeed, that was a day he had anticipated for most of his life. But Prydae had hoped for a more gradual transition. There were so many nuances to every duty, it seemed, such as his attendance at the trial and sentencing of the adulteress and her illicit lover. Laird Pryd understood these subtleties quite well; he knew how to make the peasants love him even as he broke their backs with difficult labors or took the bulk of their crops and coins.

Prydae cocked his arm back and only at the very last moment stopped himself from throwing his mug across the room.

He would never rule with that type of tact and wisdom, he feared. He was not possessed of his father's diplomacy.

He finished the whiskey in one large gulp, then tossed the mug aside and stormed through the door to Pryd's private chambers. He found his father in bed, lying on his back, his eyes sunken and circled by dark rings. Prydae was struck by how frail the laird appeared. Only a few days before, Laird Pryd had ridden in the courtyard, inspecting his soldiers, and at that time it seemed as if the laird could have led them all into battle and would have claimed the most kills of all with his fabulous sword. He had started to cough a bit that same day-just a tickle in his throat, he insisted-and it had sounded as if it was nothing serious.

And now he lay in bed, coughing and pale, his bowels running as water and his breath smelling of vomit.

"How fare you today, father?" Prydae asked, kneeling beside the bed.

"I curse my age," the old man said with a laugh that sounded more like a wheeze.

"One of the monks who had gone off on his mission has returned," Prydae explained. "A Brother Bran Dynard, back from Behr-I do not remember him."

"A man of little consequence, no doubt."

"He brought with him a brown-skinned woman with strange eyes."

With great effort, Pryd managed to lift one hand and offer a slight, dismissive shake.

"Yes, it does not matter," Prince Prydae mumbled. "Powries took the executed adulteress," he started to say, for he cut himself short, realizing that this event would mean little to his father.

He took his father's hand and kissed it, then clasped it. He felt no strength there, and little warmth, little sense of life at all. He knew that he had to get the healers back in here with their soul stones, and had already arranged a meeting with Brother Bathelais for that very night.

Prydae also understood the limitations of those healers.

Again the prince had to follow two diverging lines of emotions, for beside his fear and pain at watching his father's diminishing health, there was another type of fear, one rooted in ambition and eagerness. He gave his father's hand a slight squeeze, then placed it back atop the old man's chest. He was held there for just an instant, staring at his father and feeling the hints of coming grief, and then he was propelled away by the hints of coming responsibility.

By the time he reached the room where Brother Bathelais waited, his step was brisk and alive.

"There is word that Laird Pryd does not fare well," the monk said as soon as Prydae, after glancing both ways in the corridor to ensure that no one was watching, entered the private room.

"Age wins," the prince dryly returned. He took a seat across the hearthstone from the monk.

"I will send Brother Bran Dynard, who is only just returned, to his side posthaste."

"Not that one," Prydae quickly replied. "Nor his exotic concubine."

"You have heard, then."

The prince nodded.

"And you do not approve?"

"The Church of Abelle approves? You would open your texts and hearts to a beast of Behr?"

Bathelais let the sarcasm go with a resigned shrug. "Perhaps I should tend to your father myself."

"To what end?" the prince asked. "Will Laird Pryd again feel the vitality of youth?"

Bathelais looked curiously at the young man.

"For that is what we will now need in this changing world," Prydae went on. "The roads will connect us all-perhaps as early as the summer after next. What challenges might Pryd Holding find in that new reality, when cities coalesce in a myriad of alliances?"

"Your father's experience-" Bathelais started to say.