R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

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 mouth, Bathelais widened his eyes and recoiled, and Dynard knew that he had erred.

"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.

All he could do was point at the book, although emphatically.

"What would you have me do?" Bathelais asked. "Admire the curvature of your lines?"

"I will instruct you in the language."

"Could you not have simply translated the work?"

"It would not be exact," Brother Dynard explained. "And it was a condition of the Jhesta Tu that any who would peruse their secrets do so in their language-learning the language is part of the discipline required to truly appreciate the knowledge contained within, you see."

"A condition of the Jhesta Tu? They do not willingly share their insights?"

"They do not proselytize, no," Brother Dynard replied. "Theirs is a light that must be attained by the willing, not forced upon the reluctant."

"Are you not proselytizing right now?"

The question had Brother Dynard nonplused. He finally managed to string a few words together in a coherent fashion. "I am not Jhesta Tu."

If Brother Bathelais was convinced of that, his expression did not show it. "What are you, then?"

"I am your brother," Dynard insisted. Though he believed that with all his heart, he could not infuse his voice with any strength under the increasingly hostile stare of Bathelais.

Brother Bathelais looked back at the cursive and stylized writing on the page, then gently closed the book as his eyes rose to regard Dynard once more. "And you will teach us how to read this language of the Jhest?"

"I will."

"And when we read this book, we will learn that Blessed Abelle was not wholly correct?"

The form of that question left it unanswerable by poor Dynard.

Brother Bathelais stood up, the tome wrapped in his arms. He looked hard at Dynard for a moment longer, then gave a curt nod, turned, and left the room.

Brother Dynard sighed and slumped in his chair, glad of the reprieve. He held no illusions that this initial discussion of the delicate subject had gone well. She stood before the rising sun, her breathing perfectly even, her stance completely grounded, not a muscle twitching.