R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

And now he had one more thing he knew he must keep hidden.

Alone, and so Be It! The lines were not as intricate and flowing, but the patterns of the words were much the same. Bransen focused hard to keep his head from lolling about so that he could study those patterns and try to make some sense of them. It wasn't often that Bransen got any opportunity to view the writing of the monks. On those occasions when he was the Highwayman, he spent very little time in the chapel, only enough to get in and out along a direct route from his trapdoor to the window and back again.

So this morning, going about his rounds, when he saw the parchment unrolled and weighted down on the desk, Bransen quickly moved to inspect it.

How he wished that the monks had taught him to read their language. How he wished that so many of his empty hours could be spent engrossed in a tome filled with words of wisdom. Did the words of Blessed Abelle mirror those of the Jhesta Tu? He had already clearly seen and felt the similarities of Jhesta Tu meditation and the powers afforded by the sacred stones, and he had to believe that those commonalities extended into the relative philosophies of the holy men. Bransen suspected that the books of the monks would enhance his understanding and control of his life force, but, alas, Brother Reandu had made it quite clear to him that the brothers would not teach him to read.

He stood there for a long time, staring down at the script and wondering if he might somehow teach himself. So immersed was he in the lines and words that he didn't hear the door open across the way and the soft footfalls of an approaching monk.

"Take care with that," Brother Reandu said, and Bransen staggered and nearly fell.

Reandu steadied him.

"Taking respite from your work?" the monk asked.

Bransen stammered, trying to formulate an answer, but Reandu calmed him and quieted him quickly.

"Still intrigued by words?"

Bransen nodded.

"Well, please do not drool on this, my little friend. Do you know what this is?"

Bransen tried to shake his head, but it went in a circular motion instead, and sent his eyes spinning.

"It details instructions from the masters of my order," Reandu explained. "From Chapel Abelle itself, where the prophet taught and where he died. Perhaps one day I will find the means to take you there. Yes, you would like Chapel Abelle." Reandu's eyes sparkled and he began to wave his arms out to show the vastness of the place and to dramatize his nearly breathless words as he continued. "It is set on a high cliff overlooking the dark, rolling waters of the ocean. Waves smash against the rocks continually, like the thunder of God himself! You cannot stand atop that cliff without seeing the beauty of God, Stork. You feel small and great at the same time, as if you are part of something larger and more wonderful than yourself, than your life itself. The thunder of the waves pounds like the heartbeat of God, I tell you!"

He paused and looked back at Bransen. "You would like to see that place, wouldn't you?"

Bransen nodded eagerly and grinned from ear to ear, but the smile went away almost immediately as he came to consider what any journey away from Chapel Pryd might do. How could he take his clothing, the sword, and the stolen gemstone with him? How could he keep his secret, or find the hours of freedom in the guise of the Highwayman?

He caught himself in those thoughts and glanced anxiously at Reandu, who, thankfully, had not noticed his changing mood. Quickly, Bransen shifted the focus and the conversation by pointing emphatically at the parchment.

"An order from Chapel Abelle," Reandu explained, and he gave a sigh. "The world is a difficult place right now, Stork. Men are warring across the land of Honce as the lairds vie for supremacy and allegiance. And we of Blessed Abelle are caught in the middle. We are healers, not warriors, but some of the lairds wish us to use our gemstone powers to help them in their battles-and, indeed, many of the brothers are doing just that. And, of course, after the battles, we toil endlessly over the wounded."

Bransen understood that the man was not really talking to him, but rather was simply thinking out loud, as if he were trying to clear up things in his own mind.

"Thus come the troubling decisions concerning the disposition of the wounded," Reandu went on. "Are we to heal only those men who fight for our own lairds? Are we to ignore the cries of the enemy wounded? I do not know if I could do that, Stork. I do not know if I could allow a man to die, knowing that I might have healed his wounds.

"But it is not my decision, so declare the masters of Chapel Abelle. The decree before you states that we are to heed the desires of our laird regarding the wounded. If Laird Prydae insists that we let the enemy wounded suffer and die, then we must abide by his decision."

Reandu gave a shrug. "Do the colors a man wear so determine the value of the man? Does allegiance to a laird mean anything more to a peasant than the happenstance that he was born in the holding of that laird? Would a man of Pryd serve Laird Ethelbert with equal fervor if he had happened to be born in Ethelbert Holding? I think so, Stork, and so I am saddened by the choice of my masters."

Bransen looked back at the parchment, seeing it, suddenly, in a very different light. If the monks of Blessed Abelle were truly God inspired, as they claimed, then how could they abrogate their moral imperatives to the decisions of a secular man? It seemed a cowardly thing.

"Practicality has its place, I suppose," Reandu said, as if reading Bransen's thoughts or, at least, as if sharing Bransen's concerns. "Fortunately, the battle has not yet reached us here in Pryd Town, and with good fortune and the aid of Laird Delaval's thousands, it never will."

Bransen glanced over to see Reandu standing calm, his tirade ended.

"Come along, Stork," the man said. "You cannot avoid your duties."

Bransen lifted the room's chamber pot with one hand and offered his free arm to accept Reandu's guiding hand, and he shuffled along beside the monk toward the room's open door. Not willing to let go of this rare encounter with Reandu-at least, rare when they actually had time for a few words-Bransen stuttered out the name of his father and protector.

He made sure that he watched Reandu closely as he spoke Garibond's name, knowing, as was detailed in the Book of Jhest, that a man's initial reaction was often more telling than his subsequent words.

And, indeed, Brother Reandu's eyes did flash and widen for just an instant before he got himself steadied.

"Garibond?" Reandu echoed. "Ah, yes, old Garibond! A good man. A good man."

He was stalling, Bransen could tell, given his initial reaction.

"He went to the south, I believe. Yes, yes, to Ethelbert, from what I have heard. The sea air would be gentler on his aching bones, so he said."

Bransen wasn't entirely convinced, and he only half listened, focusing instead on the man's expressions and inflections as Reandu continued to tout the healing aspects of salty air and went on about the better, warmer, and sunnier climate of Ethelbert compared to Pryd.

Of course, Bransen knew, the monks could simply have offered Garibond healing sessions with their gemstones.

He didn't press the point, and he showed no outward sign of his doubt as he and Reandu exited the room and moved along toward the next door in the hallway. But then monks were rushing all around, responding to a commotion down the hall the other way, near the main chamber of the chapel's first floor. Immediately Reandu reversed direction, pulling Bransen along with him. They came to the end of the corridor to see many of the brothers assembled in line before Master Bathelais in the main chamber, with Laird Prydae himself and several soldiers facing them.