R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

"Stay here," Reandu told him, and he rushed out to join Master Bathelais.

Bransen watched as Bannagran moved along the line of monks, lifting and inspecting their hands. The young man's eyes widened as he realized what was transpiring here, and he lurched over, placing the chamber pot down hard, then dipping his hand into its brown contents. He came back up as fast as he could, holding the pot once more in his filthy, shit-covered fingers-fingers that had been cut by Bannagran's knife the night before. How glad was Bransen that Brother Reandu had not apparently noticed the scar, the cut healed by the stolen soul stone and the meditation of Jhest, but still visible.

Bannagran finished with the monks then, and noticed Bransen as he turned back to his liege. He paused and studied the damaged young man.

He thinks I am the right size, Bransen thought, and he immediately staggered and lurched, accentuating his infirmity.

Bannagran started to approach and Bransen fought hard to remain calm. He wished that he had his soul stone with him, that he could become the Highwayman, if need be, and flee this place. He thought he was surely trapped.

But Bannagran stopped suddenly and looked down at Bransen's hand and the chamber pot. The large man crinkled his nose in disgust and gave the Stork a dismissive wave, then went back to join Prydae, Bathelais, and Reandu.

Bathelais dismissed the monks then, and they began to disperse, talking among themselves.

Bransen used the distraction to shamble along the general direction of the leaders, and he perked up his ears as he neared.

"Surely you do not believe any of the brothers hold any complicity in this theft," he heard Master Bathelais say.

"There was no rope," Bannagran answered, his voice low and grave. "No sign of a rope."

"It is hard to believe that anyone could steal the sword and so easily flee the forty feet down the side of the tower," Laird Prydae added, "unless of course the thief had the aid of a magical gemstone."

"Malachite," said Brother Reandu. "We have but two, I believe, in all of Chapel Pryd."

"And where are they?" asked the laird.

Reandu looked at Bathelais.

"I will order a complete inventory of all of our gemstones," the master said. "All of them, and I assure you that if any are missing, our aid will prove invaluable to you. There are ways to detect the usage of gemstone powers, my laird."

Laird Prydae nodded slowly, but he didn't seem very happy at that moment. "Are you so careless with your sacred gemstones that you know not even where all of them are now placed?"

Bransen took note of the embarrassed scowl on Master Bathelais's face. Of course, Father Jerak's unorganized ways were legendary among the brothers of the chapel, and the implication now was that perhaps Bathelais was not only inheriting but furthering the carelessness. That possibility seemed not to sit very well with him at that moment.

"We are no less vested in our gemstones than you are in your magnificent sword, my laird," Bathelais declared suddenly, with renewed vigor in his voice. "We will account for all of them, I assure you. If an outside contraband stone has been brought into the region by this man, this…"

"Highwayman," Bannagran spat.

"This Highwayman creature," Bathelais agreed. "There is no tolerance for this within our order. Any man found with a contraband gemstone will suffer the full wrath of the Church of Blessed Abelle."

"A man not of the Church in possession of a stolen gemstone is declared a heretic and burned at the stake," Brother Reandu added.

Bransen heard the contents of the chamber pot sloshing below his trembling fingers.

"Perhaps I will allow you that pleasure, if indeed this thief holds such a stone," Prydae said. "But not until I am finished with him. And know that he will welcome the consuming flames when I have shown him my wrath!"

Bransen nearly tumbled to the ground and felt as if he would throw up. Somehow he managed to get out of the room without attracting any more attention to himself.

What was he to do? Had he gone too far? Could he possibly explain to the brothers why he had borrowed the soul stone?

Unsure of himself, not knowing what to do next, the terrified man continued with his duties. The guise of the Stork would protect him, he tried to convince himself. How could they suspect him of anything when he could hardly walk?

He knew then that he had to be very careful. He could bring no attention to himself, and could not give any of them, not even Reandu, any reason to believe that there was any kind of intelligence inside his damaged physical form. And he had to take care in using the soul stone, apparently, if Master Bathelais's claims of being able to detect such magic were to be believed.

He had to be the Stork-just the Stork. His frailty would protect him, he hoped.

He desperately hoped. Several days passed before Bransen dared to go out as the Highwayman again, days made longer by his burning desire to test his mother's magnificent sword. Now that he had it firmly in hand, moving through the training movements he had learned in the Book of Jhest, Bransen began to understand just how wonderful the weapon truly was. It felt as if it were an extension of his arm as he swung it; its balance remained perfect at nearly every angle, making it seem even lighter than it was-and although it was much longer than the average Honce bronze or iron sword, the thin steel blade of SenWi's creation was far lighter.

Bransen spent an hour and more playing with the blade, weaving cuts against imaginary opponents, defeating attacks and quickly countering with killing strikes.

Even when he finished the most taxing of practice routines, he was full of energy and brimming with eagerness. He had no destination in mind this night, so he glided through the shadows, taking in the sights, the sounds, and the smells of Pryd Town. It was generally quiet: a bird calling, some cattle lowing, a mother shooing her children into the house, an owl hooting. But Bransen stopped when he heard a sharp cry among the soothing sounds of the town winding down.

"But what am I to feed my children this night?" came a woman's voice.

"You have more," a man replied. "You know you do. I told you three days ago to be ready for this."

"But me husband's not returned from the south!"

"Then get on without him! Do you believe that any are having an easy time of it with the war, selfish woman?"

Bransen came up over a small grassy mound to take in the sights of the argument. A peasant woman, dirty and dressed in rags, was practically on her knees before one of Laird Prydae's soldiers, who had a bulging sack slung over one shoulder while he kept her at bay with his other arm.

"Just give me food for the night, then, so I won't be going to bed hungry," the woman begged, and she came forward suddenly, lunging for the sack.

The man slapped her aside.

Bransen, the Highwayman, started over the knoll, but stopped short and held his ground. Anger welled up inside him, but he suppressed it, reminding himself that anger was a warrior's worst enemy. Anger denied calculation. Anger led to errors.

He watched the soldier kick the peasant woman as she scrambled back toward her hovel, whining pitifully all the way.

Laughing, the soldier turned away. He pulled the sack from his shoulder and fished his free hand about inside, bringing forth a shiny tomato, which he promptly bit into as he started back toward Castle Pryd.

The Highwayman circled him, moving to a tree and up it and onto a branch overhanging the road.

"A fine night of thievery, I see," the Highwayman said as the soldier approached. Bransen hardly took note that he had slipped back into that peculiar way of speaking, emulating the monks when they told their stories.