R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

Because it is right. So simple, and so elusive.

"Sleep well this night, my lady," the Highwayman said. "Dare I hope that you might dream of me?"

The bold question had Cadayle back on her heels, but as it was accompanied by one of the man's typical sassy smiles, she let it go with a grin of her own.

He took her hand and kissed it, then bowed to her and danced away, leaping into the night and disappearing.

This was how it usually had gone between them over these last few weeks and their few encounters. Was that the real reason she had offered to take some eggs to a neighbor for her mother, and then tarried with the neighbors before heading home after darkness had fallen? Had she been hoping to see the Highwayman again? She knew the truth of it, of course-and was finding it harder and harder to deny that truth to herself-for Cadayle found herself thinking of the man more and more.

And as he had boldly asked, she was indeed dreaming of him. Because it is right.

The words followed Bransen, too, as he made his way across the town and back to Chapel Pryd. It had been a good answer, he knew, and one that had certainly seemed to impress Cadayle.

But was it true?

Bransen chewed his lip as he considered that. The teachings of the Jhesta Tu demanded introspection and honest self-evaluation, and the Book of Jhest had shown him many techniques to strip away the inevitable defenses that any person would construct against such painful personal intrusion.

Bransen studied his feelings honestly. He recalled how he felt during all his actions these last weeks as the Highwayman. He knew, and came to understand even more with every step, that his efforts weren't quite as magnanimous as he had made them seem with that answer.

There was the matter of his pride.

There was the matter of his love for Cadayle.

Yes, he felt proud when he rescued someone from bandit, powrie, or tax collector alike, or when he saw the smile of gratitude on the face of a peasant after the heroic Highwayman had offered some food to quell the grumbling of his belly. He knew that pride was a failing-the Book of Jhest often referred to it as the downfall of great men-but there it was.

When he had answered Cadayle, Bransen had to fight hard to resist blurting out the truth. How he wanted to tell her that he loved her, and had loved her since he was just a boy, when he was the Stork and she would help him off the ground, when she chased the bullies away. He had almost said it, but he was too afraid. What would Cadayle think of the dashing Highwayman if she knew that he was really the dirty Stork?

So perhaps there were some personal reasons for his choices of late.

Because it is right.

"Well, it is right, is it not?" the young man asked when the chapel was in sight. "I am helping people desperately in need, as some have helped me. Would Garibond do any less?"

Satisfied with that, Bransen crept back through the window, across the room, and into his hole. He had defeated the demon of introspection and self-evaluation, and fell to his cot with the warm memory of Cadayle beside him.

He hadn't reached for the deeper self-evaluation, however, hadn't gone to the dark place in his heart where festered his frustration and-anger, memories of his years of torment, thoughts of the missing Garibond and the horrible Bernivvigar who had once mutilated the man, and resentment at his continuing ill-treatment by the brothers who had taken him in and would not teach him to read.

It all sat there, buried within, quietly waiting.

In the Hearts of Everyman "An impressive turnout," Prince Yeslnik of Delaval said to Laird Prydae as the two ate on the balcony of Castle Pryd's grand dining and audience hall, along with his wife, Olym, Bannagran, and Rennarq. The prince from the huge city at the mouth of the great river, the Masur Delaval, was, in Prydae's estimation, a fine example of Honce nobility. Tall and lean, physically fit and deceptively strong, young Yeslnik sat with perfect posture, and was perfectly groomed, head to toe. His blond hair was trimmed in the fashionable bowl cut, halfway over his ears, and he kept his light beard and goatee trimmed close. His clothing, of course, was of the finest cut and the rich hues of expensive dyes, and he wore rings, bracelets, and a necklace of glittering precious metal and gems. It did not escape Prydae's notice that among the four rings Yeslnik wore, three were sparkling gemstones of obvious value, but the fourth was a set with dull gray soul stone.

Likely, it was an enchanted item, one of the sacred stones that had escaped the Church of Blessed Abelle, and probably as a gift from the brothers. Had they used this item to gain the favor of Laird Delaval? Certainly a soul stone ring, with its healing powers, would be a valuable asset to a nobleman.

Prydae made a mental note to speak with Master Bathelais about that.

Below the foursome, the dining hall brimmed with activity. All the brothers were in attendance, as well as the many substantial landowners within Pryd Holding. Notably absent was Bernivvigar, who had, not surprisingly, refused the invitation. The old Samhaist would not bend to secular leaders, and he had not been invited to sit on the balcony with the laird and prince. Prydae wasn't sure of how he viewed that. Was it principle or mere pride that guided the old wretch? In any case, it wasn't practical. The Samhaists had dominated the ways of Honce for centuries, and still held great power over the ever-fearful peasants. The only reason the Church of Blessed Abelle had leaped so greatly in stature among the lairds was their monks' accommodating attitude toward the nobility, the true power among the folk.

That, and the gifts they could bestow, like the ring Yeslnik wore and the sword-

The mere thought of his missing sword made Prydae wince, and he quickly covered it up by raising a goblet of wine to his lips.

"And I was pleased by the roadside reception, Laird Prydae," Yeslnik went on; and if he had noticed Prydae's soured expression, he did nothing to show it. "I see that your people understand the role Laird Delaval has played in securing their freedom from the grasp of greedy Laird Ethelbert."

Prydae thought it wise to not point out that his holding was pouring money, men, food, and other supplies into those efforts against Ethelbert. "They, we, are grateful that Laird Delaval has seen fit to side with us against the intrusions."

"Laird Delaval respects the sovereignty of the smaller holdings."

Laird Prydae didn't respond, but Bannagran nearly choked hearing that and covered up by coughing, and Rennarq merely rolled his eyes.

"Of course, Laird Delaval cannot settle all of the problems of Honce alone," Yeslnik continued.

Prydae wasn't surprised at the leading statement, of course. He knew that Yeslnik had come here to exact more resources. "More than half the men of Pryd Holding over the age of twelve are dead or off fighting in the south," he answered.

"There is more to fighting a war than soldiers."

"And we are, in every respect, thin, Prince of Delaval," replied Prydae. "Every belly in Pryd growls with hunger, and many of the peasants growl with mounting anger."

"How you control your peasants is no concern of Laird Delaval," said the prince.

"Kill a few and the others will quiet," his wife added, surprising the other four at the table. Rennarq gave a chuckle-one appreciative of Olym's understanding, it seemed to Prydae-and Bannagran cleared his throat.

So did Yeslnik, and he seemed a bit disconcerted by the bluntly callous statement. "Forgive my wife, I pray you," he said.

"For speaking that which we all know to be true?" Rennarq asked. "That which the Samhaists have understood for centuries?"

"Yes, well…" Prydae cut in, trying to change the subject, especially since peasant servants were coming to the table often. "My good prince, you must understand that our demands on the people of Pryd Holding have pushed them to the very edge of despair."