R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

"Then push them over," Yeslnik was quick to answer. "Ethelbert is a stubborn foe and for every Pryd man killed, Delaval has lost two."

The fact that Delaval Holding had a population more than twenty times that of Pryd-plus a fishing fleet that easily kept its people fed-was yet another of those troubling details that Prydae thought it best to not mention.

"Bernivvigar will keep the peasants in line, my liege," Rennarq offered, and it was obvious to Prydae that he wasn't the least bit concerned with the common folk or their troubles.

"Our warriors die in the south for the sake of your holding, Laird Prydae," Yeslnik added. "Need I remind you of that? Men of Laird Delaval do battle with those of Laird Ethelbert for your good! Laird Delaval has sent me here because more is needed. More coin and more supplies. And we will expect you to keep your ranks well stocked with soldiers to replace those who fall. This is the critical moment in our struggles with Laird Ethelbert. His lines are near to breaking, and he has found more resistance to his plans of conquest and domination than he expected from the various lairds along the Mantis Arm."

Prydae kept his face emotionless. He knew that the resistance Ethelbert was facing was simply due to the deep pockets of Laird Delaval, who had made many of the other lairds a better offer, as he had done with Prydae. He also understood that Yeslnik's estimation of Ethelbert's weakness was more than a bit exaggerated. Many of Honce's lairds understood the truth of Delaval's offers: that autonomy was such only under the continued willingness and the fluctuating interpretations of Laird Delaval himself. If Delaval proved victorious in the struggles with Ethelbert, then, yes, Prydae would retain his power in Pryd Holding.

But that wouldn't stop the occasional visits from Prince Yeslnik or some other Delaval nobleman. And there were always demands to be met, after all.

"Bannagran here will lead the tax collectors out at the break of morn," Prydae assured his guest. "Your wagon will leave laden with supplies."

"With coin and other valuables," Lady Olym corrected before her husband could speak.

Yeslnik only confirmed that anyway, adding, "Your own wagons may deliver the mundane supplies to the south. I expect to remain another three days. Will that suffice for your collection?"

Prydae looked to Bannagran, who nodded.

"Three days, it is," Prydae confirmed. Noticing that Yeslnik wasn't even looking at him as he replied, he followed the prince's gaze to the man's wife, who sat there seeming perfectly giddy and glowing.

A moment later, not unexpectedly, Yeslnik said, "You will pardon me and my wife for a few moments, good Laird Prydae. We have something we must discuss at once." He rose up swiftly and took his wife's hand. He bowed, she curtsied, both abruptly, and they hurried off toward their private quarters.

"I expect there will be little conversation between them," Rennarq said dryly.

Prydae chuckled at the lewd innuendo, but Bannagran did not. "Laird Delaval's forces do battle for the good of Laird Delaval, not for Pryd Holding," he said.

Prydae disarmed that ire with a smile and a wave of his hand. "It matters not at all. For whatever reason, the army of Laird Delaval serves our purposes in their struggle with Laird Ethelbert; and so we do well to support our friend."

"In the end, we all see to our own needs," Rennarq added.

Prydae looked at the old man and thought that had been a perfectly Samhaist thing to say. Bransen loved days like this, when all the brothers, with the exception of Father Jerak and one-usually sleeping-attendant, were away. He tied the soul stone onto his forehead and finished his duties in a matter of minutes, then took up a sack with his highwayman garb, removed the soul stone, and went out of the abbey in the guise of the Stork.

He made his way to the river, and there, when he was sure that he was alone, became his true self.

The Highwayman looked all around, feeling strange in this guise when the sun was still bright in the sky. He knew that he'd have to be careful every step of his way, but he couldn't deny the thrill he now felt-as intense and exciting as the night when he had gone to Cadayle's rescue.

Bransen knew that he shouldn't be enjoying the danger so profoundly. The Book of Jhest didn't allow for such thrills. But he didn't deny it; and the young man, whose life had been so empty for all these years, didn't push the excitement away.

Courting disaster and basking in the glow of danger, the Highwayman set out, circling the town to the north, the one region of Pryd Holding he did not know.

He kept imagining that he would find his true sire on the road-hadn't Bran Dynard left Chapel Pryd on a northerly route?-but of course, he did not. He kept thinking of Cadayle as well, and he knew that his roundabout course would take him to her eventually. It always did.

He crossed fields of grain, and followed the aroma of a baked treat very near to the windows of one cottage. He glanced all around and approached. The yard was unkempt, the fields overgrown, and the garden ill tended. But the smell kept Bransen moving for the window, where he even dared to peek in.

A peasant woman perhaps ten years older than he went about her chores, a pair of young children yapping at her feet. She wasn't particularly beautiful, but neither was she ugly, with the blond hair and blue eyes so common among the folk of the region and a body still relatively shapely despite the obviously difficult conditions around her. Bransen studied her for a few moments, but then his nose drew his eyes to the middle of the room. On a small table sat a pie, steaming in the morning air. Blueberry, by the smell of it.

The Highwayman considered how he might get to that treat and take a slice, but it was just a mental exercise, for he had no desire to take anything from the peasants of Pryd, who had next to nothing.

He was still musing about the pie, glancing left and right and trying to figure out how he might get in the front door without being noticed, when he realized his error. For the woman turned around and gave a shriek.

The Highwayman looked at her and held up his hands, bidding her to silence and trying very hard not to seem threatening to her in any way.

"Oh, but ye're to scare a sort to death!" the woman proclaimed. "I thinked yerself to be a goblin or a powrie!"

Bransen stared at her, hardly believing the obvious relief in her tone as she apparently recognized him.

"And what's bringing yerself to me house, Mister Highwayman?" she asked, seeming completely unafraid.

Bransen's mind whirled around corners he didn't know existed. Had his reputation spread so quickly among the peasants that he was considered by them to be a friend? For surely, this woman, helpless if he chose to attack, was showing no more fear of him than she might show to her own farm dog.

"Ah, it was me pie, wasn't it?" she asked with an exaggerated wink. "Come on in, then. I'll cut ye a good piece to fill yer belly."

Bransen looked all around to make sure that no one else was in the area, then with a shrug pulled himself through the window and took an offered seat at the table.

"I came to steal a scent of your pie, not to take food from your family," he said.

"Bah, ye've earned that and more."

"What do you know of me?"

"I know that ye kicked them beasties bothering poor Cadayle. I know that them tax collectors-Bestesbulzibar take them all!-keep looking over their shoulders for fear that ye'll strip them naked and run them into town! Hah, what more am I needing to know than that?"

As she finished, she pulled out a knife, cut fully a quarter of the pie, and heaped it onto a wooden plate. "Eat up, Highwayman. And if ye're still hungry, I'll chop ye another slice!"