R. Salvatore - The Bear

He thought of Brother Reandu and his days at the chapel in a cellar hole. To keep his sanity then, Bransen had re-created the Book of Jhest, scratching the walls with a stone. His youth had been filled with long hours of grueling work, for even the simplest task had been brutally difficult to the boy known as the Stork, the boy whose muscles would not answer the demands of his mind. His youth had been filled with the torment of the other boys, often brutal and violent.

But in that youth, he had known the friendship and the courage of one young girl.

In the flailing hopelessness of Bransen Garibond, the image of Cadayle's hand, reaching down to help him to his feet, came to him again, reaching into the darkness of his heart and soul, the ache of his helplessness. Reaching for him and demanding that he take it.

He looked back to the southeast and envisioned the doorway at Cadayle's old house and thought again of that fateful fight when he, the fledgling Highwayman, had killed his first man. Bransen was not proud of that act, was not happy that it had been forced upon him, but he had done a good thing that day. He had acted for justice and for the defense of those who could not defend themselves.

"The call of the Highwayman," Bransen whispered into the predawn air, but he couldn't help but wince at the end of his only partly true proclamation.

Had it really been a selfless pursuit of wider justice? Bransen laughed softly, admitting to himself the truth of the Highwayman. Finding his power with his studies of Jhesta Tu and through the transformation offered by the soul stone-becoming the Highwayman-had been more a matter of personal satisfaction than any altruistic endeavor. He knew that and wasn't about to revise history for the sake of his pride. He had battled the tyranny of Laird Prydae because doing so afforded him a sense of control he had never experienced in his crippled youth. He was fueled and made powerful by the simmering rage that had flooded through him for all those years of torment, against the insults and the constant beatings of the bullies, against the softer but no less painful pity and disgust of the monks and many other condescending adults. How many times had Bransen heard the whispers that he would have been better off if they had just smothered him as a baby, when his infirmity had first been revealed? How many times had he heard the whispers that Laird Prydae or Father Jerak would do him a favor by putting him to swift death?

Anger, not altruism, had driven the Highwayman in those early days.

Bransen closed his eyes and pictured Cadayle's small hand reaching down to him, toward the Stork who lay in the mud after being decked by more ruffians. There, alone on the hill, he mentally took her outstretched hand and let it lift him once more from the darkness that had welled up inside of him since the disaster in Ethelbert, the murder of Jameston Sequin, the betrayal of Affwin Wi, the loss of his sword and gemstone brooch, and the horrors he had just witnessed in the ravaged southland.

He stood tall on the hill, tall and straight though he had no hematite, no soul stone, to support him. He felt his line of life energy, his ki-chi-kree, running solid and strong from his forehead to his groin. He was no more the Stork and would never again be the Stork. The world around him had gone mad, perhaps, and the terrible events and turmoil were beyond his control, but up there before the dawn, Bransen Garibond reminded himself that for most of his life this simple act of standing straight-of having a measure of discipline over his own body-was all that he wished in the world.

The notion brought a smile to his face, but only briefly. He was whole; it was not enough.

Because he was lost and he knew it. He had found a measure of senselessness to life's journey that mocked the very concept of purpose. He had walked the wider world and found it to be too wide, too uncontrollable, too much a cycle of inevitable misery and grief.

He started off the hillock heading for the lake, thinking to look in on the old stone house that had been his home for all of his youth. A small stumble, perhaps an honest trip, confused him and terrified him. He shook his head and started once more but veered almost immediately, turning toward the north, walking straight for Chapel Pryd. He needed to go there, needed to hear the counsel of Master Reandu. Bransen the agnostic sought some comfort.

Like all the communities of Honce proper in the summer season, the town of Pryd awakened before the dawn. Many people were out and about in the growing light as Bransen approached the large chapel, going about their chores before the hotter hours descended. Many sets of eyes fell upon him as he slowly and calmly walked the main road of Pryd Town, and he heard the whispers of "the Highwayman" following him. It was a more muted response than the one that had greeted him when he had come through here a month earlier beside Jameston Sequin. Bransen was glad of that. He didn't want any cheering; he couldn't bear the hopeful expressions that would inevitably come his way, as if he could do something to better the miserable reality of a peasant's existence.

Bransen didn't need that responsibility at this dark moment. He didn't want any responsibility for anything or anyone, even for himself.

He walked up the path through Chapel Pryd's gate. The front doors were open, a pair of brown-robed monks on the porch sweeping away the leaves. They stopped in unison and leaned on their brooms, watching Bransen's approach. One stepped toward the door and shouted inside for someone to get Master Reandu.

"You could just take me to his chambers," Bransen said as he neared.

"Better to meet him out here… at first, at least," the brother replied.

Bransen considered that for a moment, then glanced over at Castle Pryd and shook his head. "In case Bannagran comes running, you mean," he said, and the monk did not disagree.

"Well, it is a fine day anyway," Bransen said. "So better to speak out under the sun."

And so he wasn't surprised to see Bannagran rushing through the gates of the courtyard before Reandu even made his appearance. The man was not alone, flanked by a dozen warriors armored in bronze and with swords in hand.

Bannagran looked Bransen over dismissively. "I have received no word from King Yeslnik that you are pardoned," the Laird of Pryd warned.

Bransen didn't answer, seemed as if he did not care.

"I warned you about returning here."

"I had nothing to do with the death of King Delaval," Bransen said calmly. "I was in Alpinador and Vanguard and nowhere near to Delaval City."

"So you have claimed before."

"I know who killed him."

Bannagran stood up very straight and took in a deep breath, his massive and muscled chest straining the straps of his fabulously decorated bronze breastplate. He didn't blink as he held his penetrating stare over Bransen, who, caring about nothing in the world, was not intimidated in the least.

"Bransen," Master Reandu said suddenly from the chapel stoop behind them. Bransen turned about to see him. "What news brings you to Pryd? Evidence of your innocence?"

"No."

Reandu looked at him curiously.

"Where is your proof, boy?" Bannagran demanded.

"I didn't kill him. I was nowhere near Delaval City."

"Who killed him?"

"A woman-a woman from Behr."

"On what proof?"

"None but my word."

Bannagran paused for a few heartbeats, looked at Bransen, then to Reandu. He turned to his guards. "Take him."

"I came to speak with Master Reandu," Bransen said.

"If he resists at all, kill him on the spot," Bannagran ordered.

The soldiers fanned out around Bransen, iron swords in hand. They came at him with measured steps, each looking nervously to the man on his right and left, clearly intimidated, for some had witnessed the fighting prowess of the Highwayman and all had certainly heard the many stories of Bransen's martial exploits. Each step seemed a bit shorter than the one previous.