R. Salvatore - The Bear

But Reandu's heart was for Pryd Town most of all. Pryd was his home-his family had been there for as long as any could remember, many generations. And Reandu had grown to respect and admire Bannagran as well. How could he leave his home and his laird?

But how could he not, if remaining there meant a declaration of fealty to that awful Father De Guilbe and this new made-up church whose name elevated the wretched Yeslnik to "divine"?

"It will all work out," he whispered to himself, nodding and silently reminding himself that the issue between King Yeslnik and Father Artolivan was far from settled. Likely they would come to an accord since no army could possibly topple the great fortress that was St. Mere Abelle and since, when at last the war between the lairds was over, it would be in no one's best interest to continue a fight between church and state.

The assurance found little hold in Reandu's heart, though, for the master had more than enough personal experience with King Yeslnik to know that the man could not be trusted to do the right thing, particularly as far as the common folk were concerned.

Still, the monk could hope, he supposed.

He heard a call then for "Master!" and from the insistent tone, he realized that the younger brother had likely been shouting for him for some time. He glanced about, finally spotting the monk and others gathered on a knoll, pointing to the tree line. Reandu understood their excitement, and his own eyes widened indeed when he, too, spotted Bransen.

The young warrior looked haggard, indeed, and though no wound was evident upon him, Reandu had to think that he had suffered some type of physical trauma, for he held one hand up to his forehead and walked shakily, not quite Stork-like, but certainly not with the agile and balanced strides of the Highwayman.

Reandu rushed down to him, but Bransen didn't stop or glance at or acknowledge him in any way.

"What is it?" Reandu asked, and he noted that it was indeed a soul stone that Bransen was pressing against his forehead.

"I… I… I…" Bransen stammered in reply. He shook his head, spittle flying, and staggered past.

Master Reandu nearly gagged. The Stork had returned and persisted even though Bransen had a soul stone against his forehead! Reandu rushed to Bransen's side and took him by the arm. He wouldn't let the young warrior shake him away, though Bransen surely tried.

"Bransen, what has happened?" Reandu asked. Other monks came rushing down to help.

"I… I n… nee… need rest," he managed at last as he tried to pull away. But another monk grabbed him by his other arm, and that brother and Reandu ushered Bransen quickly to a tent and a cot and eased him down.

Bransen lay there for some time, staring off to the side, though he was surely looking at things within his own mind and not at Reandu or anything else in the tent. Reandu called to him repeatedly to try to get some explanation, but the young warrior wasn't talking.

Soon after, the exhausted Bransen fell fast asleep.

"A strip of cloth," Reandu instructed the other monk, who rushed from the tent and returned almost immediately with a small square of wool. Reandu rolled it up and tied it about Bransen's forehead, setting the soul stone underneath it to hold it in place, much as Bransen had typically done before Father Artolivan had given him the lost star brooch.

Reandu dismissed the other monks, but he didn't depart with them. He sat beside Bransen throughout the rest of the day, occasionally using a second soul stone to infuse the weary young warrior with warm waves of healing magic. Finally, as the night deepened, Master Reandu stood to take his leave, to gather some dinner before retiring.

"You were ri… right," Bransen said as the monk turned away. Reandu spun back to see the young warrior open his eyes. "Does that fill you with pride?" Bransen asked, and his voice seemed steady once more, though surely not nearly as strong as it had been when he had gone out the previous night.

"What do you mean?" Reandu asked, coming back and crouching low over the prone man.

Bransen looked away.

After a moment, Reandu understood. "You could not do it," he said, and a smile widened on his face. "You could not kill them."

Bransen looked back, and he wasn't returning that smile. With a great scowl he said, "Does that please you?"

"More than you can imagine, my friend."

Bransen's frown melted into a look of curiosity.

"Did you think I would cheer your fall from morality?" Reandu asked him. "Did you believe that I would be glad to learn that you, a wonderful and generous soul I have known since your childhood, were as crass and callous as so many of these supposed leaders?"

"Perhaps I am not as brave as I assumed."

"Brave?" Now Reandu couldn't suppress his chuckle. "You are no assassin, Bransen Garibond, nor is this other image of you that you name the Highwayman. You have never been an assassin."

"Ancient Badden would not agree with your assessment."

"In killing Ancient Badden you saved hundreds of innocents," Reandu answered without the slightest hesitation. "In that act you ended a war, and the man was deserving of his end. But this pact you forged with Bannagran… No, Bransen, that was not a just and moral agreement. You knew it, and in the moment of truth, when you could not continue your deception of your heart, when continuing would fundamentally and adversely change the man you are, you chose the correct road. I could not be happier."

Bransen stared at him hard. "I am afflicted once more," he said, and his voice remained unsteady.

"What happened? Did you suffer a wound?"

"No."

"When did it occur? Did you engage in a fight?"

"The fight was over, and I won and was not injured," Bransen explained. He lifted his hands before him and stared at them as if they were covered in blood. "I had her," he said, and he clenched his left hand. "Head back and helpless."

It wasn't hard for Master Reandu to piece the rest of it together. The Stork had manifested itself to save Bransen from his worst instincts, the monk master believed, and he was very glad for it. He grabbed Bransen's hands in his own and squeezed them gently.

"And now I am crippled once more," Bransen said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Was it not this Jhesta Tu training that you claimed had freed you of the Stork and of the need to use the soul stone?" Reandu asked.

Bransen looked at him, obviously intrigued and apparently unwilling to admit it.

"What would that discipline say to Bransen in that situation? Are the Jhesta Tu assassins?"

"No," the weary young warrior whispered.

"Is that not anathema to their beliefs?"

"It's all a lie," Bransen muttered and looked away.

He was ashamed of himself, Master Reandu knew. That, the monk believed, was a very good thing.

Reandu said not another word that night and stayed with Bransen for a long while, until the emotionally battered young man fell asleep once more.

Bransen burst from the tent the next morning with the soul stone strapped securely to his forehead and his black silk mask hanging loosely about his neck. He wasn't solid on his feet, though certainly more balanced than he had seemed the previous day.

"You slept well?" Master Reandu inquired, moving to join him.

Bransen nodded.

"That is good, because we have a long march before us by order of Laird Bannagran. If you intend to continue this road, I mean."

"I will retrieve my sword and the brooch Father Artolivan gave me," Bransen replied. "And then I will be gone, far from this place, far from Yeslnik's Honce."

Reandu cocked an eyebrow curiously at that. "You concede the land to him?"

"It is a foregone conclusion."

"So where will you run? Alpinador?" he asked. "To Behr, perhaps, the home of the Jhesta Tu?"