“Greetings, my friends,” he said lightheartedly-so much so that Callen and Cadayle exchanged suspicious looks, for they were hardly used to helpful and cheery Abellicans.
“I am told that this poor man here has suffered terribly in service to Laird Delaval, may Blessed Abelle guide him to kingship,” the monk went on.
“He was wounded south of Delaval against the men of Ethelbert, yes,” Callen said, the hesitation in her voice reflecting her growing trepidation that Cadayle’s lie was soon to be uncovered.
“I am Brother Fatuus of the Chapel of Precious Memories,” the monk explained with a respectful bow. “Father Malskinner bade me to come forth and find this hero who walks among us, and to offer-” He paused and reached into a belt pouch, producing a quartet of gray soul stones.
“You would bestow healing to my poor son-in-law?” Callen asked, nodding appreciatively and coming forth to take Bransen’s arm. “His wounds are grievous.”
“As I see,” said Fatuus. He turned a bit to the side and leaned forward in an attempt to view Bransen’s back. “From the manner of his walk, I mean, as I have not witnessed any wound as of yet.”
“The wound itself is long healed,” Cadayle answered. “But the damage remains.”
“A spear?”
“No.”
“Sword?”
“No,” Cadayle answered, and the monk crinkled his face with clear suspicion.
“Dagger?” he asked.
“A club,” Cadayle decided. “He was smashed across the back, he told me, and he’s had little control of his legs and feet since. And even his voice is lost to us, stuttering as he does.”
The monk nodded and put on a pensive pose, as if he had any understanding at all.
Cadayle looked to her mother, who bit back a snicker.
“May I?” Brother Fatuus asked, extending his hand and the soul stones.
“Please, Brother,” said Cadayle. She kissed Bransen’s cheek and stepped away.
Fatuus began chanting to Blessed Abelle for guidance and strength. He closed his hand over the gemstones and gripped them so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He put his other hand up to Bransen’s forehead and began to channel the soothing power of the gemstones into the wounded young man.
Bransen closed his eyes and steadied immediately, basking in the warmth of the wonderful enchantment. This monk was strong, he recognized immediately- more so than any of the brothers at Chapel Pryd. The healing energy flowed pure and direct, and Bransen felt as if he had his own stone strapped across his forehead. Using his Jhesta Tu training, Bransen opened up to the sensation and even dared hope, albeit fleetingly, that Brother Fatuus might offer some permanent benefit.
Bransen knew in his heart, though, that it would not be so.
A few heartbeats later, Fatuus relented and removed his warm and trembling palm.
Bransen opened his eyes, looked the man in the eye and said, “Than… Th… Th… Tha… k you.” And he smiled and nodded, standing straighter, for indeed he felt much better (although he knew already it would be a very temporary sensation).
Cadayle came back to his side and said, “It is a fine thing you did this day,” breaking Fatuus from his apparent trance.
He blinked repeatedly as he looked at the woman and her husband. “The wound is… is profound,” he said.
“As many of your brethren have told us,” said Cadayle. She looked at Bransen, and her smile came wide and sincere. “You performed very well, Brother. I have not seen him so straight since before the wound.”
Already, though, Bransen began to bend, a bit of drool dripping from his mouth.
“It will not hold,” Fatuus observed, and Cadayle offered a shrug and a forgiving smile in response.
“You must bring him to the Chapel of Precious Memories,” Fatuus insisted. “I will beg Father Malskinner to allow others to participate. Our combined powers will lengthen the healing, I am certain.”
“Of course,” said Cadayle.
“Before Parvespers tomorrow,” Fatuus bade them, referring to the ceremony of twilight. “We will be out all the day offering our services to the brave men on the docks.”
“The slaves of war?” Cadayle asked. “Indeed, we saw them at their labors, being beaten like dogs.”
“The filth of Ethelbert?” Fatuus replied, his eyes wide with horror. “Nay, not them, surely! Nay, nay,good lady, I speak of the privateers.” As he finished he pointed to a pair of ships moored out in the open river to the north of the wharves, and sailing under no flag at all, none that Cadayle could see, at least.
“Privateers?”
“Free men,” Fatuus explained. “Beholden to neither Ethelbert nor good Laird Delaval. They have sailed in at the behest of Laird Panlamaris the Bold, leader of Palmaristown, who seeks to enlist them in the united effort against foul Ethelbert and his swarthy minions.”
“To bribe them, you mean,” Cadayle reasoned.
“They will be compensated in coin, yes,” said Fatuus. “And through the work of the Brothers of the Chapel of Precious Memories. God-given magic to heal their blistered feet and the many wounds brought back from weeks of toil at sea. It is the least we can offer to goodly Laird Delaval in his struggles against the Southern filth that is Laird Ethelbert.”
Cadayle turned her look to Bransen, who, even through his Stork visage, wore a mischievous smirk. They were both well aware, after all, that the southeastern Abellican chapels served Ethelbert as these in the west and north served Delaval-and all in harmony and pragmatism.
Callen had barely closed the door to the room the three rented at a Palmaristown inn when Bransen grabbed up his gemstone and strapped it to his forehead under his black silken mask.
“Privateers,” he said, not a hint of the Stork in his strong and steady voice. “Mercenaries.”
“What are you thinking?” asked Callen.
“My guess is that my husband has decided that our load of booty is too dangerous to keep saddlebagged over poor old Doully,” Cadayle replied, and Bransen nodded.
“I had thought to spread the wealth to the commonfolk about the region but feared that some of the jewels would be recognized,” Bransen explained. “I’ve no desire to bring that pain to anyone-the same pain that both of you felt at the hands of Laird Prydae when I passed the stolen necklace to Cadayle.”
“You need not remind me of that,” Callen assured him. “Did I not bid you to throw the stolen coins and jewels into the river and be done with them?”
“And now I intend to do something along those very lines.”
“By taking the treasures to the privateers and bidding them to double-cross Laird Delaval,” Callen reasoned. “So you’d throw in with Ethelbert?”
“I care not if they all kill each other,” said Bransen. “But there is a delicious irony in using that fool Yeslnik’s treasures to buy off Laird Delaval’s intended allies.”
“As delicious as the Stork becoming a hero of the land against the interests of the lairds?” Cadayle asked. Bransen stopped putting on his black shirt and stared hard at her.
Cadayle merely shrugged, though, and offered him a warm smile. Her statement had been blunt, of course, but she, and perhaps she alone, had earned the right to talk to him in such a manner and many times over. Bransen could never be wounded by Cadayle’s honest reference to the Stork, since Cadayle alone had stood by him before the creation of the Highwayman, when he had found the gemstone magic to allow him to free himself of the crippling bonds of his physical infirmities.
Bransen finished dressing in the black outfit his mother had brought from Behr, finishing by tying the torn strip of fabric over the distinctive birthmark on his one bare arm.
Bransen took up the fabulous sword, holding it reverently before his eyes as he studied the intricate vine and flower designs etched into its gleaming blade. The weapon had no equal north of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, and few swords even of the Jhesta Tu mystics in Behr could match its quality. Staring at the marvelous blade, Bransen was reminded that he would one day go there, to the Walk of Clouds, to learn from the masters.