Now, though, with the road straight and clear before him and the last real city left behind, the idea of finding Brother Dynard suddenly seemed very real-and Bransen wasn’t even sure what that meant. Would the man acknowledge him? Would the man crush him tight in a hug and be overcome with joy that his son had found him?
Did Bransen even want that? What might such a joyful reunion mean to the memory of his beloved Garibond?
So many questions swirled in Bransen’s thoughts the moment that road came clear to him, the moment the idea of finding Brother Dynard became real to him. Questions of how he might react to the man, of how the man might react to him, and most of all, as time and wobbly steps passed, of why.
Why hadn’t Brother Dynard returned for him?
Callen had many times called Bran Dynard a good man; Bransen could only hope that the answer to his most pressing question would bear that out.
Brother Honig Brisebolis rambled through the streets of the lower city, huffing and puffing and warning everyone to get out of his way. Wide-eyed and obviously in great distress as he was, few would pause to argue those commands from the three-hundred-pound rotund monk. Nor did the guards at the city’s higher, closed gate hesitate at the monk’s approach, rushing to swing wide one of those double doors to let the important Brother Honig ramble through without slowing.
Honig did pause just past the gates, however, as he stood on the crossroad. To the right, the south, lay the road that would bring him to Laird Panlamaris’s palace, while the left road led straight to the square before the Chapel of Precious Memories. Honig’s news would prove important, critical even, to both Laird Panlamaris and Father Malskinner.
“Laird Panlamaris might swiftly dispatch warships to intercept,” he said aloud, trying to sort through his jumbled thoughts.
He turned left anyway, realizing that his first duties were to the Church and not the laird. He gathered up a head of steam, gasping for breath but not daring to slow.
“What is it, Brother Honig?” Father Malskinner bade him a few moments later when he burst into the man’s spacious private chambers.
Honig tried to answer, but couldn’t find his voice for his gasping, and wound up leaning on the father’s desk for support.
“Did you meet with Captain Shivanne?”
Brother Honig nodded emphatically, but still couldn’t quite reach his voice.
“Brother Honig?”
“They raise sail!” he blurted at last.
A perplexed Father Malskinner stared at him for a moment before rising from his desk and moving to a window that overlooked the river. As soon as he glanced out, he saw the truth of it, as all three privateers had their sails up and engaged. The father turned fast on Honig. “What is the meaning?”
“Shivanne makes for the gulf and beyond,” he said.
“But Laird Delaval’s soldiers and supplies have not even yet arrived.”
Honig shook his head. “She will not wait. She laughed at my protests!”
“Laughed?”
“She was paid, Father. Well paid. ‘A better offer,’ she said.”
“Ethelbert? Here?”
Again Honig wagged his head in the negative. “Captain Shivanne teased and would not say, other than to assure me that it was not Ethelbert, nor any agent of the foul Laird of Entel. A privateer, she called him, this man who brought her a treasure beyond Laird Delaval’s offerings.”
Malskinner stared at him pensively. “A third party in the mix of this war?” It sounded even more improbable-to both of them-as he spoke the words aloud.
“A thorn, more likely,” Brother Honig said. “She said he wore a mask and suit of black, exotic material.”
Malskinner’s eyes went wide.
“She said that he moved as a shadow, and worked his blade with the skill of a master. A most magnificent blade, she assured me. A blade unlike any she had ever seen, and one, she promised, that would lay low a laird or would-be king.”
“The man from Pryd Holding,” Malskinner said with a nod of recognition. He moved swiftly for the shelving behind his desk, where he kept all the correspondences of the last months. In a matter of moments, he held the ones that had filtered up from Pryd Town, and the related messages sent out by Prince Yeslnik of Delaval, warning of a most notorious and dangerous figure known as the Highwayman.
Malskinner drew a deep breath as he read the last of those notes, the one informing him that Laird Prydae had been killed by this desperate fellow, who had then set out on the open road, destination unknown.
Flipping through some of the back parchments, the father of the Chapel of Precious Memories found the letter of detail sent by Brother Reandu on behalf of Father Jerak of Chapel Pryd.
“Bransen Garibond,” he said to Honig as he digested the letter. He looked at the portly brother. “Of Pryd Town. It is rumored that he was connected to Brother Dynard and an exotic woman of Behr.”
“Dynard?” Brother Honig echoed, shrugging and shaking his head.
“An insignificant brother,” Malskinner explained. “He traveled to Behr and was there corrupted by the seductive ways of the beastly barbarians. Father Jerak properly dispatched him to Chapel Abelle, to see if his soul could be salvaged.”
“Yes, yes,” Honig said. “Killed on the road, if I recall.”
“That was the rumor. I know not if Chapel Abelle ever confirmed it or not.”
“We must tell Laird Panlamaris of this.”
“At once,” Father Malskinner agreed. “Have him send word far and wide to beware of this creature.” He glanced back at the note. “And tell them to look for a damaged and small man.”
“Damaged?”
Malskinner shrugged as he read through the description of Bransen, of his storklike gait and his drooling and stuttering. “An alter ego, a disguise of weakness, it would seem,” he said.
“Your pardon, Father,” came a voice from the doorway. Father Malskinner looked over to see Brother Fatuus poking his head in. “I could not help but overhear.”
“Come in, Brother Fatuus,” Father Malskinner said. “We are discussing a potential problem that has come to Palmaristown. You have noticed the privateers lifting their sails to the wind?”
“That is why I have come, Father. What did I hear regarding a disguise?”
Father Malskinner bade him approach, and handed over the letter of detail from Brother Reandu.
“Go to Laird Panlamaris,” Malskinner ordered Honig. “Tell him everything and warn him to alert his guards to this storklike person.”
“I have seen him,” Fatuus said suddenly, and both of his brethren spun about to regard him as he stood there, mouth agape, holding Reandu’s letter. “This man, Bransen. I saw him only yesterday. I tended him with a soul stone, though to little effect, and bade him come to us this very night before Parvespers.”
“The creature described in that letter?”
“Perfectly described. He was named as a hero of the war, and so I went to him generously, as per your commandments on this regard.”
Father Malskinner leaned back, then sat on the edge of his desk and nodded slowly. “It is true, then. The Highwayman has come to Palmaristown.”
“The Highwayman?”
“A rogue of unusual talent and troublesome ways, it would seem,” Malskinner explained. “It was he who paid the privateers to sail from us, by their own admission.”
“Why would they divulge such information?” asked Brother Fatuus.
“Captain Shivanne freely told me,” Honig interjected. “I went out to her this morning, as arranged, to tend to her crew. They were already readying for sail, and when I inquired, she told me. Indeed, I would say that she was rather proud of her gain-proud enough to rattle a bag of coins and jewels before me, and to tell me of her unexpected benefactor.”
“Let us hope that this Bransen, this Highwayman, feels secure enough in his disguise to take you up on your offer of appearing before us,” Malskinner said to Fatuus. “If so, we will take him quickly and with as little excitement as possible.”