He jerked back, as a rolling body rushed past, and when it went by, the sword was gone; and Bannagran glanced behind to see the Highwayman standing there, sword leveled and ready to plunge it through Bannagran's chest.
"You speak of satisfaction?" Bransen asked him. "Like my own satisfaction in killing those who maimed and murdered my father Garibond? Like my own satisfaction in watching Bannagran's own axe tear open the chest of Laird Prydae? Like my own satisfaction now, when I see mighty Bannagran fall dead on the floor? For, yes, I know that you were among those who murdered Garibond. Pray to whatever god you serve, Bannagran, and be quick!"
He ended with a movement that seemed the start of a thrust, but the shout of Reandu stopped him.
"No!" the monk cried. "No, Bransen, do not do this!"
Reandu came forward in a rush, pushing past to stand between Bannagran and Bransen. "I beg of you, my friend. This is not the way. You gain nothing by killing him, by killing anyone."
"And was Brother Reandu among those who murdered Garibond?" Bransen snapped back.
Reandu paled, all the answer Bransen needed, and for a moment, everyone, including Bransen himself, expected him to drive his sword through the monk's chest.
"Bransen?" Cadayle called.
The Highwayman looked past the helpless Reandu, past Bannagran, to see Cadayle propped on her elbows, her pretty eyes open and staring at him.
And judging him, in this critical moment. And the weight of that judgment forced him to judge himself.
He looked back at the terrified Reandu and the subdued Bannagran.
He lowered his blade. Early the next morning, Bannagran studied the frail-looking young man standing before him, his mind flying between confusion, pity, and hatred. This man's actions had led to the death of his dearest friend, and for that, the mighty warrior demanded revenge.
To the side of the room stood Cadayle and her mother, Callen, holding each other, both crying, for they knew what would transpire here. Bransen had surrendered, on agreement that they would be spared, but that noble action did not lessen the blow they knew was about to fall.
"Do not do this, I beg you," said Brother Reandu, standing at Bransen's side. "There is no gain to be found here in continuing the senseless tragedy."
"We have already had this discussion," Bannagran said, cutting him short, and the warrior's eyes bored into Bransen, who did not look away, did not look down, and did not blink.
It all seemed so simple to Bannagran; he was willing to let the young woman and her mother go free-the Samhaists were in complete confusion and leaderless now, after all, and so there was no one to demand the death of the mother. As for the Highwayman, he was fairly caught and guilty of great crimes against Pryd Holding, indeed crimes that would undermine Pryd Holding!
Yes, the Highwayman had willingly surrendered to Bannagran, with the agreement that Cadayle would be spared. And so it all seemed a simple matter of beheading the fool or throwing him to the flames.
But that simplicity was undermined by the spectacle that Bannagran knew was unfolding right before Castle Pryd's closed gates. Hundreds, thousands, had turned out that morning to show their grief at the loss of Laird Prydae and to shout their support for the Highwayman.
Dangerous support, Bannagran knew, and he remembered his own warnings to his friend, Laird Prydae, when Prydae had expressed his determination to kill the Highwayman. Beyond that, Bannagran understood keenly that with the power vacuum, religious and secular, in Pryd Holding, the state of the holding would be his to wear as mantle or weight when Laird Delaval came to claim the land as his own. Bannagran's standing would greatly depend upon his actions this very morning.
He looked hard at the Highwayman and wanted to hate the man. He thought of his dead friend, killed inadvertently by his own hand, and he wanted to blame this man and to hate him all the more.
And yet Brother Reandu's words-of sympathy and understanding, of seeing poor Bransen's perspective in all this tragedy-had not fallen on deaf ears. Would Bannagran be honoring or doing a disservice to the memory of Prydae by executing this young man?
Or did it even matter?
He looked at Bransen for a long, long time, then barely believed his own words as he said, "Get out of Pryd."
Epilogue
Brother Reandu stood at the gate of Chapel Pryd long after the carriage had rolled out of sight, contemplating the momentous changes that he would have to steward. Master Bathelais had succumbed to his injuries, leaving Reandu as the highest-ranking monk in Pryd, behind the shell that was Father Jerak. Already, brothers were on the way from Chapel Abelle to discuss the disposition of their Church in Pryd Holding, which, it was commonly believed, would soon cease to be Pryd Holding.
For even as Reandu was preparing himself for the inquisitors of Chapel Abelle, Bannagran and the others at the castle made their preparation for the arrival of Laird Delaval himself, along with Prince Yeslnik, who, it was widely assumed, would be granted the holding as his own, under the auspices of Greater Delaval.
Reandu couldn't help but smile a little as he considered how greatly the old wretch Rennarq would despise this takeover by Laird Delaval. But Rennarq, after all, was now a babbling idiot, a storklike creature who could not control his movements. He could hardly eat, by all reports, gagging on every bite, and was likely to choke to death soon. Reandu had tried to help with his gemstones, but whatever the surprising Bransen had done to Rennarq was far beyond Reandu's meager powers to correct.
Good enough and proper justice for the brutal Samhaist, Reandu supposed, though he was not completely without sympathy.
He could not follow any course of sympathy at that time, though, for Reandu had much to accomplish in the short time before his superiors arrived. They would demand of him a complete report, and he knew that the report would not be viewed favorably if the chapel was not in perfect order. Every brother was hard at work, Reandu knew, and that thought reminded him that he, too, had much to do.
He turned toward the chapel, away from the road, but not without one last wistful glance at the long and empty lane. He missed Bransen already and lamented that he had not tried to learn more from the surprising young man. He hoped that the brothers from Chapel Abelle wouldn't take too close an inventory of Chapel Pryd, because he knew that he couldn't begin to explain his decision to allow Bransen to keep the soul stone he had stolen.
But Reandu, despite his fears, was still smiling as he considered his decision. Had he ever met a person in all his life as deserving of a gift from God?
"Farewell, Bransen Garibond," he said softly to the empty lane. The simple wagon bounced along the flagstone road, the bumps rolling and soft as the wagon moved along at a leisurely pace. Holding the reins, Bransen didn't prod the horses, for he was in no hurry this day, no more than were Callen and Cadayle, flanking him. Tied to the back of the wagon, old Doully the donkey meandered along in step.
"I never knew the world was so wide," Callen remarked every so often, and her eyes were filled with a sparkle of adventure that backed up her claim.
"Wide and scary," said Cadayle, and she hooked her arm under Bransen's and moved a bit closer.
"Scary?" Callen replied doubtfully. "With the Highwayman here to protect us?"
Bransen smiled widely. He didn't look much like the Highwayman at that moment, in his simple woolen tunic and sandals and with not a weapon to be seen. But the black suit was there, tucked neatly under the wagon's bench, and beside it rested his mother's sword. His sword.
"And where shall we go in this wide, wide world?" Callen absently asked. "To where the wind begins and the gods do battle?"
"To whatever lands we find that are free of battle," Cadayle answered. "And few are those, these times in Honce."