“ ’Twas powries who ran off with the girl,” Dynard said, drawing them all back to him.
“What do you know of it?” asked one, apparently the leader of the group, a slender, tall warrior of about Dynard’s age whom the monk thought he recognized, though he could not recall the man’s name.
“Captain Deepen,” the man introduced himself, and Dynard nodded his recollection.
“We came upon them last night, and did battle,” the monk explained. “They were too numerous for us to retrieve the girl, but we drove them away.”
“And yet you escaped?” Deepen asked, obvious doubt in his tone.
“Because of your gemstones, no doubt,” another remarked.
“More the work of my wife,” Dynard explained, looking to SenWi, and he didn’t miss the horrified expressions all around him as he proclaimed this diminutive woman, the stranger to Honce, this “beast of Behr,” as his wife. Dynard steeled himself against that response and recounted the battle in full, dramatizing SenWi’s prowess and sword work, and leaving out only the not-so-small detail that he and SenWi, and not the powries, had run off with poor Callen.
“Laird Pryd will hear of this,” Deepen decided and he reached out as if to take Dynard by the arm.
The monk recoiled. “I am for Chapel Pryd straightaway. Too long have I been out on the road. I will speak with Father Jerak, and will come to the summons of Laird Pryd, of course, if I am so called.”
The captain eyed him suspiciously, then at SenWi as well, but he did back away a step, clearing the way to the road.
“Where’d you find that…one?” the young and powerful warrior asked Dynard, and the man strode up to study SenWi more closely.
“She is my wife, from Behr,” he replied, and the man gave a burst of laughter.
“And your name is?” Dynard asked.
“Bannagran,” said the warrior, and he looked at Dynard, chuckled again, then walked away.
Dynard took SenWi by the arm and led her along quickly before the soldiers could reconsider, before they perhaps grew more interested in, and concerned about, the weapon strapped across her back.
In short order, the couple were long out of sight of the workmen and the soldiers, walking quickly down the road. Dynard slowed their pace when they came to the outskirts of Pryd Town and in clear sight of Castle Pryd, considering again the expressions on the faces of those folk at the battle scene, looks from soldier and peasant alike, as they regarded his foreign wife.
How might his brothers of Abelle respond to her?
He wondered if perhaps he should have left SenWi with Garibond.
“By the Ancient Ones, it is impossible!” Garibond said to Callen when he came back from his chores to find the woman sitting up in bed, the blankets wrapped about her shoulders. “The poison had you, girl.”
Callen kept her head bowed, but Garibond saw her brown eyes glance up at him from behind the screen of her wheat-colored hair.
“The woman—of Behr no less!—saved your life, girl. She gave you healing.” He shook his head in disbelief.
Callen rose, unsteady for a moment. “Have you clothing for me?” she asked, and the tremor in her voice reflected the ordeal she had suffered.
Garibond nodded at the foot of the bed, where a tunic and traveling cloak were set out.
“I will be gone this morn,” Callen said, and she moved to the clothing and began to dress, discarding modesty in the face of necessity.
“Now, take your time,” Garibond said. “Where will you go?” He started for Callen, but held back until she had slipped the tunic over her head.
“Where will you go?” he asked again when she turned back to him.
“I’ve family in the west,” she answered. “They will see to me.”
“You’ve friends here,” Garibond replied.
Callen stared at him for a few moments, then tightened her lips and shook her head. She was afraid, he could plainly see. She knew that she was a danger to any who showed her kindness.
“You need food and rest,” Garibond remarked, and he rushed across the way and pulled open a cabinet and began searching for some food he might offer. “You cannot go out there now, not so soon. They’ll see you and guess the truth of it, don’t you see? You should let all the whispers of Callen Duwornay die away before you venture out anywhere where you might be seen. Memories are short, don’t you worry, and soon enough, strong and with all health returned, you’ll find your way.” He finished hopefully, and turned with a loaf of bread in one hand and a cooked chicken in the other.
But the door was open and Callen was gone.
8
Forward Looking
With a great and steadying sigh and a glance back to SenWi, Brother Dynard pulled open the large oaken door of Chapel Pryd and walked inside. Like all of the Abelle chapels in Honce, the place was dimly lit and smoky, with few windows and many candles set about.
“May I help you, brother?” said a younger monk Dynard did not know. The man moved up to him, his posture open and inviting, for obviously he had recognized Dynard, in his brown tunic and robe, as a fellow brother of Abelle.
Before Dynard could answer, he heard his name called out from across the way, through the inner doors of the chapel and in the main area.
“Dynard!” cried Brother Bathelais. “Is it really you?” The monk came rushing out from those doors to stand right before the returned brother, and he took Dynard’s hands.
“Greetings, Brother Bathelais,” Dynard replied, and he was glad that Garibond had mentioned this man the night previous, for he would not have recalled the name otherwise. “Long has been my road, across ocean waters and through desert sandstorms! It is good to be home.”
“Father Jerak will wish for a full recounting as soon as is possible.”
“Of course.”
“You are Brother Bran Dynard, who went to Behr?” the younger monk asked. “I hope to serve my own mission soon in that same land!”
“And better will you be if you are so blessed,” Dynard said to him.
“You have brought back trinkets and insights, perhaps?” asked Bathelais. “And tales of conversion?”
The unintended irony of that last statement was not wasted on the transformed monk.
“I have tales more wondrous than anything I expected,” Dynard answered, smiling with sincerity. How he longed to show his brethren the beauty he had seen and insights he had gained. How he hoped that his journey to Behr, and more particularly to the Walk of Clouds, would help transform the Church of Abelle into something more wonderful and insightful.
With that thought in mind, Dynard turned from Brother Bathelais and called out for SenWi.
He turned back in time to see the astounded expressions of both the monks when his beautiful Behrenese wife walked into the chapel. Bathelais even made the sign of the evergreen before his chest, a triangular movement that was fast becoming a staple signal of devotion among the followers of Blessed Abelle, for Blessed Abelle had reportedly lived for three years sheltered under the boughs of the sacred evergreen tree.
“This is SenWi,” Dynard introduced as the woman moved up beside him, and he casually draped his arm across her shoulders and pulled her close to his side. “My wife.”
He saw Brother Bathelais fighting hard, but with only limited success, to keep the incredulity off his face.
Brother Dynard didn’t think much of it at that time—how could the man not be surprised, after all?
Little did Brother Dynard understand.
“Three dead powries, so he said,” Captain Deepen told Prince Prydae. “Who can know what powers the beast of Behr brought with her?”
“Bah, but Prince Prydae killed five in the last fight!” one of the other soldiers in the room blurted.
Prince Prydae accepted that accolade with a nod, though all in the room, including the speaker, knew it to be an exaggeration. Prydae could claim only four kills in that particular fight, and three of those would more correctly be credited
to his chariot than to his battle prowess. While he would accept the compliment, the prince recognized that if the returning Brother Dynard had spoken truthfully about the foreign woman’s exploits, they were well worth noting.
He saw one young, promising, and amazingly strong warrior, Bannagran by name, looking at him almost apologetically.
“You did not see her sword?” the prince asked Deepen.
The captain shrugged. “Just the hilt of it, and that alone was impressive.”
“The peoples south of the Belt-and-Buckle are well known for their crafts,” Prydae admitted. “On my last journey to Ethelbert Holding, I saw this clearly. Keep a close watch on this visitor. I would know her movements.”
Captain Deepen bowed. “She is with Brother Dynard now in Chapel Pryd.”
“Any news of Callen?”
“The powries took her, so said Brother Dynard. If that is the case, then we’ll never find enough of her corpse to bother about.”
“Make sure that you take down the hanging pole early in the morning,” Prydae instructed. “It may serve to remind our workers of a powrie presence, and I’ll have no such distraction at this time. We have far yet to travel and much more road to construct before the season’s turn, and many are already grumbling that they must be back to their fields before harvest.”
Captain Deepen bowed again, and Prydae motioned that it was time for him and the others to go. As soon as he was alone, the prince took up his favorite mug and filled it with mead, which he drank quickly. Then, not satisfied, he moved to a small cabinet across the castle room. He pulled open the door and sorted through the metal flasks within, at last settling on one nearly full of a light brown liquid, a fine Vanguard whiskey.
Again he filled the mug, and he wasn’t slow to drain it.
All the while, Prydae kept glancing at the door on the right-hand side of the audience room, the portal to his father’s wing of the castle. Pryd was still in bed and still feeling ill, and Prydae was beginning to worry that perhaps his father was more sick than he was admitting.
That notion elicited a myriad of thoughts in the ambitious young man. He was ready to assume the mantle of laird of Pryd Holding, so he believed—indeed, that was a day he had anticipated for most of his life. But Prydae had hoped for a more gradual transition. There were so many nuances to every duty, it seemed, such as his attendance at the trial and sentencing of the adulteress and her illicit lover. Laird Pryd understood these subtleties quite well; he knew how to make the peasants love him even as he broke their backs with difficult labors or took the bulk of their crops and coins.
Prydae cocked his arm back and only at the very last moment stopped himself from throwing his mug across the room.
He would never rule with that type of tact and wisdom, he feared. He was not possessed of his father’s diplomacy.
He finished the whiskey in one large gulp, then tossed the mug aside and stormed through the door to Pryd’s private chambers. He found his father in bed, lying on his back, his eyes sunken and circled by dark rings. Prydae was struck by how frail the laird appeared. Only a few days before, Laird Pryd had ridden in the courtyard, inspecting his soldiers, and at that time it seemed as if the laird could have led them all into battle and would have claimed the most kills of all with his fabulous sword. He had started to cough a bit that same day—just a tickle in his throat, he insisted—and it had sounded as if it was nothing serious.
And now he lay in bed, coughing and pale, his bowels running as water and his breath smelling of vomit.
“How fare you today, father?” Prydae asked, kneeling beside the bed.
“I curse my age,” the old man said with a laugh that sounded more like a wheeze.
“One of the monks who had gone off on his mission has returned,” Prydae explained. “A Brother Bran Dynard, back from Behr—I do not remember him.”
“A man of little consequence, no doubt.”
“He brought with him a brown-skinned woman with strange eyes.”
With great effort, Pryd managed to lift one hand and offer a slight, dismissive shake.
“Yes, it does not matter,” Prince Prydae mumbled. “Powries took the executed adulteress,” he started to say, for he cut himself short, realizing that this event would mean little to his father.
He took his father’s hand and kissed it, then clasped it. He felt no strength there, and little warmth, little sense of life at all. He knew that he had to get the healers back in here with their soul stones, and had already arranged a meeting with Brother Bathelais for that very night.
Prydae also understood the limitations of those healers.
Again the prince had to follow two diverging lines of emotions, for beside his fear and pain at watching his father’s diminishing health, there was another type of fear, one rooted in ambition and eagerness. He gave his father’s hand a slight squeeze, then placed it back atop the old man’s chest. He was held there for just an instant, staring at his father and feeling the hints of coming grief, and then he was propelled away by the hints of coming responsibility.
By the time he reached the room where Brother Bathelais waited, his step was brisk and alive.
“There is word that Laird Pryd does not fare well,” the monk said as soon as Prydae, after glancing both ways in the corridor to ensure that no one was watching, entered the private room.
“Age wins,” the prince dryly returned. He took a seat across the hearthstone from the monk.
“I will send Brother Bran Dynard, who is only just returned, to his side posthaste.”
“Not that one,” Prydae quickly replied. “Nor his exotic concubine.”
“You have heard, then.”
The prince nodded.
“And you do not approve?”
“The Church of Abelle approves? You would open your texts and hearts to a beast of Behr?”
Bathelais let the sarcasm go with a resigned shrug. “Perhaps I should tend to your father myself.”
“To what end?” the prince asked. “Will Laird Pryd again feel the vitality of youth?”
Bathelais looked curiously at the young man.
“For that is what we will now need in this changing world,” Prydae went on. “The roads will connect us all—perhaps as early as the summer after next. What challenges might Pryd Holding find in that new reality, when cities coalesce in a myriad of alliances?”
“Your father’s experience—” Bathelais started to say.
“Is founded upon the old reality of individual holdings,” Prydae interrupted. “It is time for all of us to look forward.”
Bathelais settled back in his chair, his eyes widening as Prydae continued to stare hard at him, driving the implications of his point home with the intensity of his gaze.
“Yes, perhaps Brother Bathelais should be the one to tend ailing Laird Pryd,” Prydae remarked.
The monk wiped a hand across his mouth but did not, could not, blink.
“How fares old Father Jerak?” Prydae asked.
Bathelais jerked in surprise at the abrupt change of subject. “H-he is well,” he stammered.
“For such an aged man.”
“Yes.”
“His successor will be determined as much by the laird as by the Church of Abelle, of course.”
Bathelais sucked in his breath, and Prydae smiled, marveling at how easily he had taken control of this meeting. The prince settled back comfortably in his seat. “Tell me more of this Brother Dynard fellow and of the exotic goods that he brought back from his journeys through the wild lands of Behr,” he bade, his wide smile showing interest, amusement, and most of all an understanding that Bathelais was in no position to refuse.
9
The Dangerous Concubine
“There may perhaps be a place for your concubine here at the chapel, though I warn you that your behavior is unseemly,” Father Jerak said.
“She is my wife,” replied Brother Dynard, biting his emotional response back. He knew that Jerak’s error was
neither benign nor a simple misconstruing of his relationship with the woman of Behr.
“Your concubine,” the old monk bluntly stated, confirming Dynard’s understanding.
“She is as much a part of my heart as any wife could be,” Dynard protested. He looked across the small room at Brother Bathelais for support, but found none forthcoming on the icy visage of the monk. “Any ceremony—and of course I agree to such!—would be a formality, following the vows of marriage SenWi and I already exchanged in southern Behr.”
“Vows unrecognized by the Church of Abelle.”
“True enough, father, and so I say again that I willingly submit—”
“Your concubine will agree to forsake the ways of the Jhesta Tu?”
The question nearly knocked Brother Dynard from his seat.
“For, of course, no brother of Blessed Abelle can enter a sanctified union with a woman who is not devout in her faith to Blessed Abelle. Would you not agree, Brother Bathelais?”
“Of course, Father Jerak. The logic is self-evident.”
Brother Dynard rubbed his hands over his face and tried to sort out his thoughts in response to this unexpected barrage. He had always recognized that there would be some resistance to the exotic SenWi, resistance from within and without the Church, but he had never imagined gentle Father Jerak to be so stubborn, determined, and apparently prejudiced against the Jhesta Tu.
“Well?” Father Jerak asked.
“Well?” Brother Dynard helplessly echoed.
“Will this woman, SenWi, willingly renounce the ways of her current religion and devote herself to understanding and following Blessed Abelle? Do you suppose that to be the case?”
Brother Dynard couldn’t find the words to answer, but he was already shaking his head anyway.
“Nor do you believe that she should move away from this cult, do you, brother?” Jerak accused.