The Ancient

“Don’t you be thinking of stealing anything in this town,” Cadayle whispered. “Laird Delaval frightens me.”

  Bransen didn’t reply, but of course he was thinking precisely that.

  They were turned away at the gate, for no wagons and horses were allowed inside other than those owned by the fortunate nobility who lived within the walls and the higher-priced merchants and tradesmen who had to pay dearly for a license to bring a horse or donkey or wagon inside. The guards did point them at a nearby stable outside the wall, however, and assured them that the proprietor was a man of high regard.

  His reputation didn’t matter much to them anyway. They had little of value in the wagon other than Bransen’s silk clothing and the pack they simply would carry away with them. Doully was old and more a friend than a worker, and they had planned to sell the horse team upon their arrival anyway, for the poor beasts had seen too much of ill-groomed roads and broken trails.

  “They’ll both need shoeing, to be sure,” Yenium the stablemaster informed them. He was a tall and very thin man with a dark complexion and darker beard that grew in every day. “Ye been walking a long way.”

  “Too long,” said Callen.

  The man stared at Bransen.

  “Bringing him to the monks,” Cadayle explained. “He was hurt in the war.”

  Yenium laughed aloud. “But they’ll do ye no good,” he said, waving his hands in apology even as he spoke the words. “Not unless ye got good gold to pay, and lots of it.”

  Callen and Cadayle exchanged sour looks, though neither was surprised, of course. It seemed as if some things were constant throughout the land of Honce.

  “Our funds run short,” Callen said. “We were hoping that you would have need of the horses and the wagon.”

  “Buy ’em?”

  “They’ve walked too much of the roads,” Callen explained.

  “True enough,” Yenium said. “And the donkey?”

  “We’ll be keeping that one,” said Callen. “We’ve a long way to go yet.”

  Knowing their negotiations to be in good hands, Bransen let Cadayle lead him off to the side. Sure enough, Callen joined them shortly after, jiggling a small bag of silver coins and even a single piece of gold. “And he’s to board Doully for us free for as long as we’re in Delaval,” Callen said with a satisfied grin. “A fair price.”

  “More than,” Cadayle agreed and slung the pack over her shoulder. She was about to suggest that they go and see the city proper before the daylight waned but was interrupted by the blare of horns from inside the city wall. Cheers followed, and many of the peasants outside the wall began streaming for the gates, moving eagerly and chattering with obvious excitement.

  Callen and Cadayle flanked Bransen and moved him along swiftly to beat the rush. Fortunately, they weren’t far from the gate, and with a rather lewd wink at Cadayle, the young guard let them through. Not that the view was any better beyond the wall as thousands had gathered around the grand square, all jumping and shouting, lifting their arms high and waving red towels.

  “What is it, then?” Cadayle asked a nearby reveler.

  The woman looked at her as if she must be crazy.

  “We’ve just come in,” Cadayle explained. “We know nothing of the source of the celebration.”

  “The laird’s come down,” the woman explained.

  “The king, ye mean!” another corrected.

  “Laird Delaval—King Delaval soon enough, by the graces of Abelle and the Ancient Ones,” the first said.

  Bransen shook his head shakily, continually amazed at the manner in which the peasants always seemed to hedge their bets regarding the afterlife, citing both of the dominant religions.

  “He’s come down with his lady and all the others,” said the woman. “Tonight the brave Prince Yeslnik’s to be formally named as Laird of Pryd Holding. That and a host of other honors on the man. Oh, but he’s handsome, and so brave! He’s killed a hundred of Ethelbert’s men, don’t ye know?”

  Cadayle smiled and nodded, hiding her knowing smirk well as she turned to regard Bransen, who of course knew better than to believe any such supposed heroics attributed to the foppish Prince Yeslnik. But Cadayle’s smile disappeared in a blink, for Callen stood there alone with no sign of Bransen. Immediately Cadayle brought a hand up to her pack, realizing as she grasped it that it had been relieved of some of its contents. It was not hard for her to guess which things might have been taken.

  She gave an awkward bow and moved away from the peasant woman, catching her mother by the elbow and leading her to a quieter spot.

  “What is he thinking?” she asked.

  “That with all of them down here …” Callen motioned with her chin toward the castle.

  Cadayle heaved a great and helpless sigh.

  Her husband was a stubborn one, she knew.

  And that stubbornness was likely to get him killed.

  Bransen didn’t change into his black silk suit until he reached the shadows at the base of the stone wall to the castle’s highest and most fortified keep. The exotic cloth had held up well through the years, and was still shiny, as if through some magic the dirt could not gain a hold on it. The right sleeve of the shirt had been torn away by Bransen, to make both his mask (for he unrolled the gem-holding headband down to the tip of his nose, with eyeholes cut in appropriately) and a strip of cloth that he tied about his upper right arm to hide an easily identifiable birthmark.

  As he had expected, almost all of the soldiers had gone down to watch the pomp and ceremony of the anointing of Laird Yeslnik. The main gates were guarded, he noted as he crossed about the side streets and back alleys, as were all the entry points to the castle proper.

  But Bransen was Jhesta Tu, or a close approximation at least, and he didn’t need a doorway. So he moved to the back wall, out of view, and donned his black suit.

  He glanced around, hearing the distant sounds of the growing celebration. He saw no guards in the area and held confidence that any who were supposed to be here, behind the structure and thus blocked from the merrymaking, were likely away from their posts, watching the happenings in the lower bailey.

  He couldn’t be sure, though, and that truth gave him pause.

  “But you are the Highwayman,” he reminded himself, his grin widening beneath the black mask.

  Bransen fell within himself. He thought of the gem-stones, of the malachite, and used the feelings its touch had inspired to reach that corresponding energy within his ki-chi-kree. If he had had the magical gemstone in his possession he could have floated off the ground, he knew, but even without it, even just remembering its powers, Bransen lightened his body greatly. He reached up with one hand and pulled himself up the wall.

  Like a spider he scrambled, his hands and feet finding grooves in the stone. So weightless had he become that it mattered not how deep the ledge or how firm his grip. In less than a minute the Highwayman had scaled the seventy-five feet of the highest tower, all the way to the one narrow window on this back side of the structure. He peeked inside, then settled himself securely on the ledge. With a look all around at the wide and glorious rolling countryside south of Delaval, he slipped into the dimly lit room.

  This was the tower of royalty, he knew at once from the many valuables—paintings, tapestries, vases, and a plethora of other trinkets and utensils and artworks.

  The Highwayman rubbed his hands together and went to work.

  It is long overdue, and less than you have earned,” Lady Olym called back behind her as she entered her private bedchamber. “Your uncle should have named you Laird of Delaval and been done with it. His only son is not worthy, of course.”

  A murmur of protest came back to her from Yeslnik’s room, too garbled for her to decipher—not that she cared to, anyway.

  “Laird of Pryd Town,” Olym said. If she was thrilled her voice did not reflect it. “Now I suppose we will have to live in that dreary place.”

  She pulled off her bulky bejeweled dress and an assort
ment of accessories. Stripped to her sheer nightdress, she sat down at her vanity, admiring her powdered face in the pretty mirror set atop the small marble table. One by one she pulled off her oversized rings, each set with a fabulous precious stone.

  They paled in comparison to the necklace she wore, though, which was set with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, one after another, three rows thick and from shoulder to shoulder. Olym gently stroked the precious stones, staring at them in the mirror as if in a trance. So fully did they hold her attention that she didn’t even notice the black-clothed figure that had moved up to stand directly behind her.

  Olym jumped indeed when a hand settled on her own and a soft voice whispered, “Allow me to help you with that, dear lady.”

  She started to scream, but the hand clapped tightly over her mouth.

  “Do not cry out, I beg of you,” the Highwayman said. “I will not harm you, dear lady. On my word.” He brought his head down to rest his chin on her shoulder so that they could look each other in the eye through the mirror. For a moment Olym seemed to swoon, her chest heaving.

  “On my word,” the Highwayman said again, and he gave her a plaintive and questioning look and eased his hand away from her mouth just a bit.

  Olym nodded her head, and the Highwayman pulled his hand away.

  “You have come to ravish me!” Olym wailed.

  The bemused Highwayman stared at her, for her tone sounded more hopeful than terrified.

  Olym turned on him sharply. “Take me, then,” she offered. “But be quick and be gone and know that I shan’t enjoy it!”

  Without the soul stone Bransen always stuttered badly, but never had he found words harder to find than at that moment, though the soul stone was, of course, strapped securely to his forehead.

  Olym turned further about and threw back her head, the back of one hand across her forehead as if in despair. The movement thrust forth her breasts, of course, and the sheer nightdress did little to hide her obvious excitement.

  “Take me, then! Ravish me! Have at me with your animal savagery.”

  “And force you to make little barnyard noises?” the Highwayman asked, trying hard not to laugh.

  “Oh, yes, if you must! If that is what I need do to escape murder at the end of your blade!”

  The Highwayman didn’t quite know how to say, “But all I want are the jewels,” so he stuttered again—until footsteps sounded in the hall, coming their way. “I beg your silence,” he whispered, putting a finger over his pursed lips, fading into the shadows so seamlessly behind a tapestry that Olym had to blink and stare stupidly, wondering if he had ever really been there.

  “Ah, wife,” Yeslnik said, entering the room. “I am randy from the excitement of the day.” He paused and looked at her admiringly, at her nearly naked form and obvious state. “Apparently I am not alone in my humor!”

  Now it was Olym’s turn to stutter. She glanced repeatedly at the shadows where the Highwayman had disappeared.

  Yeslnik sidled up to her and pulled her tight against him, his eyes narrowing. “I am the Laird of Pryd Holding,” he said, and then again and again. With each proclamation he squeezed Olym tighter to him.

  “My laird,” Olym said, looking past him as he turned, again to the spot where the Highwayman had gone.

  Had gone and returned, she noted, for he stood there, leaning against her vanity, one arm bare and one blanketed in black silk crossed over his chest, a look of utter amusement on his face, his so-handsome face.

  Olym took a deep breath and gave a mewling sound.

  “Oh, my princess,” Yeslnik gasped. “I am the Laird of Pryd Holding!” He shuddered as he squeezed her against him more tightly still.

  “So you have mentioned a dozen times,” a masculine voice said behind him. Yeslnik froze in place. “If you say it a dozen more, perhaps you will convince yourself you are worthy of the title.”

  Yeslnik spun about. “You!” he cried.

  “I could be no one else,” the Highwayman said with a shrug.

  “How?”

  “Your interrogation techniques leave much to be desired, I fear,” the Highwayman said. “More so when one considers that if anyone here is a prisoner, it is not I.”

  “Not you?” Yeslnik stammered, trying hard to catch up.

  “Yes you, not I,” said the Highwayman.

  “Not I?”

  “Yes, you!”

  “You?”

  “Now you have it!” the Highwayman said, and pointed at Yeslnik and emphatically added, “You.”

  “Do not harm him!” Olym cried, and she threw herself in front of Yeslnik, her arms wide to hold him back—and also to give the Highwayman a complete viewing. “Take me as you will. Ravish me!”

  “Olym!” Yeslnik cried.

  “I will do anything for you, my laird,” Olym wailed.

  “Back to the barnyard, always there,” the Highwayman remarked. Yeslnik stared at him incredulously.

  “I will suffer his passion for you, my love,” Olym said to her husband. “I will save you with my womanly charms.”

  “With your jewels, you mean,” the Highwayman corrected. Faster than either of them could react, he came forward and snatched the necklace from Olym’s neck, then, for good measure, scooped the rings from the vanity.

  “Not again!” Yeslnik cried. In a moment of uncustomary courage (or more likely it was just his anger overruling his good sense), he threw Olym aside and raised his fists threateningly. He snapped his hand to the near side of the vanity, where Olym kept a sharp knife she used to scrape the dark hairs from her chin. Yeslnik stepped forward, waving the knife out before him.

  The Highwayman dropped his hands to his side, sighed, and shook his head.

  “You’ll not make a fool of me again,” Yeslnik declared.

  “I fear you reached that marker long before I arrived,” the Highwayman replied.

  The Laird of Pryd Holding finally sorted that insult out and stabbed at the man in rage. The Highwayman turned, and the blade slipped past harmlessly.

  Yeslnik retracted and stabbed again, and the Highwayman dodged the other way.

  Yeslnik slashed across at the man’s head, but of course the agile Highwayman easily ducked the awkward strike, then came up again and with even less effort sidestepped the next futile stab.

  “Truly, Prince Yeslnik, you are making this more difficult,” the Highwayman said. He ducked another slash, sidestepped another stab, then caught the move he had been waiting for, an uppercut thrusting the knife for the bottom of his chin.

  It never got close. The Highwayman’s left hand caught the prince’s forearm, and his right hand clamped over Yeslnik’s at just the right angle for the thief to buckle the prince’s wrist, bending the hand forward suddenly. The Highwayman pressed, overextending the bend, driving Yeslnik’s knuckles down toward his wrist. Under that strain and pain, Yeslnik could not hold his grip on the knife. Even as he realized he had let it go, the Highwayman’s left hand shot out and slapped him across the face, backhanded him the other way, and slapped him a third time for good measure.

  “Do you insist on making this harder?” the Highwayman asked, presenting the knife out, handle first, toward the prince.

  Infuriated beyond reason, Yeslnik grabbed the blade and slashed wildly, again hitting nothing but air. In sheer frustration he threw the knife. His eyes went wide indeed when he noted that the thief had caught it so easily.

  Yeslnik turned and cried out, bolting for the door. “Take my wife!” he shrieked.

  The Highwayman sprang into a sidelong cartwheel, catching his hand on the edge of the vanity, planting his other hand flat on its top, and springing away to intercept Yeslnik at the door.

  “Your knife,” he said, tossing the blade into the air.

  Yeslnik’s eyes followed its ascent as the prince skidded to a stop. To his credit Yeslnik caught the blade, but when he looked back down he found the tip of a fabulous and too-familiar sword an inch from his face. He gave a curious soun
d, strangely similar to his wife’s earlier mewling, and let the knife drop to the floor.

  The Highwayman shook his head. “Now what am I to do with you?”

  “Oh,” Lady Olym wailed, throwing her arm against her forehead and falling back, conveniently onto the room’s rather large bed.

  Both the Highwayman and Yeslnik sighed.

  A noise from somewhere down the hall reminded them that the ceremony had ended and many of the castle’s inhabitants were returning from the lower bailey.

  “Under the bed,” the Highwayman ordered Yeslnik abruptly, prodding the prince with his sword, guiding him around. Finally he stepped up and pushed Yeslnik forward.

  “While you ravish my wife above me?”

  “Oh,” wailed Olym, and her knees drifted apart.

  The Highwayman shoved Yeslnik harder for that, putting him down to his knees at the side of the bed. “You with him,” he ordered Olym, and all humor had left his tone. “Under the bed!”

  “But …” Olym protested, as sadly as any bride left at the altar.

  “Under the bed. Now! The both of you.” He prodded Yeslnik as he spoke, driving the man under with the tip of his sword. Grabbing Olym with his free hand, he yanked her off the bed. She fell heavily at his feet, but nothing other than her pride was hurt, he saw, as she looked up and reached for him desperately.

  Yeslnik grabbed her and dragged her under the bed with him.

  “In the middle,” the Highwayman ordered. He dropped down and prodded at them with his sword, forcing them back from the edge. He looked all around, thinking to block the four openings of the bed. But alas, there was not enough furniture in the room to seal them in.

  Sounds from outside the room heightened the Highwayman’s urgency. Improvising, he leaped in a roll across the end of the bed, coming to his feet facing the foot. He looked from its thin legs to his sword and back. His eyes scanned the headboard. He could clear it and easily, he realized, as the movements sorted out before him. He had to be precise; he had to be quick.

  But he was Jhesta Tu.

  The Highwayman presented his sword before him and took a deep and steadying breath. Underneath the bed Yeslnik and Olym chattered but he left their voices far behind, concentrating on the task before him. Both hands grasped the hilt of the sword as he lifted it slowly before his right shoulder, keeping the blade perpendicular to the floor.