Callen sucked in her breath at his words. “I am sorry,” she said.
Bransen waved her off. “Tell me true: Would you have stopped Sen Wi if you had known that drawing the poison would so damage me?”
Callen struggled for an answer as she glanced at Cadayle, which made Bransen smile all the wider.
“Nor would I,” he said. “I would rather be the Stork with Cadayle beside me than a whole man without her.”
“You are a whole man,” Callen insisted. She reached up and tucked the hem of his bandanna.
“With the gemstone.”
“Or without it,” Callen said. “Bransen Garibond is a better man than any I’ve e’er known.”
Bransen laughed again. “And perhaps one day I might walk without the soul stone. Such are the promises of the secrets of the Jhesta Tu.”
“What are you discussing with your titters and giggles?” Cadayle asked from the wagon. “Are you stealing my husband then?”
“Oh, but if I could!” Callen replied.
Bransen put his arm about Callen and pulled her close as they walked side by side. It was not hard for him to understand the source of Cadayle’s beauty, physical and emotional, and he knew himself to be a lucky man to have such a mother-in-law. To even think that someone would have so viciously tried to kill Callen-Bernivvigar the Samhaist had attempted to do so twice!-confounded him and filled him with outrage. Bernivvigar had also mutilated Garibond, Bransen’s adopted father.
And now Bernivvigar was dead, cut down by the very sword in the log, by the very man holding the thick walking stick. Bransen was glad of it.
The conversation was ended by the sound of hooves coming down the road from behind, moving at a fast clip. That could mean only one thing on these roads in this day.
“Stork,” Callen whispered to Bransen.
He was far ahead of her warning already. He closed his eyes and severed his connection-one that had become almost automatic at this point-with his soul stone. Immediately, the young man’s fluid motions ceased, and he began to walk again in a gangly and awkward manner, literally throwing one hip out before him to swing his leg ahead. Now the walking stick became more than ornamental as Bransen tightened his grip on it and used it as a true crutch.
He heard the horses closing in fast from behind, but he didn’t dare turn to observe for fear that the effort would make him fall flat on his face. Callen and Cadayle did look about, though, and Callen whispered, “Laird Delaval’s men.”
“Make way!” came a gruff command from behind a moment later. The riders pulled their horses to an abrupt stop. “Move this wagon off the road and identify yourselves!”
“He is speaking to you,” Callen whispered.
Bransen struggled to turn about, finally managing it, though he nearly tumbled at several points. When he did come around he noted the astonished looks on the faces of the two soldiers, a pair of large, older men.
“What are you about?” asked one of them, a portly giant who sported a thick gray beard.
“I… I… I…” Bransen stammered, and he honestly couldn’t get out any words beyond that, for he had grown unused to speaking without the aid of the gemstone. “I…”
Both men crinkled their faces with disgust.
“My son,” Callen explained, and she moved to support Bransen.
“You admit that,” asked the other soldier, younger and clean-shaven, except for a tremendous mustache that seemed to reach from ear to ear. Both men laughed at Bransen’s expense.
“Bah, but go on now and leave him be,” said Callen. “Wounded in the war he was. Took a spear in the back saving another man. He’s deserving your respect, not your taunts.”
The gray beard looked at them both suspiciously. “Where was he wounded?”
“In the back,” said Callen, and the man put on a sour expression indeed.
“Good lady, I’ve not the time for your ignorance nor for your feigned ignorance.”
“South o’ Pryd Town!” Callen blurted, though she had no idea if there had been any real fighting south of Pryd Town.
That answer seemed to satisfy the pair, however, to Callen’s relief-until the younger man fixed his gaze upon Cadayle, his gray eyes immediately lighting up with obvious interest.
“He’s not really my son,” Callen blurted, drawing his attention. “He’s my daughter’s husband, so I’m thinking of him as such.”
“Daughter’s husband?” the younger man echoed, staring at Cadayle. “He’s married to you?”
“Aye,” said the woman. “My beloved. We’re for Delaval to see if any of the monks there might be helping him.”
The soldiers shared a look. The younger one slid down from his saddle and moved beside Bransen and Callen.
“What’s your name?” he asked, but when Callen started to answer for Bransen, the man held up his hand to hush her.
“Bra… Br… Brrrran,” Bransen sputtered, spraying the man with every forced syllable.
“Bran?”
“Sen,” Callen added, and the man hushed her with a scowl and a sharp retort.
“Bran?” he asked again.
“S… Sssss… Brranssen,” said the Stork.
“Bransen?” the soldier asked, walking a circuit about him.
“Y… Y… Yes.”
“Stupid name,” said the soldier, brushing into Bransen, which sent the Stork into an exaggerated stumble, one hand flailing, the other desperately trying to get the walking stick under him for support.
The honesty of that awkward gait and those fumbling movements had the soldiers glancing at each other again with a mixture of disgust and sympathy. The younger one grabbed Bransen roughly and helped steady him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said to Cadayle.
“He’s not dead,” the woman replied, obviously trying hard to fight back her anger at the soldier for bumping Bransen.
“Sorry for that, too,” said the man with a snicker. “Monks ain’t to help this one. Better for him and for yourself if he’d’ve just died out on the field.” He gave a derisive snort and walked away from Bransen, toward the wagon, visually inspecting it as he neared. “You’re loyal for bringing him to the monks, I expect. But if he ain’t for pleasing you, then you just let me know,” he added with a wink and a lewd smile.
Cadayle swallowed hard. Callen moved immediately to Bransen and put her hand on his forearm, fearing that he would leap ahead and cut the fool down for the insult.
Abruptly other sounds could be heard from behind, plodding hooves and the creak of a coach.
“Or maybe she’s liking those jerking movements in their lovemaking, eh?” the young soldier asked his older companion, who frowned at him in response.
“Just get the wagon off the road,” the gray beard said.
“But the ground is uneven and full of roots,” Cadayle complained as the younger man moved around to the side of the horses. “And our wheels are worn and will not-”
“Just shut your pretty mouth and be glad that we’ve not the time for other things,” the younger soldier said to her. “Or the time to take the horses and wagon in the name of Laird Delaval.” He gave a disapproving look at the wagon and team and old Doully the donkey tethered behind, adding, “Not that any of ’em’re worth stealing.”
“Don’t, I beg!” said Cadayle, but the man grabbed the nearest horse’s bridle and roughly tugged the creature to the side, guiding the wagon down a small embankment, where it rolled fast for a few seconds, coming to rest up tight against a tree.
Up on the road across the way, the gray beard walked his horse at Callen and Bransen, forcing them to move off the other side of the road, pulling his companion’s horse beside him as he stepped farther along.
“Bow your heads for Prince Yeslnik, Laird of Pryd!” he instructed, staring at Callen all the while, making sure to keep his horse between the two wanderers and the approaching coach. As it rolled by, all gilded in shiny gold and pulled by a fine and strong team, Bransen noted the drivers, a pair of men he had seen before. He saw, too, the Lady Olym, Prince Yeslnik’s annoying and spoiled wife, as she stared out the window.