And why hadn’t he come back for me? More than two decades had transpired since his departure from Pryd Town, and he had not returned for Sen Wi or for his child.
As I ponder these many angles, my mind jumbles and shakes and darts in directions unasked for. And to all of them, I have no true answers, I recognize, for I will not know how I feel about Bran Dynard until I have met him. I will not know his answers to my concerns until he has explained them. I will not know the effect upon the legacy of Garibond until long has passed, I am sure.
Indeed, that is the most unanswerable question of all, because the truth is clear and yet clouded by guilt, that most opaque of veils. I loved and still love Garibond with all my heart and soul. I would throw myself upon a pyre of flames to save him, without hesitation! I would do anything, anything at all, to have him back.
Of my sire, I am less certain. Of Bran Dynard, I have only expectations with which to guide my preconceptions.
Well, only those and the Book of Jhest, the tome he penned-or copied, at least. For the contents were such that no one without understanding of the book could properly relay its subtle shades. Perhaps that book remains the paradox of my inner conflict, the source of both excitement and trepidation.
For I would desperately desire to meet the man who penned that book, that marvelous tome which freed me from my abject helplessness, even if he had no connection to me in blood or otherwise, other than the connection I feel in my heart to that which he wrote. On this level alone, I am truly comfortable with my journey.
How could it be otherwise? I desire to meet the man who penned the wondrous book as I desire to meet the mystics of Behr who live the lessons of that book in their daily existence. And this journey is even safer than that, for whatever the outcome of my meeting with Bran Dynard, the Walk of Clouds remains. Hope remains.
Is this then a comfortable step for me? For all of my other fears regarding this stranger, I hold few or no familial expectations, so I suspect that I cannot be disappointed in that manner, and whatever philosophy Bran Dynard may express now, or whatever he might offer or not offer to further my recovery, he has already given so much to me that I cannot hold any anger against him.
Or maybe I do. Perhaps my anger at his refusal or inability to return to Sen Wi and to me will prove a stronger angst than I anticipate, a thorn more deeply embedded in my heart than I now understand.
And so with a resigned sigh, I must admit it may be that the only real comfort of this journey is that it allows me to put off the even more terrifying march to the Walk of Clouds.
– BRANSEN GARIBOND
NINE
Work Brings Freedom
Dawson McKeege stood at the prow of his two-masted coast-runner, Lady Dreamer, taking in the grand oceanic and coastline view that never grew old for him. For before the craft loomed a three-hundred-foot cliff facing, mighty stone all brown and gray, and atop it, as if growing right out of the rock, stood Chapel Abelle, the heart of the growing, influential Church.
This was the spot where Blessed Abelle had first demonstrated the power of the god-given gemstones. This was the spot where-on guidance from God, it was said-he had learned to make permanent the magical properties of those rocks he had found after being shipwrecked on a distant island in the deep southern Miri-anic Ocean. Alone and as removed from civilization as any man had ever been, Abelle had had little expectation of surviving, and seemingly no chance of ever returning to Honce.
But the magical stones had showered down from the heavens, the gifts of God to him, and as he had sorted through their magical properties, this young philosopher had come to understand them fully.
With those stones, Abelle had walked hundreds of miles across the ocean, so it was said, and through the power and potential of the gemstone magic, he had changed the world.
Dawson wasn’t yet formally confirmed as an Abellican. He had been raised in Vanguard among a thriving farming and hunting community dominated by the Samhaists, and the old ways died hard. Still, he couldn’t deny the spirituality he felt whenever this sight, Chapel Abelle, so impressive and growing grander by the day, came into view.
Hidden among the cliffs was a dock facility, with tunnels that climbed through the stone all the way to the chapel above-tunnels reputedly cut by Abelle himself utilizing a variety of potent gemstones.
“Hail to the flag of Dame Gwydre!” came a shout from the docks as Lady Dreamer edged in around the jagged rocks. A pair of monks stood in open view, waving at the approaching ship. Dawson recognized one as Brother Pinower and returned the wave with a familiarity and heartiness reminding him that the relationship between Gwydre and this Church had grown so very strong.
Of course, that very fact had led to the current war in Vanguard, and Dawson couldn’t help but grimace as he considered his former spiritual leaders, the Samhaists, now striking so violently and with such vile foot soldiers as goblins and glacial trolls. Never had the man imagined that the supposedly wise priests who had guided his people, as brutal as their customs often were, could so betray their people as to enlist the aid of such wretched creatures.
“Weapons, metals, or foodstuffs?” Brother Pinower asked as McKeege’s ship pulled up alongside the longest of the three wharves and tenders hopped to the dock to begin securing her. “You will be hard pressed to get any, of course, in this dastardly time.”
“Lairds Ethelbert and Delaval continue their war, then?” Dawson asked, hopping down easily to the planks beside the Abellicans.
” ‘Escalate’ would be a better word,” Pinower replied. “Laird Delaval believed he’d gained an advantage, and so he strengthened his line across the breadth of it, thinking to push Ethelbert right into the sea.”
“But it wasn’t to be,” said the second monk. “Ethelbert’s got a few tricks left.”
“Aye, and a few allies from Behr,” Brother Pinower agreed.
“A laird of Honce is using the desert savages?” Dawson McKeege asked, shaking his head, feeling at that moment pretty much the same about Ethelbert as he felt about the Vanguard Samhaists.
“Desperate folk take desperate measures,” Brother Pinower added, and all three nodded.
“I’ve a hold full of caribou moss,” Dawson explained, referring to the white moss that climbed knee-deep in regions of Vanguard and was favored for packing open wounds, among its many other uses. In a time of war that particular purpose of the fungus would take precedence, obviously, but extract of dried caribou moss could also be brewed into a medicinal tea, and sheets of the moss often sold at exorbitant prices as roofing or siding material, both practical and decorative, for the fancy homes of wealthy merchants. Vanguard had many profitable trading goods to offer Honce proper, but in this time of war, none was more sought after than the caribou moss.
“The lairds will pay well for it,” Brother Pinower admitted.
“They will pay Chapel Abelle well, then,” Dawson explained. “For I’ve no time to cart my wares southeast or southwest, and my boat’s back to Vanguard when she puts out from your dock, presently, unless I am forced to make a detour to Palmaristown.”
“We have some goods, of course,” said Brother Pinower. “And some coin.”
“Some? The whispers say that your Church grows wealthy on the tributes of warring lords.”
“Whispers,” Brother Pinower replied with an exaggerated sigh. He ended with a smile as wide as the one Dawson offered in response.
“Come,” Brother Pinower bade him, leading him off the wharf and to the gated entrance and the winding tunnels that would carry them up to the cliff top and the mother chapel of the Abellican Church.
As soon as he exited that dock tunnel into the courtyard of the abbey, McKeege understood those whispers of growing wealth to be understated. For Chapel Abelle was more than twice the size it had been on his last visit only a year before. Scores of laborers worked the grounds, extending and thickening the already impressive outer wall and constructing new stone structures-barracks and rectories and all manner of buildings. Chapel Abelle had become a town unto itself, McKeege realized, and when he thought about it, it made sense. Once Chapel Abelle had been a small church set on a hill above the medium-sized town of Weatherguard, but in this time of pressing danger, it had become a fortress, a welcomed one for the beleaguered folk of the region.