It was not an insult. Bransen knew that from the tone of her voice, and simply because it was Cadayle who had said it. She never insulted him, never hurt him. She never judged him, and even wiped the snot and spittle from his face without complaint. And most important of all to him, she always waited patiently for him to stutter through his broken sentences.
With Cadayle's help, he got back to his feet, and managed to offer his thanks.
Cadayle gently brushed the dirt off him. "Pay them no heed," she said as she worked. "They're stupid, is all. And they know they're stupid and they know you're not."
Bransen smiled, but he didn't believe her.
Still, it was comforting to hear the words. "You've blood on your shirt."
Cadayle looked down to see that her mother was right, for a dirty red-brown smudge marred the left shoulder of her tan shirt. She looked back at her mother and shrugged.
"Were you fighting?" the woman demanded.
"No, ma."
"Did someone hit you? Or did you trip and fall?" The older woman's voice went from suspicious to concerned as she approached her young daughter.
"It's not me blood, Ma," Cadayle explained.
Her mother began brushing at the smudge.
"It's Bransen's. The boys were beating him again. He cut his lip."
Cadayle's mother sighed and shook her head. "As if they've nothing better to do than beat the poor creature. The folk're nasty, Cadayle, meaner than you'd ever believe. How did you get yourself involved in it?"
"I yelled at them and they ran off. I just helped Bransen up, is all."
Cadayle's mother took her daughter's chin in her hand and forced the girl to look at her directly. "You listen to me," she said. "You did right in helping him. You always help him, or anyone else needing your help. I'm proud of you."
Cadayle was surprised by the sudden intensity in her mother's voice and the huskiness, as if her ma was holding back a flood of tears. Her mother pulled her in close, then, crushing her in a great hug.
"I'm proud of you," she said again.
Cadayle didn't understand why it was such a big deal to her ma, for she did not know that her mother had once been treated more horribly than she could ever imagine. She didn't know that her mother had once been thrown into a sack with a poisonous viper, then hung up by her wrists in the wilderness and left to die.
Only the generosity of strangers had saved her. "Come inside and be quick about it," Garibond said to Bransen when the boy at last returned to the homestead. Garibond put his hand on the boy's back and ushered him along more quickly, the older man's gaze darting about the tree line surrounding his small fields.
Bernivvigar was out there, Garibond knew, watching Bransen with sudden interest. Garibond wasn't surprised by that, other than the fact that it had taken the old and vicious Samhaist this long to take note of the crippled youngster. The Samhaists were not typically kind to such "inferior" people, for theirs was a brutal religion, ever searching for sacrifices to give their scowling gods, the dreaded Ancient Ones that haunted Honce. Like the second-born twin, cripples were considered appropriate gifts.
And now, Garibond suspected, Bernivvigar was watching Bransen.
Garibond watched the boy stagger across the room, pivot on one foot, and fall into a seat. His lip was blue and swollen on one side, and it looked as if he had chipped a tooth.
Garibond winced and silently berated himself for allowing Bransen to go into town that day. He had been against it, but Bransen, with his typical pigheadedness, had argued and argued. The boy was determined to live a normal life, but it would never be, Garibond knew. The folk of Pryd, the folk of any holding in all Honce, would never allow it.
The weary man thought back to the day of Bransen's birth, when SenWi had given her life to save him. She had thought it a generous deed, no doubt, but Garibond had to wonder. Many times during those early years when the extent of Bransen's infirmities had become clear, Garibond had entertained the thought of putting a pillow over Bransen's face and peacefully ushering him into the quiet realm of death.
It broke his heart to watch Bransen staggering around, to hear the insults hurled his way, to see the other boys mocking him with their "stork walks" behind him. It broke his heart to see the boy covered in blood day after day, whether from the bullying blows or from his own clumsiness. Would Bransen be better off dead?
The question remained inescapable for Garibond, but, in truth, it was already answered, and definitively. SenWi had answered it, with finality, when she had thrown her life force into the dying infant; and it was not in Garibond's province to go against that choice she had made.
He wanted only to protect the boy.
Bransen managed a crooked smile and said, "C-c-c-ca-ca-ca-Cadayle."
"Aye, boy," Garibond replied. "You lie down and rest and think of your little friend." He watched as Bransen settled down on his cot and on his pillow, which was formed of a folded and rolled silk suit of black clothing. In looking at that pillow, Garibond was reminded of how special, how magical, SenWi had been, and how magnificent were the works of the Jhesta Tu, for the pants and shirt and the soft, flexible shoes hadn't worn out in the least over the last decade, and Bransen's spittle and snot seemed to gain no hold on the soft and smooth material.
Garibond thought of the Book of Jhest and the sword of SenWi, both of which, like Bransen, had been entrusted to his care. He would protect them, as he protected the boy.
He looked at the frail figure lying across from him and wondered how in the world he could do that. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of the terrible fate that awaited Bransen if he should die before the boy. Or if wretched old Bernivvigar got his filthy nails on him.
The thought of the Samhaist had Garibond glancing back over his shoulder and out the door, which he quickly closed.
And barred.
16
Hierarchy "What can you do for me?" Every word came out on a gasp of air, as old Laird Pryd lay on his bed, propped on a mound of pillows. Lying flat, the laird could not even draw breath; and even with the pillows, every inhalation was forced.
"We will pray," said Father Jerak. His head bobbed excitedly, as if he had just hit on a revelation.
Beside him, Brother Bathelais paled.
"Pray?" said Rennarq from across the room. "You will pray?"
"Yes, of course," offered Jerak. "We are priests, are we not? Praying is our wont." He chuckled as he finished, though no one else in the room was sharing his levity.
"Perhaps we might try again with the soul stone to make Laird Pryd more comfortable," said Bathelais.
"Perhaps you would be wise to do so," Rennarq replied.
Brother Bathelais nodded, but old Jerak-older than Laird Pryd even-scoffed.
"To what end?" he asked and turned to Pryd. "You are old, good laird. When we grow old, we die. The gemstones are no relief from the inevitable. They cheat not death, unless it comes for one wounded or prematurely ill." Again he laughed, apparently unaware of how out of place his words seemed. "Are you afraid of dying, Pryd? My old friend, I will join you in the next life soon enough, I am sure. As will you, Rennarq-and are you equally afraid?"
Brother Bathelais cleared his throat. "What Father Jerak means-"
"Has already been spoken," a scowling Rennarq interrupted.
"There is nothing?" Laird Pryd managed to gasp.
"My old friend," said Jerak. He moved very close to the bed and put his wrinkled hand on Laird Pryd's arm. He stared lovingly at this man who had been his liege for four decades. "Now comes the mystery. We are creatures of faith, for without it, we are nothing more than the goats and sheep that graze in our fields. I follow Abelle, and I believe his promise of redemption. You will find its truth before I do. Take heart."
Laird Pryd's face seemed as if it were frozen. "What can you do for me?"