"We will formally declare the transfer of power tomorrow morning," Rennarq said. He looked at the monks. "We are done here. You may return to your beds or your prayers or whatever it is you brothers of Abelle do at this hour."
"You and I must talk at length, laird-guest," Father Jerak replied, and Bathelais didn't miss the respect in his superior's voice, nor Jerak's insertion of the soon-to-be-formalized title.
"In time."
"Soon," Father Jerak pressed. "Most of your subjects are among the flock of-"
"In my good time, good father," Rennarq cut him off.
Father Jerak started to reply, but then just half nodded and half shook his head. He accepted Bathelais's arm and hobbled away.
17
Offspring of Two Religions Bransen watched Garibond at work on the small rock jetty one damp morning. The sky was low that day and soft with a misty rain. That heavy curtain kept the air still and only the slightest of waves lapped against the rocks.
Garibond sat hunched over, working with his nets and line. Every couple of minutes, he would straighten with a groan. He was getting older now-he had just passed his fiftieth birthday-and the toll of the hard work showed, particularly on wet mornings such as this.
Bransen knew that he should be out there helping with the lines and stitching the nets. Other boys his age were actually doing the fishing and the farming now, with so many of the older men off at war. That was why men had sons, after all, to take up the chores, that they could ease the toil on their old bones.
But not with me, Bransen thought. I'm more trouble than I'm worth to him, and still he loves me so and never complains.
At that moment, in that soft light and quiet air, Bransen wished that he could draw. He wished that his hands would stay steady enough for him to trace lines on a piece of parchment, that he could create a lasting image of his wonderful father out there, quietly toiling, uncomplaining, as constant and solid as the lake and the rocks. When he looked at Garibond, Bransen understood all that was good in the world. He felt nothing but unconditional love from the man and for the man; he would do anything to help Garibond!
But that was the rub, he knew, the source of his greatest frustration. For there was rarely anything at all that he could do to make the man's life easier-quite the contrary. Even when he went into town on errands, he knew that it was more for his own sake, for his expressed need to be independent, than for any true gain to Garibond. For more often than not, Bransen returned from town with goods spilled and lost in the dirt. He wasn't even ten years old, and he knew the truth of it.
How he wanted to go out to that jetty and help with the fishing nets! I'd fall in, and Father would get wet pulling me out.
The boy took a deep breath to throw aside the thoughts before more tears began to drip from his eyes. He swiveled his hips and did his stork walk back into the house, where he collapsed on his bed. Another day in the life of Bransen Garibond. Another day of unfulfilled wishes and of guilt.
He fell asleep and dreamed of fishing beside his father. He dreamed of walking, of running, even. He dreamed of telling his father that he loved him, without the spit flying and without turning a simple word like "love" into a rattling cacophony of half-bitten syllables.
"The clouds are lifting." Garibond's voice awakened him sometime later. "Do you mean to waste the whole of the day on your bed? Come along. I need to collect some vines."
Bransen managed to roll to one side and prop himself on his elbow. "I-I wou-wou-would just slo-ow you."
"Nonsense!" Garibond bellowed, and he walked over and helped lift the frail youngster from the cot to a standing position, and held on until he was sure that Bransen had found his footing. "And even if you do, I'd rather take three hours with your company than spend an hour alone."
The sincerity in that remark was all too clear to Bransen, defeating all his protests and arguments before he could begin to stutter them. He managed a smile and didn't even worry that parting his lips allowed a bit of drool to escape-because he knew that Father didn't care in the least. That mitigation wasn't complete within Bransen, though.
"Come on, then. I get lonely out there." Garibond ruffled Bransen's dark hair and turned to leave, but the boy made no move to follow.
"You ch-ch-cho-ose this…l-li-l-l-life," he said.
Garibond, at the door, turned and watched him through the last half of the sentence, showing his typical patience with the painful speech but also wearing an expression of deep curiosity and concern.
"I did," he replied.
"You l…y-y-y-you…like alone."
Garibond sighed and dropped his gaze. "I thought I did," he clarified. "And now I prefer you."
"No."
Again Garibond put on that curious and concerned look.
"What is the matter, Bransen?"
The boy gasped and sniffled, his thin chest heaving. "I should be dead!" he blurted; the words carried emotions so powerful that for once he didn't stutter at all.
Garibond's eyes widened in alarm and he rushed to tower over the frail boy. "Don't you ever say that!" he cried, and he lifted his hand as if he meant to strike out at Bransen, who didn't flinch in the least.
"Y-yes!"
"No, and don't you ever think that! You are alive, and that's wonderful, for all the trouble. You're alive because your mother…because…"
Bransen stared at the man, not quite knowing what to make of the twisted and confused expression. It wasn't often that he had seen sensible and stable Garibond ruffled, and never to this extent.
The older man took a few deep breaths and calmed, then sat down on the cot and pulled Bransen down beside him, gently draping his arm across the boy's shoulders. "Don't you ever say that or even think that," he said.
"B-b-but-"
Garibond put a finger over Bransen's lips to quiet him. "I once thought the same thing," he admitted, "when you were born. And the trials you face pain me every day-probably more than they pain you, you're such a strong one inside. The Samhaists say that any child born less than perfect is meant as a sacrifice, and that is still the way in many towns.
"But not for you, because of your mother. I haven't told you enough of SenWi, Bransen, and what a special woman she was. You know that you got part of your name from her, and that she died when you were born. The rest of your name came from your father."
"G-Gar-"
"No," Garibond interrupted. "I gave you that surname, as was my right. Your father's name was Bran. Bran Dynard, a monk of the brothers of Abelle."
The boy's jaw drooped open wide, drool escaping unheeded.
Garibond turned, and turned Bransen, so that he was looking the boy in the eye. "I am not your father, Bransen, though no man could love any child more than I love you."
The boy began to slowly shake his head. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and he began to tremble so fiercely that Garibond had to hold him tight to keep him steady.
"Please forgive me," Garibond said. "You are old enough now. You need to hear this, all of it. You need to know about Bran, my dearest friend in all the world. You need to know about SenWi." He couldn't help but smile as he said the name, and a wistful look came into his good eye. "She didn't just die when you were born, Bransen. She gave her life to you so that you could live."
Bransen, stunned already, was even more surprised when Garibond, who rarely showed any emotion, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. The older man rose, then, and slowly moved across the room to the trapdoor leading to the tunnels below.
"You were dying even as you were born," he explained. "You were too weak to draw breath, and SenWi wasn't much better off after the birth. But she was no ordinary person, your mother." He reached down and lifted the door, and then removed one of the side boards of the solid wooden casing. He reached into the hidden compartment and pulled forth a thick book, held it up, and blew the dust from it. "She was a Jhesta Tu mystic," he said, and Bransen had no idea what that meant, and he let his expression show it, as much as he could manage to let his expression show anything purposefully.