"Perhaps you would do well to hold your tongue, old Samhaist," Father Jerak snapped back with uncharacteristic sharpness.
"I have held several tongues," Bernivvigar replied, and he brought forth his hand, palm up. "Cut from the mouths of undeserving fools, muting them so that others could be given back lost voices."
It took a moment for that remark, that notion of Samhaist doctrine which often used sacrifice for supposed medical purposes, to truly sink into Prince Prydae; and when he fixed Bernivvigar with a serious look, the old Samhaist merely offered him a meaningful stare.
"Father Jerak," Prydae began, still staring hard at Bernivvigar, "I am not without gratitude for the work of your brethren out on the battlefield. Surely I would have expired had it not been for them. Rest easy here, I pray you, and know that the brothers of Abelle showed themselves well in the east. Let us end this useless bickering."
"Yes, my liege," said Jerak.
"We have other matters to attend," Rennarq cut in. "Prince-Laird Prydae should be crowned within the week. The event will heighten the celebration of our glorious victory over the bloody caps! Their scourge is lifted from the land, and never again will the men of Honce have to fear powrie raiders along our roads."
That last remark had Prydae and Bannagran exchanging looks, for it wasn't quite true. Victory in the east had been substantial, and the blood of thousands of powries stained the coastal rocks and had turned the tides red for many days. But Laird Ethelbert and Laird Delaval, the two men truly in charge of Honce's arrayed forces, had stopped short of eliminating the powries altogether. And both Bannagran and Prydae knew well that it was not because of battle weariness and not because the two lairds simply could not have pressed farther. No, the decision to allow the powries some escape had been a calculated one, as almost all the lairds at the front had learned. The powrie threat had to be kept at a minimum to allow for trade and for the coming consolidations the two great lairds planned. But at the same time, the powrie threat had to remain, at the edges of awareness, so that all the lairds of the land could keep their people properly afraid of the world beyond their borders. With tales of powries and goblins lurking in the forests, the peasants would not question the demands of their protector lairds.
"You may leave us," Prydae said to the monks, and he pointedly turned to Bernivvigar and added, "but you stay a bit longer."
The old Samhaist bowed and flashed a superior look Father Jerak's way. Brother Bathelais muttered as if intending to protest the slight, but Father Jerak silenced him with an upraised hand.
"It is good that the brothers of Blessed Abelle were able to save your life, good prince," Father Jerak offered to Prydae as he shuffled past. "An empty place would be Pryd Holding without the proud son of Laird Pryd."
Prydae didn't respond, other than to offer a quick nod.
"We have much to attend to, my laird-in-waiting," Rennarq remarked, and Prydae stared at him as if listening, but the door had barely closed behind the departing monks when Prydae turned away from the old laird-guest to focus on Bernivvigar.
"You speak of the sacrifice of a tongue to restore the voice of another."
"Indeed, it has been done," Bernivvigar answered. "Other sacrifices have not been so successful, of course."
"To what does this apply?"
"To anything, if the sacrifice is appealing to the Ancient Ones. I have seen men slaughtered so that others could rise up from their graves. I have seen eyes plucked out to make more worthy blind men see."
Prydae lowered his head and sighed.
"As for your…infirmity," Bernivvigar said tactfully. "You fear that you are the end of the line of Pryd."
"There is little left to dissuade me from the conclusion," Prydae admitted.
"Castrating another might bring relief, depending on the extent of your injuries and depending upon the whims of the Ancient Ones."
"The whims?"
"That is the way of the gods, my laird," Bernivvigar answered. "Among men you stand tall. Among the folk of Pryd Holding, you are practically a god yourself. But among the Ancient Ones, we are all rather small."
Prydae paused and considered the words for a moment. He licked his lips and glanced over at Bannagran, who nodded. "What would we have to do?" the soon-to-be-laird asked.
"Find a sacrifice, of course."
"What requirements?"
Bernivvigar laughed. "That he has testicles, my laird. Any man will do, though I would not recommend an old and shriveled specimen." A smile widened on the old Samhaist's face that set Prydae back on his heels, so obvious was its wickedness.
"There is a rather odd boy about the town," Bernivvigar remarked.
"Not that stork creature?" put in Rennarq, and Bernivvigar blinked slowly, holding fast to his smile.
"Why that one was ever allowed to continue to draw breath, I do not know. The Ancient Ones surely show no favor to a creature so inferior and damaged as he," the imposing Samhaist said.
"The boy on the road?" Bannagran asked Prydae. "The one who staggers with every step and has a face full of snot and drool?"
"A wonderful specimen, is he not?" said Bernivvigar. "Perhaps when I am finished with him-with your permission of course, my laird-I can mercifully put an end to his thoroughly wretched existence."
Prydae's conscience tugged at him. Could he do such a thing? Any of it? Surely, if his virility could be restored, the line of Pryd secured, it would be for the greater good. But still…
He glanced around at his secular advisers, focusing mostly upon Bannagran, who had become such a trusted companion under such difficult circumstances. The large man returned the look and nodded.
Prydae licked his lips nervously, then turned to Rennarq. "Do we know where this creature lives?"
20
When All the World Turned Upside Down Garibond watched as the woman he believed to be Callen Duwornay, who had stubbornly called herself Ada Wehelin, and her young daughter walked away from his house on the lake. "A good deed repaid," the man repeated, for that is what the woman had said when he had once more, upon their parting, thanked her and her daughter for their help in the town.
Garibond hadn't recognized the woman at first-Callen Duwornay was someone long out of his thoughts-and the truth of her identity hadn't even registered to him during their walk out to his house or during the short visit of the woman and her daughter. It wasn't until she was leaving, actually walking away, when she had uttered those words, "A good deed repaid." Even then, for a few moments, Garibond hadn't made the connection.
But watching her now, though her back was to him, the man understood the truth, beyond any doubt. That was her, Callen. Garibond was glad to learn that she was still alive, that she had gotten through her ordeal and had even managed, apparently, to remain in Pryd Holding-in Gorham's Hill, on the far western edge of the town proper, she had told him. Somehow seeing her alive bolstered Garibond's spirits, even beyond his simple sympathy and empathy toward her. Somehow, the fact that she had gone on, had even given birth to a beautiful daughter, made the sacrifices of SenWi and now poor Bransen, somewhat more tolerable.
All along, Garibond had known that SenWi had done right that day in healing the young woman, and never had she wavered on that matter, never had she expressed the slightest bit of regret. Seeing Callen and Cadalye reinforced the concept.
"Sh-sh-sh-she'sss-my frien…my frien…my friend," Bransen said to him, making his way over to join him at the window.
"What a beautiful little friend you've got there, Bransen," Garibond replied, and he draped his arm about the boy and pulled him close, in part to steady him but more because he just felt that he needed a hug.