"Ah, what am I to do with you, then?" Garibond asked into the rain.
Some hours later, Garibond dragged himself back into the house, where he found Bransen sitting and reading, so engrossed that he didn't seem to hear Garibond enter.
"You like the book, don't you?" Garibond greeted, his typical refrain.
Shaking with every movement, Bransen turned his head and managed a half smile.
Garibond started to laugh, but caught himself short, feeling the crackling in his lungs. A wave of dizziness washed over him, but he caught himself on a nearby chair and managed to hide his weakness.
What was he to do?
"I know a place that has many more books you might enjoy," he said suddenly, hardly thinking of the implications.
Again Bransen turned, this time looking more confused than pleased or excited.
"Them monks in the chapel have shelves and shelves of books," Garibond explained. It had to be the monks, he knew, and it had to be soon-certainly before the next winter. "You would like that, yes?"
"J…Jh…J-J-J-Jhes…sst," Bransen stammered.
"Jhest? Yes, the Book of Jhest, penned by your father. But there are other books. So many more. Books of wisdom and history. You would like that, yes?"
Bransen nodded, but didn't seem overexcited about the prospect and turned right back to the Book of Jhest.
His reaction didn't matter. Garibond thought through all the options before him, and the only course possible seemed clear enough. He had to convince Father Jerak to take in Bransen and to care for him. That wasn't going to be easy. Certainly not. To Garibond's understanding, the monks of Abelle were not nearly as generous as they pretended.
Perhaps he could offer the monks something so they would take in Bransen. Perhaps that very book now open on the bed. Garibond quickly dismissed that notion, remembering the reaction of the Church to the book ten years before! Besides, how could he explain its existence, given that SenWi had made it appear as if the book had been burned?
Another thought came to him, an image of a marvelous sword wrapped in cloth in a dry place in his tunnels. Perhaps he could offer them the sword-a weapon unrivaled in all Honce. Yes, the monks could trade the sword to Prydae. Surely they would greatly appreciate its workmanship and the power it might offer to them in their battle for the affections of the young laird.
That was it, then, Garibond decided. The monks were his only option.
And it had to be soon, the crackling in his chest reminded him. For Bransen's sake. What would the young man even begin to do if Garibond dropped dead on the floor one morning?
He did hope that the monks would treat Bransen well, and that they would teach the boy to read the language of Honce and give him access to their books. Yes, he would have to make that a part of the bargain. Little in life other than reading offered pleasure to poor Bransen. On the first break in the weather, a couple of days later, Garibond set out from his house, leaving Bransen, as usual, with his face buried in the Book of Jhest. The boy's single-mindedness toward that book continued to amaze the man.
Garibond walked a wide and careful circuit of his house before heading to the road to Pryd Town, for he wanted to make certain that Bernivvigar was not lurking about. What defense might Bransen offer if the old wretch came calling?
Once on the road, with no sign of the Samhaist anywhere, Garibond remained uneasy and reminded himself with every fast stride to be quick about his business. To his relief, he found that he did not have far to walk, for a monk from Chapel Pryd was out and about, standing before one of the town's outermost houses.
Garibond recognized the man, though he didn't remember his name.
"My greetings, brother," he said, moving up the short path toward the monk, who seemed to be just leaving the farmhouse.
"And to you," the monk replied. "I have no time to hear your woes, I fear, but must be straightaway back to Chapel Pryd."
"I know you," Garibond said in leading tones.
The monk paused long enough to look over the man carefully.
"I am afraid that your recognition is one-sided, friend."
Garibond tried hard to place the man, and finally, as the monk started away once more, just blurted out, "I was a friend of Brother Bran Dynard's."
Again the monk stopped and studied Garibond, his gaze soon dropping to the man's waist area, which told Garibond that he had been recognized. "You are the one the Samhaist took for Laird Pryd," he said.
"Aye, and that's a reputation to put forth, is it not?" Garibond said with a helpless laugh.
"I am sorry, friend, that you fell victim to the brutish old man," the monk said. "But there is nothing I can do to alleviate-"
"I'm not here about that, Brother…"
"Reandu. Brother Reandu."
"Ah, yes, I remember our meeting after my friend Brother Dynard left for the north. Has there been any word at all?"
"Brother Dynard is believed to have been murdered on the road," said Reandu. "That, or he rejoined the Behrenese woman and fled the land of Honce, as many brothers believe."
"He did not, for she did not survive." Garibond saw that he suddenly had Reandu's complete attention.
"What do you know of it?"
"I know that she is dead. Long dead, to the loss of the world."
"And yet you ask me of Brother Dynard?"
"Of him, I know nothing, beyond that he departed from your chapel ten years ago."
"Nor do any of us, master…"
"Garibond."
"Master Garibond. I feel for your loss, for your friend and for…well, your ill treatment by Bernivvigar."
Garibond nodded.
"I need the help of the Church," Garibond stated. "Not for me and my ailments-those I accept well enough. But for my son."
Reandu looked at him curiously.
"You know of him, no doubt," said Garibond. "He is…unique and difficult to miss."
"The damaged one? The one they call Stork?"
Garibond winced at the disparaging name, but let go his anger for the sake of Bransen. "Yes, for him."
"If we believed that there was ever anything our soul stones might do for one so damaged, we would have undertaken the task years ago, brother."
"You cannot heal his maladies, of course."
"Then what?"
Garibond gave a profound sigh, and was surprised at how painful this was. He had not considered how lonely his life might be, how much less fulfilled and fulfilling, without Bransen in it. "He is a lot of work, of course, and I am growing old-and more frail because of the Samhaist beast. I fear that I will soon not be able to care for Bransen."
Reandu's wide eyes betrayed his shock. "You would ask us to take him in?"
"I would. He needs protecting."
"We have not the means, brother. We are not a house for wayward-"
"Not wayward," Garibond corrected. "I do not ask you lightly to take this burden."
"You should ask a friend."
"I cannot, for I fear for the boy. Bernivvigar got me, aye, but that did little to satisfy his blood thirst. He wants the boy."
"Speak to Laird Prydae."
Garibond knew that he didn't even need to respond to that ridiculous suggestion. They both understood that Prydae wouldn't do much to go against Bernivvigar, not at present, at least. "I do not ask lightly you to take this burden," he repeated and then added, "nor without offering you gain for your Church."
Brother Reandu started to respond, but stopped short and looked curiously at him. "Gain for the church of Blessed Abelle? You are not a man of wealth or influence, good master Garibond."
"Rightly noted," he said dryly. "But I am in possession of an item that would prove quite valuable to you in your dealings with Laird Prydae."
He paused for effect. Reandu licked his lips and bade him, "Go on."
"Do you remember Brother Dynard's wife, the Behr woman named SenWi?"