"Yes."
"A mighty warrior, so it was said?"
"Her exploits against the powries were spoken of, yes."
"With an amazing sword, a sword more grand than anything in all the land of Honce?"
Reandu stared at him hard but did not respond.
"I assure you that if you heard any tales of that magnificent weapon, they were not exaggerated. Indeed, if anything, the people who saw the blade could not begin to understand its beauty and craftsmanship. It is a sword fit for a laird-indeed, it is beyond any weapon that any laird in all Honce now carries, or has ever carried."
"That is quite a claim."
"One I can back up, on your agreement to take Bransen into your chapel and care for him."
Reandu considered the words for a moment, then said, "I am not authorized to make such an arrangement."
"Of course, but you are capable of relaying my proposition to Father Jerak in the strongest possible terms."
"You would wish us to care for the boy until his death? For decades, likely?"
"Yes, but he is not without use. He can work for his meals, as long as the tasks are within his physical limitations. Oh, yes, and there is one more thing. I want you to teach him to read our language and to allow him access to books."
"The idiot?"
"He is no idiot," Garibond snapped back. "Do not confuse physical deformity with mental weakness-it was a mistake that I long made. He can read, I am certain. It is a skill that will allow him to transcend the limitations of his flesh."
Reandu kept shaking his head, his expression sour, but he did reply, "I will take this matter to Father Jerak and Brother Bathelais."
Garibond could ask for nothing more. He nodded and rushed away, hoping that Bernivvigar had not learned in the meantime that Bransen was all alone. "He has her sword," Brother Bathelais mused aloud. He stared out the window of Father Jerak's audience chamber, overlooking the windy courtyard inside the chapel's outer front wall. Bathelais remembered Dynard out there sweeping the leaves. He remembered SenWi, a wisp of a thing, really, and quite beautiful in her exotic southern way. He had never seen this supposed sword, but he had met a few who had, and their description of it was nothing short of incredible.
"We are to take in this creature and care for him?" Father Jerak asked doubtfully. "Are we to throw wide our doors to all with maladies, then?"
"This is an exceptional matter, and an exceptional malady, perhaps," said Reandu. "And Garibond has assured me that the boy can do menial tasks and needs little care."
Father Jerak snorted.
"Perhaps this is an opportunity to display compassion," Reandu said.
"Have you not heard the chanting of the Samhaists at night?" Brother Bathelais interjected. "Do you not see Rennarq ever at Laird Prydae's side? What venom might he be whispering into Prydae's ear? This is the time for strength, brother, not compassion."
"Less than a century ago, a wise man proclaimed compassion to be strength, I believe," Reandu replied. He knew from Bathelais's immediate scowl that perhaps he had crossed a line in invoking the words of Blessed Abelle.
"It might well be compassion that costs us nothing," Father Jerak remarked. "This sword-you have seen it?"
"No, father."
"Then go to this peasant Garibond-both of you. Bid him to show it to you, and if you judge this sword as valuable as we believe, agree to his terms. I know this young Prydae, and if we are in possession of a weapon that will elevate his warrior status, it will prove a marvelous incentive to help us move the Samhaists from his side."
"This boy, this creature, slobbers," Bathelais reminded.
"And we have duties appropriate for one of his idiocy," said Jerak.
At that point, Brother Bathelais sighed, looked at Reandu, and said, "Let us go, then. I pray the sword will be naught but a line of rust, but we shall see." Garibond held the package up before him and slowly unwrapped the cloth holding the fabulous sword of SenWi. And as he pulled the layers of cloth from the weapon, he saw the layers of doubt melt away from Brother Bathelais's face. The silverel steel gleamed in the sunlight and the snake-head hilt sparkled. Not a speck of rust marred the blade, not a sign of wear or age. It was as SenWi had crafted it, and as she had left it.
"It has no equal north of the mountains," Garibond said with great confidence. "Not in all of Honce."
"It seems thin," Bathelais said.
"Because the metal is stronger than bronze and stronger than iron," Garibond explained. He drew forth the sword completely from the wrapping and waved it, then nodded to the two monks and snapped it suddenly to the side, where it cut deep into the trunk of a tree. He extracted the sword, pulled it back, then stabbed the tree, and the fine tip dove in to an impressive depth.
Again Garibond pulled the sword out, and he rolled it over in his hands and presented it hilt first to Bathelais.
The monk took the extraordinary weapon and moved it around slowly, marveling at its light weight and balance.
When both Bathelais and Garibond looked at Reandu, they saw that he was smiling, and that drew a nod from the ever-doubting Bathelais.
"Do we have an agreement?" Garibond asked, taking back the weapon. "You take Bransen in and you keep him safe from Bernivvigar. He'll work for you, and without complaint. You give him a chance."
"There is nothing we can do for the…boy with our gemstones," Bathelais said. "We will not waste the time and energy in trying."
Garibond suppressed his anger and managed a nod. He handed the sword to Bathelais and went to the house, emerging a few moments later with Bransen, who was carrying a large sack, beside him.
"The Stork," Bathelais whispered to Reandu.
Brother Reandu didn't respond and didn't let Bathelais see his disdain at the remark. In truth, Reandu was hardly certain from whence that disdain had come or why the name, which he himself had often used, struck him as so unseemly coming from Bathelais. He watched Bransen's awkward but determined approach. The boy was afraid, he could plainly see, but he also appeared eager to please. Perhaps behind the ungainly hip-swerving, stiff-legged strides and behind the smears of drool on his crooked face there was something else.
A boy, perhaps?
Just a boy?
22
I Will Not Fail Garibond Garibond said this is important. He needs me to work here, so the brothers will heal him and feed him. I will not fail Garibond. Bransen let this litany repeat over and over in his head, leading him through his dreary days at Chapel Pryd. He had come there full of hope and excited at the prospect of having so many people around him who, Garibond had assured him, would not push him to the ground or laugh at him.
They hadn't done anything like that, and that was good. Unfortunately, they also weren't really around him at all. He had been given a room in the substructure of the chapel, a windowless, empty little square of stone and dirt. There was only one way in or out, a ladder and trapdoor that Bransen couldn't hope to operate on his own. Thus, every morning, one of the younger brothers came and opened the door, then reached in and lifted him out so that he could go about his chores, which amounted to carrying the chamber pots down to the river for emptying and cleaning, two at a time. It took him most of the day, and at the end of his journeys, another brother set him back in his hole, along with a single candle, a flagon of water, and a plate of food.
That was Bransen's day, his life, his solitude. I will not fail Garibond, got him through it.
He knew that his work here was making life better for his father, for the man who had given so much to help him.
I will not fail Garibond.
Bransen brought his mother's black outfit with him and used it as a pillow. The soft silk smelled of her, he decided, and that gave him comfort. And it was comfort he needed, despite his resolve that he wouldn't fail Garibond, because as much as he missed the company of his father, he missed the company of his real father's work and of his mother's philosophy. He didn't have the Book of Jhest; he didn't have any books. He often tried to broach the subject with one of the brothers or another, but these men had no patience for his stuttering and never let him get the request out. In fact, they never really listened to anything he tried to say.