Garibond rocked back on his heels, his mind spinning.
"You would be wise to speak openly and truthfully," Bathelais added. "For your sake and the sake of the boy."
"He is Bran Dynard's son," Garibond blurted, and he was surprised at the shock that came over Bathelais, as if he had caught the man completely off guard with the admission he believed the man to be anticipating.
"Bran Dynard," Brother Reandu said. "And SenWi." With both names, he emphasized the first syllables. "Bran and Sen," he clarified to those astride the horses about him.
"Bransen," said the third monk, whom Garibond did not know.
"When was the boy born?" Bathelais demanded. "Soon after Dynard departed?"
"Or soon before," Garibond admitted.
"And so the mother was here, all the while," reasoned the monk. "When all the holding was searching for the outlaw SenWi, she was kept safe through her pregnancy in the home of Garibond Womak." As he spoke, Bathelais looked at the soldiers, particularly at Bannagran, whose lips went very tight and whose dark eyes bored holes in old Garibond.
"She was no outlaw," Garibond managed to whisper, and his voice grew even weaker as all the riders began to dismount.
"Save yourself more trouble, and more for the boy, do not doubt," Brother Bathelais said to him. "Tell us where it is."
"SenWi is dead."
"Not the creature of Behr. The heretical book that Brother Dynard scribed. We know that there were two."
Garibond shook his head. "Two? No, there was only the one."
"Destroyed in the hearth in Father Jerak's room?" asked Bathelais.
"So I have heard."
Bathelais's smile became that of a predator that had finally cornered its meal. "And pray tell me how you heard of such a thing?" he asked. "Certainly few even in Chapel Pryd knew of the destruction, for few even knew of the work. How could Garibond Womak, who lives out here on the edge of the wilderness, know of such a thing as that?"
Garibond swallowed hard. "Word spreads quickly."
"Not that word!" Bathelais snapped. To the others, he said, "Tear out every stone of the walls if you must. I will have that book."
He looked back at Garibond, his scowl increasing. "Make it easy, master Womak. Your trouble has only just begun, and it will soon end, I assure you, but if you make it easy, then I will make your passing easy."
There it was. Bathelais had just branded him a heretic, and from that, there could be no appeal. He felt his knees go weak beneath him, but he stubbornly held himself up.
"For the sake of the boy, then?" Bathelais added.
The weakness was gone, replaced by a wall of anger. Garibond tried to respond with a barrage of insult and accusation, tried to scream out that this Church of Blessed Abelle was a sham under the leadership of Father Jerak, that Bran Dynard was the finest man he had ever known, and SenWi the finest woman, that all of the monks' pretense could not hide the awful truth.
He wanted to say all that, but all that came out was a wad of spit, aimed at Brother Bathelais's face.
The monk didn't flinch, and he slowly brought his arm up to wipe his face. He stared at Garibond hatefully all the while, and that was the last image he knew before a sudden burst of pain erupted on the side of his head and he fell away into blackness.
He awoke much later-he knew not how much time had passed-to the sound of voices and the crackle of wood. Immediately he was assaulted by a wave of smoke, stinging his eyes and throat.
And he felt the pain suddenly in his feet and shins. He squirmed and realized that he was lashed tightly, his hands behind his back and around a stake.
"I had hoped you would not awaken," came a sympathetic voice. Garibond managed to open his eyes enough to see Brother Reandu, with Brother Bathelais lurking right behind.
The waves of heat and smoke engulfed him. He heard himself screaming as the fires of Church justice curled the skin of his legs, as his woolen tunic ignited, and a million points of pain screamed out in protest.
He thrashed and he cried. And he choked and gagged, and couldn't find any air at all to draw into his burning lungs.
Just beyond the pyre, the soldiers, the monks, and a few curious neighbors watched the man pass from life.
"You could have made a grand spectacle and example of him," Bannagran said to Brother Bathelais.
"That is what Bernivvigar would do," Bathelais replied, and his voice was subdued and full of regret.
"It teaches proper respect."
"Respect?" Bathelais said, turning to regard the soldier. "This is an unpleasant necessity. This"-he held up the book the soldiers had found in a secret cubby in Garibond's tunnel complex-"is not an issue for public discourse." He looked down at the book for a long moment, then tossed it into the fire.
"This all ends here," Bathelais instructed. "All of it. Garibond is gone and the pagan tome is finally destroyed. We will speak of it no more."
And he went to his horse, and the others followed.
And the neighbors were left to watch the flames roar against the late afternoon sky and to bury the husk of Garibond's body the next day. Part III God's Year 74
23
Walking-Awkwardly-in Place Bransen stood in the growing darkness outside Chapel Pryd. At just under five and a half feet he was smaller than most men, and since he could not stand straight, he seemed even shorter. His battered, bony frame barely topped a hundred and twenty pounds, making him closer in weight to the average woman than man. His hair hung long and black and his beard was scraggly, unkempt whiskers dotting his chin and cheeks, along with splotches of angry-looking hives. The unique and purplish birthmark on his right arm had not diminished, yet another mar on a body so full of imperfection.
His teeth were straight and white, his best feature, but they were rarely seen, for Bransen didn't smile often. Every day of every week led him on the same journey through Chapel Pryd to the river. Every night found him in his underground chamber, whose walls were smooth and unmarked-as the monks had moved him to another room and regularly inspected his walls.
Only three things sustained Bransen: his memories of the Book of Jhest, whose words he recited in his mind every day as he went about his chores; the conversations and lessons of the brothers in the room above him, particularly when they used the formal speech of ancient times as they read stories of legendary heroism and valiant deeds; and finally, the few scraps of mostly illegible parchments that Brother Reandu had generously obtained for him, pages ripped from old and decrepit tomes and errant works produced by tired brothers. Reandu hadn't been able to teach Bransen any more than the basics of this form of writing, but playing with those pages and trying to make sense of the words had greatly benefitted the curious young man, at least in relieving the boredom of his life.
It was the Book of Jhest, transcribed in his mind, that truly sustained him.
Especially at moments like this. These few minutes each day, after his last trip to the river, afforded Bransen the privacy and opportunity to further explore those words of wisdom implanted in his mind.
Very slowly, Bransen visualized his chi, starting at his forehead. He moved his internal eye down the line, collecting all the scattered flashes of life energy as he went. His lips stopped quivering, the drool held back. His head stopped lolling and settled in balance. His shoulders straightened and his arms stopped twitching and flailing. He couldn't see it, but the red splotches that so marred his face disappeared, although the birthmark on his right upper arm did not.
He took a deep and calming breath as his inner eye moved down the line between his lungs and to his belly.
Bransen stood perfectly straight.
Bransen stood perfectly steady.
Slowly, he lifted his arms before him, then above his head. He brought them down to his sides as he rooted his feet into the ground. In that moment, Bransen, the boy they called Stork, was so strong, and he believed that he could hold his ground and footing even if Laird Prydae charged into him!