The Dame

by R. A. Salvatore

  “I do not believe that, nor do I believe that Laird Delaval would be possessed of such . . . cruelty.”

  “Then you are a fool,” said De Guilbe. “And you have softened to the point where your leadership is a danger to the Order of Abelle.”

  “Father!” Premujon shouted again, but De Guilbe shouted back at him to shut up.

  “I demand a Council of Fathers,” De Guilbe said.

  “Denied,” said Father Artolivan.

  “You cannot deny it alone!”

  “Denied,” echoed Premujon. “Two to one, then. Find more fathers of similar humor to yours and make your request at a later date.”

  “And until then, know that I will not execute the men of Laird Ethelbert, taken under honor and sent here under promise of my protection,” Father Artolivan assured him.

  “And the men of Laird Delaval?”

  “Are here as agreed. King Yeslnik will not have them turned free to serve his cause until the war with Laird Ethelbert is settled.”

  Father De Guilbe began to laugh, a chuckle that rang of little mirth in the ears of Bransen.

  “Our order has gone soft,” he said. “As with Cormack, who betrayed us.”

  “This was about Cormack all along,” Premujon accused.

  “It is about a church that forgets the harsh lessons of the wider world,” De Guilbe replied, but calmly now—and that seemed far more imposing to Bransen than his fiery rant of a few seconds before. “A church so steeped in false hope and idealism and tolerance that it ensures its own inevitable collapse.”

  “If I gave you a sword and the order from King Yeslnik, would you kill the prisoners with your own hand, Father De Guilbe?” Father Artolivan asked.

  “Yes,” the man replied without the slightest hesitation.

  Bransen did well to hide his own gasp as both Artolivan and Premujon issued theirs.

  “Because I look beyond the lives of a few and the immediacy of our current situation,” De Guilbe clarified. “War is cruel, and need be, to end it swiftly and to make the mere thought of it cause men to piss in their breeches.”

  “You sound like a Samhaist,” said Premujon, his voice subdued now as if De Guilbe’s stark admission had simply broken his will to argue.

  “You are dangerously wrong in your decisions, Father Artolivan,” said De Guilbe.

  “If you believe that, then find enough support among the brethren to force your council,” Father Artolivan wearily replied. “Truly you tire me. I sent a man of spirit and hopefulness to Alpinador those years ago, a mission that I thought De Guilbe might accomplish in bridging the differences between our ways and those of our northern brothers. This man who returns to me these years later hardly resembles the one I knew.”

  “Because I am wiser.”

  “Because you are hardened, and stubborn.”

  De Guilbe snorted, and Bransen heard heavy footfalls coming his way. He managed to jump back a couple of steps and tried to appear as if he was just arriving when the door was flung open and the large monk rushed out. With only a cursory glance at Bransen and a dismissive shake of his head, De Guilbe stormed away.

  “Greetings, Bransen Garibond,” Father Artolivan said—to Bransen’s back, since the Highwayman had turned to watch the angry De Guilbe’s departure. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit so early in the day?”

  Bransen turned about. “Your pardon, Father,” he said with a bow. “I have made a decision and wished to inform you first of all.”

  “A decision? I did not know that you were faced with a question.”

  “Concerning my destination and my place in the world.”

  The monk nodded and waved for Bransen to enter the room.

  “I will take my leave of Chapel Abelle this day,” Bransen explained. “With Dame Gwydre’s Writ of Passage in hand, I will go to clear the name of the Highwayman.”

  “King Yeslnik will kill you,” Father Premujon remarked, but Bransen merely shrugged.

  “Yeslnik seems not to be a reasonable man,” Father Artolivan added.

  “I know him well,” Bransen assured them both. “And I do not disagree regarding his temperament. But there are others I know to be reasonable and just.”

  “You will build support for your cause?”

  “That is my hope,” said Bransen. “And I hope that Father Artolivan will lend that support.” To the side, Father Premujon shifted uncomfortably, as did Brother Pinower, who had walked into the room behind Bransen.

  “I will speak truthfully to that which I know, of course,” Artolivan said. “What more would you have from me?”

  “A second Writ of Passage.”

  Artolivan looked at him incredulously, while Premujon and Pinower said no in unison.

  “You cannot ask this of Chapel Abelle,” Premujon elaborated against Bransen’s obvious disappointment. “We are in difficult straits with King Yeslnik as it is.”

  “And with some in your own ranks?” Bransen asked, and Premujon didn’t disagree.

  “You appreciate the difficulty I have in openly defying King Yeslnik at this time, on this issue?” Father Artolivan asked.

  “I do.”

  “I cannot offer you any imprimatur that would serve you against the king’s men,” Father Artolivan said. “But perhaps I can fashion some writ to add my voice to Dame Gwydre’s, some imprimatur to ensure those favorable to your cause that I witnessed Dame Gwydre’s testimony on your behalf and found it credible.” He looked around as he finished and both Pinower, who had moved up to stand beside him, and Premujon nodded their agreement, albeit with some obvious reservations.

  “That would be most helpful,” said Bransen.

  “Your wife and her mother are welcome to remain here at Chapel Abelle,” Artolivan added. “I trust you will not be bringing them along on your undoubtedly perilous journey.”

  Bransen sighed deeply; the thought of being away from Cadayle again after only a few short months together gnawed at him. Thoughts of traveling to Behr flickered through his mind once more, along with a nagging feeling that he should sail north again with Gwydre and Dawson and make his home in Vanguard. It had been a fine winter, the most peaceful and enjoyable Bransen had ever known. Beside Gwydre and Dawson and Cormack and Jond and even Premujon, Bransen and his family had felt as if they were truly among friends.

  “Bransen?” he heard Artolivan remark, and realized that he had fallen deep within himself and had missed a question or two. He shook the doubts away and looked at the leader of the Order of Abelle.

  “Your wife?” Artolivan asked.

  “I have to go,” Bransen said, as much to himself as to the others. “If Yeslnik is to be King of Honce, then I have to clear my name and regain the freedom I earned from Dame Gwydre.”

  “King Yeslnik is a stubborn one,” Father Artolivan warned. “He will not be easily swayed.”

  Bransen, knowing Yeslnik better than any in the room, nodded, but he smiled as he did, and in a flash drew out his magnificent sword. “For the third time, I will put him at the tip of my sword,” he promised, and he didn’t fight that mischievous, almost reckless, smile from widening on his face as he went into a sudden slash and thrust move, ending up in a powerful pose, sword forward. “I suspect that while his eyes are seeing the sharpened edge, his heart will see the truth of Bransen.”

  Brother Pinower looked horrified, and Father Premujon cleared his throat uncomfortably, but Father Artolivan let forth a great squeal of laughter and clapped his hands. “Brilliant!” he congratulated. “I only hope that Honce will forgive you for stopping short your deadly blade.”

  “Father!” Pinower and Premujon said together, but Artolivan waved them away and walked up to Bransen, patting the young man on the shoulder.

  “I would like for you to stay, Highwayman,” he said. “Though I know you cannot. Return to me, if you find the time.”

  “To retrieve my family, of course.”

  “And to sit with me! I have only heard small stretches of the
history of Bransen Garibond and this hero known as the Highwayman.” He paused and looked at Bransen as if seeking permission, before finishing, “And of the Stork. I would like to hear the whole story.”

  “Ask Cadayle,” Bransen replied. “She can tell it as well as I, since she was there for most of my steps, even the awkward ones of the Stork, that as often as not left me face down in the mud.”

  “Sometimes in the mud of Chapel Pryd, with buckets in hand,” said Artolivan, and Bransen looked at him, surprised that he knew so much.

  “Small stretches of your history,” Artolivan assured him. “And there is one more thing.” He reached up and touched the front of Bransen’s black bandanna, tapping right atop the soul stone hidden beneath it and secured to his forehead.

  Artolivan turned to Pinower and pointed to the desk, and then pointed more emphatically when the younger monk hesitated.

  “I have had a long discussion with Brother Cormack,” Artolivan said, and it took a moment before Bransen realized that Artolivan had added the church title to his friend’s name.

  Pinower walked over with a small, decorated box. With obvious reverence, he handed it to Artolivan, who held it before Bransen as he slowly opened its hinged lid.

  Bransen’s eyes widened as he stared at the contents: a small star-shaped brooch, no more than a fingertip across at its widest point, centered with a soul stone and containing in its five tips other stones of various colors. He recognized the ruby at its top point, flanked left and right by malachite and a particular type of agate known as cat’s eye. The striated stone set in the bottom left point he thought to be serpentine, and the other he knew as quartz, but a cloudy variety whose properties Bransen did not know.

  “This was made for Laird Delaval’s grandfather, ironically,” Artolivan explained, “in the early days of the Order of Abelle. To Father Abelle’s surprise, the laird refused it, despite its obvious powers, since we were not as accepted back in those days, when the Samhaists dominated Honce.” He lifted the brooch and slowly turned it so that Bransen could better see its wondrous craftsmanship, including small hooks and pins on the backing. “It is fashioned of silverel, the same metal as your unusual sword, and edged in graphite, the stone of lightning.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Separately, the gems are each possessed of their own blessing.”

  Bransen, who knew of the gemstones, of course, nodded. “They are all enchanted?”

  “It is a fine item,” Artolivan confirmed. “It was crafted to be sewn to the chest, above the heart, but perhaps on your forehead . . .”

  Bransen reached up and touched his bandanna. “To the cloth?”

  “To the skin itself,” said Artolivan, and Bransen’s eyes widened in surprise and a bit of trepidation. He calmed quickly as he remembered the fight on the road with Dame Gwydre’s raiders, when his bandanna and stone had been knocked away and he had been helpless against the troll enemies.

  “I have spoken about you at length with Brother Jond, as well,” Father Artolivan explained.

  “Women in Behr wear gemstones in such a manner,” added Brother Pinower. “They call it tikka, and it is considered quite beautiful.”

  “And those are simple and mundane jewels,” said Artolivan. “Magically speaking, I mean. You will find these stones useful in other ways.”

  He handed the brooch to Bransen, who slowly lifted it to his forehead with one hand, slipping free the other soul stone as he slid the new one in place. He closed his eyes and fell within the flux of energy offered by the gems.

  His ki-chi-kree, his line of life energy, remained straight and strong, as with the other soul stone. And other possibilities flitted through his thoughts, a jumble at first, but gradually sorting themselves out.

  Possibilities.

  “You would give this to me?” he asked, opening his eyes to stare hard at Father Artolivan.

  “An extraordinary gift for an extraordinary man,” Artolivan replied. “It does my old heart good to see that brooch, so long in the coffer, upon your forehead.”

  “And it looks quite good,” Father Premujon added with a smile.

  Bransen left Artolivan’s quarters with his bandanna in his hand, and he walked with the sure gait of the Highwayman, not the awkward stumble of the Stork.

  Y

  ou hate me,” Bransen said solemnly after a long and uncomfortable pause.

  Cadayle looked up at him; across the room, Callen laughed.

  “For a hero, you’re sure for saying some stupid things,” the older woman remarked. “She’s no more for hating you than you are for her, and you should be able to see that clear enough in her eyes by now.”

  “Of course I don’t,” Cadayle added, and she hugged Bransen close. “But I am afraid, and I’ll miss you dearly, as I did in Vanguard those weeks you were gone from me.”

  Bransen hugged her back even more tightly. “I know. But I have to do this. My name is clear, as Dame Gwydre agreed.”

  “We’d be free enough in Vanguard,” said Cadayle.

  “I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out how and where I belong,” Bransen replied. “Honce is our home—Pryd is our home. Even if we choose not to live there, we should be able to return at our leisure.”

  “When we left, you left a dead laird behind,” Cadayle reminded him.

  “But even that is forgiven by Gwydre.”

  “By Bannagran?”

  “I don’t know, but I will find out.” He paused, his next admission coming hard. “I want Brother Reandu—Master Reandu, I mean—to know the truth of it, to know that I am no criminal and that his order, at the very highest level, has deigned to honor and accept me.”

  “Because of your life at Chapel Pryd. Because of the way Reandu and the others treated you.”

  Bransen couldn’t deny the obvious truth of Cadayle’s observations, so he just slid back from her a bit and shrugged helplessly.

  “If Bannagran or Yeslnik catches and kills you, I’ll never forgive you,” Cadayle said, ending with a spreading grin.

  “Then you don’t hate me?”

  Callen let out a great burst of laughter.

  “I know you have to do this. I only wish I could go with you,” said Cadayle.

  “Not now.”

  “I know.”

  “Here, you hero,” said Callen and she took a couple of steps toward Bransen and tossed him his bandanna, which she had been sewing. He caught it and examined it, then slipped the now thin eye-mask on.

  “The dashing Highwayman,” said Callen.

  “They know who I am,” Bransen replied. “And now I need not hold a gemstone in place. There is no point to the disguise.”

  “Yes there is,” said Callen.

  “The common folk of Pryd know the Highwayman more than they know Bransen Garibond,” Cadayle agreed. “Your reputation is your advantage against Bannagran.”

  Bransen’s step was sure-footed but much less animated as he walked out of Chapel Abelle that afternoon. He was confident that his course was correct, and that he had justice on his side, but the thought of leaving Cadayle for an extended period yet again—even though he expected to be gone from Chapel Abelle for no more than a couple of weeks—wounded him. He glanced back to see Dame Gwydre and Dawson McKeege watching him from the wall, Gwydre nodding her approval.

  Cadayle was not there, though, and Bransen was glad of it, for had his beautiful wife been watching, he would have turned and rushed back to her.

  He sighed and laughed at himself for his own weakness, then adjusted his hat, brim low to cover the gem-studded star set in his forehead, and hoisted his pack higher on his shoulder and moved on his way. He stayed mostly to the side of the road, moving along the brush and trees, enjoying the solitude and the sounds of a world awakening in the full bloom of spring.

  He let his guard down—who wouldn’t in so idyllic and peaceful a setting?—and so he was caught by surprise when a voice called out, “You’ve got a longer road before you if ev
ery step forward is taken with half a step backwards!”

  Startled, Bransen jumped back, his hand going reflexively to the hilt of the sword set on his hip. He relaxed when the speaker, Jameston Sequin, walked out of the shadows.

  Bransen glanced all around and back the way he had come, back toward Chapel Abelle, which was long out of sight by then.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

  “Been a long time since I’ve walked the ways of Honce.”

  “Vanguard is part of Honce,” Bransen said, but Jameston, like most Vanguardsmen, dismissed that notion with a snort and a wave of his hand.

  “Haven’t been here in more years than you’ve been alive,” he continued. “Thought this’d be as good a time as any to reacquaint myself.”

  “Heading where?” Bransen said suspiciously.

  “You’d know that better than myself.”

  “I am going to Pryd Town.”

  “I am going to Pryd Town,” Jameston echoed.

  Bransen put his hands on his hips and stared at the man. “Dame Gwydre believes I need a bodyguard?”

  “Doubt that, since she sent you against Badden.”

  “But she asked you to come with me on my journey.”

  Jameston shook his head. “Was my idea.”

  “One she thought wise.”

  “I’ll give you that much. But I do want to walk the ways of Honce again, and I know more than a bit about staying out of sight and out of notice. I think you’ll find that helpful.”

  “I am no novice.”

  “Could’ve fooled me with the way you were dancing down the path. And if I was one of Yeslnik’s men, one with a bow, you’d be lying dead in the brush.”

  Bransen just stared at him hard.

  “Oh, but quit pretending,” said Jameston. “You know I’ll be helpful, you know I won’t slow you down, and you know you don’t want to walk alone. You also know, but you’re too proud to admit it, that you might learn from my long experiences. Sure, you know how to fight—you’re as good as any I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen many!—but you could learn a few things about when to fight and where to fight from, I’m thinking.”