The Dame

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Laird Panlamaris, I protest!” Father Malskinner said.

  “I expect you would!”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Malskinner demanded.

  “Your Father Artolivan has declared opposition to King Yeslnik,” Panlamaris calmly explained. “So it follows that he has declared his opposition to me, loyal to Yeslnik as I am. If your leader is going to declare war you would be wise to be better prepared than to walk into your enemy’s castle.”

  Malskinner bristled impotently. “I demand that you release us!”

  Panlamaris laughed at him and motioned to the guards. The prodding of halberds quickly had the two monks moving toward the room’s side door.

  “Take their gemstones,” Panlamaris instructed.

  “I demand you release us to the Chapel of Precious Memories!” Father Malskinner cried again.

  “Where my guards are even now collecting the rest of your treasonous band,” Panlamaris declared. “Your chapel is my chapel now, monk. I will have your inventory of gemstones and all the gold you have taken from the people of Palmaristown these last decades. Your welcome in my domain is at its end.”

  Father Malskinner started to protest but stopped walking as he did and got stuck hard in the arm by one of the long weapons. He yelped and clutched at the wound then reached reflexively for the small pouch of stones he had hanging on a sash at his left side.

  The tip of a halberd pressing against his throat stopped that movement. A second guard produced a knife, stepped in to cut the pouch free.

  “You and your flock will remain as my guests,” Panlamaris said. “For as long as I decide. Perhaps you will know freedom again. Perhaps not, but I assure you that any actions you take against me, my people, or my king will be returned with . . . vigor.”

  B

  rother Fatuus had spent many of his days down at the dock section of Palmaristown and so knew the group of men who walked into the Chapel of Precious Memories. These were the dock masters, even the harbor master himself, tough and disciplined and loyal to Laird Panlamaris.

  They were armed, though they came in with their weapons sheathed, but Fatuus felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. He alone among the brothers of the Chapel of Precious Memories had been to Chapel Abelle in recent months to warn them of the approach of the Highwayman, and so he appreciated the gravity of Father Artolivan’s declaration perhaps most of all. He had seen the prisoners of both Ethelbert and Delaval and understood the insanity of King Yeslnik’s demand that one group be freed and the other executed. These men and women worked side by side at Chapel Abelle; the lines of loyalty had been blurred to nothingness. And not one of them by Fatuus’s estimation would prefer to be sent from Chapel Abelle if that meant going back to the front lines of the awful war. Even offering complete freedom and land, Dawson McKeege had been unable to convince more than a handful to sail with him to Vanguard!

  Thus King Yeslnik’s declaration had been a fool’s writ. But for Father Artolivan to make such a bold response, as relayed by Brother Pontitious, was no small thing.

  Brother Fatuus knew Laird Panlamaris well, too. He had watched the man swell with pride over the last few months as his son scored great victories across the land in the name of King Delaval and now King Yeslnik. Panlamaris remained unwavering in his support for King Yeslnik.

  These armed loyalists were not in the Chapel of Precious Memories by accident or coincidence, nor was the sudden and unexplained absence of Father Malskinner and Brother Honig a coincidence.

  “Tell the brothers to quietly slip into the streets,” Fatuus whispered to a nearby pair of monks. “Move to the eastern gate with all haste and with as many gemstones as can be carried.”

  “Brother?” one of the monks asked incredulously.

  “With all haste,” said Fatuus. “And beware the men in the nave.”

  “Laird Panlamaris’s men,” one of them said, as if that fact should be reassuring.

  “Shed your robes and go dressed as common folk,” Fatuus added. “Go now.”

  When the pair hesitated, Fatuus shoved them hard, launching them on their way. Then he took a deep breath, recognizing his duty here. Accepting his lot as the highest-ranking brother within the chapel, Fatuus went to the nave to greet the visitors.

  Less than half an hour later, Fatuus was dropped in chains before Laird Panlamaris’s throne. Throughout the rest of the day, he watched as brother after brother, often severely beaten, was brought in and dropped unceremoniously on the floor.

  The next day, Laird Panlamaris’s dungeons swelled with monk prisoners, for only a handful of the fourscore brothers of the Chapel of Precious Memories had managed to escape the city.

  SEVENTEEN

  Saving Future Allies

  J

  ameston Sequin was not a sound sleeper. Living most of his life alone in the wilds of Vanguard and southern Alpinador, the man had trained himself to react to the slightest of sounds or movements.

  His eyes opened wide this dark night, and he was surprised indeed when he looked to the side to see that Bransen’s bedroll was empty. Jameston silently congratulated the young man; escaping Jameston unnoticed was no small feat!

  The scout lay very still for a few moments, allowing his sensibilities to fully adjust to the darkness. He rolled silently to his side, tucked and set his foot under him, then just as silently rose up tall and gathered his bow and quiver. He heard another sound then, a slight shuffle, and followed it to a small clearing.

  Bransen stood in the middle of the lea, working his fine sword furiously through a series of practice cuts and blocks, a brilliant dance of perfect balance, which again reminded Jameston of just how good a fighter this young man truly was. Jameston rested the tip of his bow on the ground beside him and leaned on it, enjoying the show.

  Bransen turned in one mock attack to the side and then spun all the way around, looking right at Jameston.

  Jameston knew that he had been seen, and that confused him and unnerved him more than a little. For the night was not bright—only a few stars twinkled above—and he was fully engulfed in the darker shadows of a stand of thick spruce. Bransen couldn’t have seen him from that distance, not viewing from the lighter open lea to the darker shadows.

  But Bransen had seen him. Of that Jameston was certain.

  The scout shook his head and continued to watch as Bransen finished with a flurry, moving from a series of defensive poses and blocks to a sudden and violent forward movement, sword thrusting. The young man ended by lifting that magnificent blade high to his right. To Jameston’s astonishment the blade erupted in a sudden burst of flames!

  “How the . . . ?” Jameston stuttered, compelled to walk forward. His surprise only heightened as Bransen, seeming as surprised as Jameston by the flaming sword, reached over with his free hand and felt the burning blade.

  “They’re not hot flames, then,” Jameston reasoned as he walked up beside Bransen. He reached toward the fiery sword, snatching his hand back immediately. An all-too-real fire danced on the shining metal of that beautifully etched sword blade.

  Bransen looked at him with puzzlement and shrugged.

  “I never saw your sword do that before,” said Jameston. “I never heard of any sword doing that before!”

  “It’s not the sword,” Bransen replied. He pointed to the star set on his forehead, three of the gems—ruby, serpentine, and the agate—twinkling. “The ruby gave me the fire. The serpentine shielded me from its heat.”

  “Nice brooch.”

  “I grew up among gemstone users in Chapel Pryd,” Bransen explained. “My connection to the stones and their powers is considerable.” He paused and smiled widely. “The cat’s eye let me see you as clearly as if you were standing in the midday sunlight.” He looked at his sword as he spoke, and with a thought, winked out the fires, leaving the silverel blade unscarred.

  “Full of surprises,” Jameston remarked.

  “Even to myself.”

  “And what else
can you do with that toy you’ve got stuck on your head?”

  Again Bransen shrugged. “I don’t know—yet. But I will find out.”

  Jameston stared at him for a few moments then headed to the campsite. “Long walk tomorrow,” he said without looking back. “And not many hours left before we start it.”

  Bransen nodded, though Jameston wasn’t watching him. The young man didn’t immediately follow. Instead he stood under the stars, staring at his sword, trying to sort out the unexpected benefits the brooch had shown him, and wondering what more might yet come.

  They were off early in the morning, Jameston setting a swift pace. Signs along the road indicated a village not too far in the distance, and Jameston wanted to get there before they set their next camp. “Maybe we can try out that writ of yours,” he said. “Or you can just wear the deerskin coat and pants and keep a hat on your head.”

  “No,” said Bransen. “My clothing suits me. I am Bransen the Highwayman. I will not hide who I am. Dame Gwydre says I need not.”

  “The man who calls himself King of Honce says you do.”

  Bransen couldn’t help but snort at the reference to Yeslnik. “I expect that I will have to visit with the man who calls himself King of Honce, then.”

  “To convince him?”

  “To take his money. To make his wife swoon for no better reason than to see the anger on his face.”

  “Then he’ll want you dead even more.”

  “Then I’ll have to kill him and hope his successor is more reasonable.”

  Jameston stopped abruptly and stared at his companion, who was grinning and obviously enjoying the banter. “Took my advice, did you?”

  In response, Bransen hopped and skipped lightly, landing in an exaggerated heroic pose. Jameston enjoyed the best laugh he had known in many years.

  “I should thank you,” Bransen said.

  “Oh?”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Dame Gwydre’s a friend, and she’s better served if you learn to keep your head on your shoulders.”

  Bransen, smiling all the more widely, shook his head through every word. “This isn’t about Dame Gwydre. Not entirely, at least. So I thank you for teaching and most of all for reminding me.”

  “You do have a way of talking in riddles, boy.”

  “Reminding me to smile,” Bransen said. “And to enjoy this, as trying as it may be.”

  “Well, what’s the point otherwise?”

  “There is none!” Bransen gave a little laugh and dropped a hand comfortably (surprising to both) on Jameston’s shoulder. “And so I thank you, Jameston Sequin. Because of you I have remembered my past and what I have overcome to get to this point.”

  Jameston gave an exaggerated deep bow.

  “I’ve been in love with Cadayle since I was a boy, you know,” Bransen said.

  “Good taste.”

  “But I never, ever dared believe she could love me in return.”

  “Because you were the broken boy, the Stork?”

  Bransen stared at him and couldn’t respond past the lump in his throat.

  “You figured she loved you after you found a way around that infirmity?” Jameston asked. Bransen’s tight expression turned into a perplexed look. “So now you doubt that she—”

  “Never!” Bransen retorted. “I doubt nothing about Cadayle.”

  Jameston’s smile relaxed him a bit. “And you shouldn’t,” the scout said. “Easy enough to see in her eyes. Cadayle loves Bransen, not the Highwayman. Cadayle’s always loved Bransen, but she probably wasn’t sure that he could ever love her. Could you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you were the Stork, could you have loved Cadayle?”

  “I did!”

  “And you would have married her, even if you hadn’t found the answer to your problem in that gemstone you wear on your head?”

  “Jameston, of course! I have loved her . . .” Bransen paused then and assumed a pensive pose, truly asking himself that question for the very first time. If he was still an infirm and unsteady creature and Cadayle professed her love for him, would he have accepted her proposal?

  “No,” he answered at last. He looked at the scout, dumbfounded, and shook his head. “I would not have let her marry me.”

  “I know. And I know that she wouldn’t have let your condition stop her from wanting to marry you. Don’t ever let yourself think that you weren’t good enough for her, boy. You’re still the Stork, and he’s still you, and Cadayle loves you.”

  The two men stared at each other for a bit longer before Jameston complained about needing sleep. He patted Bransen on the shoulder and walked back to their camp, leaving Bransen with the realization that the Highwayman wasn’t the only one full of surprises this night.

  Bransen was still considering the conversation of the previous night when they broke camp the next morning. His gratitude to Jameston Sequin had only grown as he had pondered the great gift the man had given him. Jameston had seen into his soul, it seemed, and had offered a salve to a wound that lay there, one that Bransen had never even openly acknowledged to himself.

  There was a new spring in Bransen’s step. He was feeling quite good about himself, about the possibilities of the gemstone brooch, and about the woman he had left behind in Chapel Pryd. That step did slow as the sun lowered in the west, however, as he and Jameston moved down the cobblestones into the heart of Eskald.

  They heard the whispers coming at them from every direction as they entered the town.

  “The Highwayman!”

  “That’s him!”

  “The Highwayman has come!”

  “You’ve made quite a name for yourself, boy,” Jameston said.

  “We’re not far from Pryd Town,” Bransen whispered back. “And, yes, something important happened there of which I was more than a small part.”

  “They appreciate it,” Jameston observed.

  Bransen didn’t reply, but his smile showed that he was not so far above basking in the compliments. Jameston liked seeing that from the young and exotic man. Though he had been a loner, nearly a recluse in recent years, Jameston Sequin was no neophyte in recognizing and understanding the foibles of men and women. Bransen’s acceptance of the complimentary remarks with such inner satisfaction reinforced the depth of Bransen’s humanity in Jameston’s mind. No man or woman, not laird nor dame nor general nor cobbler nor blacksmith, could work for the betterment of others without some measure of personal pride. Many people viewed that as a failing, as hubris, but Jameston knew it to be a simple and acceptable truth of human nature. Charity came from the heart, and accepting the compliments only reinforced the notion that such charity was correctly given.

  If Bransen had not been smiling, if Bransen had not quietly acknowledged the whispers of the villagers around him, Jameston would have worried that Bransen’s actions—the very actions which had inspired the awe-filled whispers—had not been taken for their benefit.

  The pair made their way to the village’s common room, where all eyes turned upon them as they took seats at a small, round table. The serving girl began to move their way, but the tavern keeper, an older and severe-looking woman with short hair curling tightly to her rather square forehead and a small but tight frame, held the serving girl back and went to see to the guests herself.

  “Ye got some belly for walking in here open,” she remarked.

  “A fine day to you, too, good lady,” said Jameston.

  “It could be,” she replied curtly.

  “Would you prefer that we leave?” Bransen asked.

  “Makes no nevermind to me. Go where ye want, but go looking over yer shoulder if ye got any sense between yer ears.”

  “I have a Writ of Passage from a Honce laird . . . err, lady,” Bransen said, holding it up.

  “One loyal to Ethelbert or Yeslnik?”

  “I do not really know.”

  “Best be hoping it’s Yeslnik and that he’s listening,” t
he tavern keeper said. “So are ye eating or drinking or both?”

  “You would still serve us?” Jameston asked.

  “Am I looking like a soldier to ye?”

  “A little bit, yes.”

  That brought a chuckle from the woman. She told Jameston of a fine stew and a finer brew, and that seemed like just the thing for the road-weary duo.

  When she went to get their meal, Jameston kept up the small talk, chattering to Bransen about the weather and other nonsense. So out of character was the man of few words that Bransen looked at him strangely.

  “I thought that squirrel was going to jump down and bite your neck,” Jameston said.

  Bransen’s jaw hung open at the gibberish.

  “What with them two by the door staring at us like that,” said Jameston. “More than a furry-tailed rat can take.”

  Bransen’s mouth started to form the question “What?” when Jameston’s words began to register. He began laughing, a bit too much, and used the hopeful distraction to get a look at the men by the door.

  That quick glance confirmed Jameston’s concern as valid: grim faces staring intently—too intently—at Bransen.

  He turned back to Jameston and began talking about a squirrel chasing a skunk, the pair by the door enough in view out of the corner of his eye for Bransen to see them depart.

  “Trouble,” Jameston said seriously.

  “Do we eat or do we leave?”

  “If you leave, I’ll just eat yours, too.”

  Their meal went off quietly. One of the too-curious men who had left returned to his previous seat by the door and did a poor job pretending that he wasn’t staring at them.

  “Try not to look too intimidating, and we’ll have a bit of fun,” Jameston remarked as they rose to leave.

  The pair passed right near the spy as they exited the tavern. Jameston dipped the tip of his tricornered hat to the tavern keeper. Bransen tossed a mischievous wink at the seated man. Outside they found the street strangely empty, the long shadows stretching into a wider darkness as the sun fell below the western horizon.