Despite his reservations at the initial sharp retort, Reandu moved closer, eyeing the marvelous piece of jewelry. “Yes, but even so,” he said, reaching up to touch the brooch. “You seem more comfortable and stable.”
“I am.”
“All the gems . . . are they magical? Where did you get such a marvelous piece?”
“They are, and this was put upon my forehead by Father Artolivan of Chapel Abelle,” Bransen answered.
Reandu fell back another step and looked at him incredulously. “Father Artolivan gave that to you?”
“I just said as much.”
“It is . . . unexpected.”
“That he would offer it, or that I would take it?” Bransen asked.
“Both!”
Bransen chuckled. “I served Dame Gwydre in exchange for her Writ of Passage. I dealt a great blow to the Samhaists when I took Ancient Badden’s head from his shoulders. Father Artolivan knows that I am no enemy to him or his church. Does Brother Reandu?”
“Of course!”
Bransen eyed him doubtfully, then smiled as he produced a second parchment, the writ from Father Artolivan. He handed it to Reandu, who read it with eyes so wide that they seemed as if they might roll from their sockets.
“I understand your actions here, Bransen. Perhaps better than anyone. I saw the punishments you endured at the hands of the people of Pryd, at the demands of Laird Prydae, at—”
“The punishments my innocent father endured?” Bransen interrupted. “At the hands of the Samhaists and Laird Prydae?”
“And at the hands of Chapel Pryd,” Master Reandu admitted without further prompting. “What am I to say, my old friend? I did not approve of the treatment of Garibond, nor do I think the treatment offered to your mother and father fair or wise, though I was not involved in those decisions. I was not a voice of power within Chapel Pryd. . . .”
Reandu’s voice trailed off when Bransen put up a hand. It occurred to Bransen then just how much of the upper hand he had gained in the last few months. Here was Reandu, Master Reandu, the acting leader of Chapel Pryd, stuttering and stammering excuses to him. Bransen did well to hide his amusement for Reandu’s sake. He reminded himself of Reandu’s commitment to him, such as it was, in the dark days.
“I am glad that you were not punished for your actions at Castle Pryd,” Bransen said, referring to Reandu’s intervention against Master Bathelais when Bathelais had sought to stop Bransen with a blast of lightning.
“Master Bathelais did not recover from his fall,” Reandu said, his voice low, his guilt all too clear. “I am not proud of how I attained my current position, but I am grateful to Father Artolivan and the masters at Chapel Abelle for their understanding and faith in me.”
“I have not forgotten the sins of your chapel,” Bransen said. “But neither have I forgotten the day you helped me with the chamber pots or when you washed the filth from me. I am not your enemy, Master Reandu.”
That proclamation brought a profound sigh of relief from the brother. “It does my heart good to see you standing so straight and tall,” he said once again after a few heartbeats of slow and steady breathing. “I do not lament the passing of the Stork.”
“Even if in his stead comes the Highwayman, whom King Yeslnik hates above all?”
“King Yeslnik is wrong,” said Reandu.
The startling words had Bransen lifting his eyebrows.
“And more the fool for the edict he issued to Father Artolivan,” Reandu said, trying to keep his voice low. “He would have our order act as executioners and go back on our promises. Does he believe that the holdings of Honce will rally to his flag when he would so callously murder the many men whose only crime was to serve the lairds they had known all their lives?”
“I watched your conversation with Bannagran earlier this morning,” Bransen admitted, and Reandu looked at him curiously. “Regarding the disposition of the prisoners, who are now brothers, it would seem. I was in a high window overlooking the nave.”
Though they were not in the high-roofed nave, Reandu reflexively glanced up before shaking his head and reminding himself to doubt nothing about this surprising young man.
“I would not have allowed the prisoners to be killed,” Reandu said after he sorted through the startling information.
“You handed Bannagran the knife.”
“Because he would never have killed them,” said Reandu. “Bannagran is no murderer.”
“Garibond,” Bransen said.
Reandu shook his head. “His fire has dimmed with the wisdom of age. He has served the people of Pryd well as steward and now as laird. They have come to trust him and love him, and they follow him into battle.”
Bransen shrugged as if he hardly cared. “I hope you are right, for the sake of the people of Pryd.”
After a long and uncomfortable pause, with Master Reandu clearly caught between his hopes for Bransen and his growing loyalty to Bannagran, the monk asked, “Will you return to Pryd Town when you have cleared your name?”
Bransen replied with a grin that revealed . . . nothing. For only when he had heard that question had he realized that it hardly mattered. The entire reason for his journey to Pryd, to secure a home for his growing family, hardly mattered to him at that time.
The Jhesta Tu had come to Honce.
W
hile Bransen was meeting with Master Reandu, Jameston Sequin walked out of Chapel Pryd and over to the next impressive structure. He was stopped at the gates of Castle Pryd by grim-faced guards, crossing halberds before him and looking very much like they would enjoy eviscerating him.
Jameston just laughed at them. “Go and tell your laird that a friend of Dame Gwydre of Vanguard would like a word with him,” he instructed.
Neither guard budged.
“Would you deny the Dame of Vanguard access to your Laird Bannagran?” Jameston asked. “Without even asking Laird Bannagran? I’ve known more than a few presumptuous guards. They’re all dead now, of course, but I admire their spirit.”
The guards looked at each other for a moment, then one backed away and started into the castle. He picked up his pace almost at once, which amused Jameston greatly.
Soon after, Jameston found himself standing before Laird Bannagran.
“Jameston Sequin at your service, good Laird of Pryd Town,” he said with a bow. “Come from Vanguard to your door.”
“If you wish to ingratiate your Lady Gwydre to me you would have been wiser to come in to Pryd Town separate from the Highwayman.”
Jameston laughed. “Wouldn’t even have found my way to your town.”
“You find this amusing?” Bannagran asked grimly.
“All of it, in a sad manner,” Jameston replied. “Guess that’s why I spend most of my time walking the forests of Vanguard and Alpinador.”
“What do you want?”
Jameston nodded at Bannagran’s short response. “I’m a good friend of Dame Gwydre and empowered to speak for her. I’d be a sorry emissary if I didn’t pay a visit to the laird.”
“A visit? Should I set a banquet table?”
“I’m not your enemy, nor is Dame Gwydre,” said Jameston.
“The politics of the world are not my own to decide.”
“Just yours to laugh at, helplessly,” Jameston quipped. “Oh, I see that in your eyes, Laird Bannagran of Pryd. Tired of war, tired of stupid lairds and stupider kings and stupider reasons for men killing men.”
“You pretend to know more than you do,” Bannagran replied. “I have no time for your pointless banter. You came seeking audience, and, as you claim to be a spokesman for Dame Gwydre, I granted your request. Do you have anything of value to say, or are you just here to annoy me?”
Jameston laughed at that.
“Do not try my patience,” Bannagran warned. “Other men who have done so have lost their heads.”
“That wouldn’t be a wise choice for you,” Jameston replied. “Gwydre’s got no fight with you, nor do I, and I
doubt King Yeslnik would appreciate you starting a war with Vanguard.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to tell you of Bransen, the Highwayman,” Jameston replied. “He had nothing to do with the murder of King Delaval. He was in Vanguard, maybe even in Alpinador, at the time, and I’ve been with him every moment since he sailed south across the gulf with Dame Gwydre.”
“Gwydre is in Honce proper?”
“Left her at Chapel Abelle,” Jameston explained. “I’m not thinking she’s pleased with what she’s seeing here in the south.”
“That is not my concern.”
“But the Highwayman is.”
“And?”
“He had nothing to do with the murder of Delaval.”
“So you believe that matters a whit?”
“Not in your world,” Jameston replied with a snort. “But I think it does to you.”
Bannagran stared at him hard.
“He’s a fine fighter, that one,” Jameston said. Bannagran didn’t blink. “He could have killed you.”
“Your insults do not serve Dame Gwydre here.”
“No insult, just observation,” said Jameston. “You might have saved yourself when he had his blade at your chin, I suppose, but he had you when he went past you, and you know it.”
Bannagran continued his unflinching stare.
“But he didn’t stick you, did he? And he could have, in a fight you started.”
“Do you have a point here, other than to insult?”
“No insult intended,” Jameston said and bowed low. “I’m only saying so because I’m thinking you should take a closer look at this young man you call the Highwayman. There’s more to him than you think.”
“Thank you for your advice. I will inform Dame Gwydre that her observant emissary is a wise man.”
Jameston grinned at the unrelenting sarcasm, seeing it for what it was. “Bransen had nothing to do with Delaval’s death,” he repeated. “That doesn’t matter to King Yeslnik, but I believe it matters to you.”
“Take care your words.”
“Bransen’s not the reason you’re so mad right now,” Jameston dared to press on. “I see the twist in your face, Laird Bannagran of Pryd. You know what is right and what simply is. When what simply is doesn’t match with what is right, it sticks you harder than Bransen’s sword ever could.”
“You presume a lot, emissary.”
“I’ve seen a lot, good laird,” Jameston replied, bowing low again.
“Is there anything more?”
“I’ll pass along your well wishes to Dame Gwydre when I see her again.”
Bannagran just sighed as Jameston took his leave.
TWENTY
Focusing Purpose
D
ame Gwydre sat on the balcony of her lavish room at St. Mere Abelle, looking across the expansive courtyard to the front wall and beyond, where the first flickers of evening campfires began to sprout among the ranks of Laird Panlamaris’s besieging force.
“Second thoughts?” Dawson McKeege asked her from the middle of her room. She turned to regard the man, managing a slight smile.
Dawson understood her dismay. News had come in a short while before of Prince Milwellis’s rampage along the populous region known as the inner coast, the western banks of Felidan Bay, with many villages burned to the ground and many, many people killed. Devastation was reported all along the coast, with too many bodies to bury, including many warriors who had come from the wilder reaches of the Mantis Arm.
Yeslnik’s victory seemed assured in short order. His apparently overwhelming win did not bode well for St. Mere Abelle and Father Artolivan, nor for Dame Gwydre and her decision to throw in with the monks.
“He says that he is the King of Honce, and so he may well soon be,” Gwydre replied.
“We do not know how far south the prince managed to go,” Dawson reminded her. “And some of the monks here who’ve been to Ethelbert dos Entel say that it’s a formidable city.”
“Let us hope. If Laird Ethelbert can hold back the tides of Yeslnik, then our chances here are greater indeed, but—”
“But if he comes against us with all he’s got, then you’re wondering if you chose right in standing by the monks, because we’re sure to lose. But ye knew that, and didn’t we talk about the songs they’ll be singing when we’re long gone from the world?”
“I know,” Gwydre admitted, turning her wistful gaze to distant fields where campfire after campfire flared to life now.
“But now that it seems real, you’re wondering about what your choice will mean for them that follow you,” Dawson reasoned.
“Perhaps we should sail for Vanguard. All of us, with the monks and the prisoners, too.”
“That’d take a lot o’ boats.”
“Or fast ships turning back.”
“To what purpose?” Dawson asked. “He’ll come for ye. For all of us.”
“We know the ways of Vanguard. Yeslnik does not.”
“I’m thinking his armies will cut new ways.”
“It may be the wiser course. Perhaps the people of Honce will have no will to pursue. . . .”
“We’ll not abandon St. Mere Abelle,” said Father Premujon, entering through Gwydre’s partially opened door with brothers Giavno and Jond beside him.
“Not for Chapel Pellinor?” Dame Gwydre asked.
Premujon shook his head. “Father Artolivan has made a bold stand, and we stand with him above all. Brother Fatuus has shown us the way.”
“The way to die,” Dawson deadpanned, but no one laughed.
“St. Mere Abelle is the most defensible structure in the world,” said Premujon. “Both in natural blessings and constructs. The brothers have built and fortified this place over the decades. The only approach by land is up a steep hill, and a slow-moving army . . . we all witnessed the fate of Laird Panlamaris’s charge. The small, narrow harbor is nearly unreachable by any who do not know the rocky reefs about it, and it, too, would be easily defended by merely a handful of brothers with the proper gemstones. A single sinking could prevent other sizable ships from even attempting the approach. And even if Yeslnik’s sailors somehow gained the wharf area, the tunnels are easily defended or, if need be, easily shut down.”
“You inspire confidence, Father,” Dame Gwydre remarked.
“Look again to that wall, milady,” Premujon went on. He, too, seemed to be gaining strength from his own words. “The wall of St. Mere Abelle is thicker and taller than any in Honce, and forget not that behind the wall wait scores of brothers well trained in the use of potent magic.”
“I saw as much when Panlamaris dared approach,” Gwydre admitted.
“Then we’re decided,” said Dawson. “St. Mere Abelle is part of Vanguard, if Father Artolivan agrees.”
“He is on his way here this very moment,” said Premujon. “To do just that, as he indicated when first you proposed it.”
“And this chapel will hold strong against King Yeslnik, a safe harbor for any who want no part of his Honce,” Dawson proclaimed, smiling widely at his beloved lady, knowing well that she needed his confidence in this dangerous hour.
“Would that it were that simple,” Gwydre replied, though she did flash her own smile to show her appreciation to her trusted friend. “When Yeslnik is through with Ethelbert he will likely reinforce Panlamaris’s siege.”
“St. Mere Abelle can hold forever and longer,” Premujon assured her. “They have access to all the water and food they would ever need.”
He continued on, but Gwydre, not disagreeing, finally managed to stop him with an upraised hand. “I do not doubt the might of this sacred place,” she assured the three monks. “When first I sighted Chapel . . . St. Mere Abelle from Dawson’s boat, my heart leaped in awe. I do not doubt the strength of this place or the resilience of those who reside here. Of all my holdings, this one on the front line of the expected war and under siege even now is the one for which I least fear.”
“
Lady?” an obviously confused Premujon asked.
“While we are trapped here, what mischief will Yeslnik wreak behind us in Vanguard?” The others suddenly wore concerned expressions, as if that little matter had escaped them. “With a few of the great warships of Delaval or Palmaristown to blockade us, what might those still in Vanguard do against the approach of Yeslnik’s thousands should he choose that route? To whom will they look to lead them with Dame Gwydre, Father Premujon, and so many of our finest warriors here south of the gulf?”
Beside Premujon, Brother Giavno gasped audibly, accurately reflecting the sudden trepidation of all in the room.
“Never said it’d be easy,” Dawson muttered under his breath.
Almost as if to accentuate Dawson’s point, Father Artolivan knocked on the partially opened door then and shuffled in, and old indeed did he appear. The great weight of the monumental events had taken a toll on him. It seemed that, as with Dame Gwydre, doubts had begun to surface.
“We are part of Vanguard,” he announced without prompting. “St. Mere Abelle is within the domain of Dame Gwydre. That is my decision, though I do not come to it easily. Your generous offer is accepted, good lady, may Abelle watch over us all.” He bowed slightly as he turned to leave again. “You will forgive me, but I must retire early.”
Father Premujon nodded to Brother Giavno, who rushed to catch up to Father Artolivan and help him back to his private quarters.
“I worry for him,” Premujon said. “These are difficult times, all the more so because of the decline of Samhaists, making this a time that should be the golden age of our church.”
“It will be,” Dame Gwydre assured him. “If good people stand strong.”
“Stand strong and sail swift,” Dawson added.
“That is indeed our plan and our need,” said Gwydre. “We can hold St. Mere Abelle—of that, I have no doubt. But you must lead my ships with cunning and skill. We cannot allow Palmaristown to seal off the sea routes and control the coast. You have been beside me for so long, my friend Dawson, and now what I ask of you is no less than that I asked of Bransen, Jond, and the others in sending them after Ancient Badden. We must be mobile, quick, and strong. The fewer options we offer to King Yeslnik, the more likely he will be to accept any terms or compromise.”
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