Bransen's thoughts were swirling; he had nothing to which he could attach them. No anchor, no reality. Bannagran had caught him completely off guard with the impromptu proposal. Was any of it possible? Was it possible that he would get his sword back? Or the brooch Father Artolivan had entrusted to him? And would Bannagran hold true to his promise? Would this action facilitate a better life for Callen and Cadayle and for his child?
His child.
Bransen found his anchor in that notion: his child.
He silently berated himself for this surrender, for this willingness to see the end of his life. How selfish had he become in his despair!
"How dare I?" he asked aloud.
"How dare you?" Bannagran echoed skeptically. "How dare you not? What wondrous gift have I just offered you, fool! I could kill you without question here and now-nay, I would be hailed as a hero to the throne for ending your life. And yet, I offer you another way."
Bransen's thoughts began to spin once more. The choice seemed obvious regarding the welfare of his wife and family, and, truly, what did he care if Yeslnik or Ethelbert won the day, so long as the miserable war found its end?
He tried to consider the implications to Dame Gwydre, the one leader he considered worthy of her domain. But what Bransen didn't know at that time was that Gwydre had thrown in with Ethelbert against Yeslnik, that she and Father Artolivan had repelled the attack of Laird Panlamaris and thus invoked the wrath of Yeslnik and of Palmaristown. He didn't know that Dawson McKeege had sailed to Ethelbert dos Entel or that Cormack and Milkeila were even then in Ethelbert's court.
"How do I know that you will be true to your word?" Bransen asked.
Bannagran smiled, obviously recognizing victory. "What do I have to gain by lying?" he asked. "If I cared whether you lived or died, you'd be long dead already."
"But if I succeed, you would have me living in Pryd Town."
"Expect no invitations to dine at Castle Pryd," the laird said dryly.
Bransen nodded. He felt as if he understood Bannagran fairly well. The man was callous and so ferocious as to be rightly considered vicious, but there was a measure of nobility there, a measure of honor. Bannagran had no reason to lie to him and no reason to fear him.
"I will kill Affwin Wi," the Highwayman declared. "And Merwal Yahna."
Bannagran smiled. "I will summon the gaoler to free you of your chains," he said. He walked up beside Bransen, hooked his hand under the band at the back of the man's trousers, and tugged him backward, forcing him away from the wicked blade. With his free hand, Bannagran slid that blade free of the beam and threw it forcefully to the side of the room.
"Yeslnik will not be pleased," Bransen warned as Bannagran moved behind him toward the cell door.
"Yeslnik is terrified of Ethelbert's assassins," the laird replied. "He will be thrilled."
"This brave and noble man you call king," Bransen quipped.
Bannagran paused before the door, even turned back in an initially angry reaction.
But what could he say?
SEVEN
The Conscience Pangs of Pragmatism
"I beg you to forget it," Father Destros said to Cormack and Milkeila. "For the sake of the wider world, leave your personal inquiries aside."
"The man was a friend and an important part of Dame Gwydre's designs," Cormack argued. "Am I to simply believe that he is dead and care not for how that came about? Is there to be no value or justice or accountability to and for his death?"
Father Destros gave a long and weary sigh. "How many hundreds, thousands, have died as such?"
"But he was here," Milkeila said.
"Yes, this man Bransen, the man you call the Highwayman, was here in Ethelbert dos Entel, just a few weeks ago."
"And now Affwin Wi carries his sword," Cormack said.
"She had his sword when I was introduced to him, when she brought him before Laird Ethelbert," Destros replied. "He was very much alive and well at that time, and yet, Affwin Wi carried his sword as her own."
"And the brooch on his forehead?"
"That is why I and my brethren were brought to the meeting. We carried sunstones to counter any dangerous or devious magic the Highwayman might have tried to initiate at Laird Ethelbert. You must understand that we did not know his allegiance at that time, if he had any."
Milkeila put her hand on Cormack's arm. Affwin Wi wore that brooch, and neither of them could imagine Bransen trying to get along without it. They had both seen him in Alpinador on Mithranidoon without a gemstone assisting his movements. Absent a soul stone, the Bransen they knew was a helpless, stuttering creature.
"Might Affwin Wi have possessed another soul stone, Father?" Cormack asked quietly.
The monk shook his head. "None of which I am aware. Laird Ethelbert holds a few stones of varied powers, a soul stone among them, I believe. But again, I warn you not to ask him and not to bring this conversation beyond these sheltered walls."
Cormack let a few moments pass. "And Jameston Sequin?" he asked again. "A tall man with a great mustache who favored the bow and a tricornered hat?"
Father Destros shrugged and held his hands out helplessly. "Forget it," he advised again.
"If Affwin Wi played a role in Bransen's death-"
"Then you and Dame Gwydre," Destros cut in, "would be better off knowing nothing about it."
It seemed wrong to Cormack, against every measure of justice and truth that he wanted so desperately to cling to as a guide for his life. But there was merit to Father Destros's warnings. If he confronted Affwin Wi and his fears proved correct, she would likely attack him. Whichever proved victorious, Wi and her band or Cormack and Milkeila, the alliance he was working to forge between Dame Gwydre and Laird Ethelbert would be shattered.
"Laird Ethelbert loves the woman," Father Destros said, as he had declared at the beginning of their conversation. "He will support her, no matter her complicity in your friend's demise. And we do not even know that he is dead!" The monk continued hopefully, "More likely Affwin Wi, who claimed him as a subordinate in her warrior band, sent him on some mission. Her followers are among the few scouts leaving the city of late, the eyes and ears of Laird Ethelbert, a most vital role. She would probably demand much of the Highwayman before accepting him fully into her elite band."
Cormack and Milkeila could do little more than nod their agreement with the reasoning, whatever they suspected differently. They took their leave of Chapel Entel then, Destros smiling and waving to them every step as they exited his audience hall.
The father's expression turned much darker the minute they were out the door, however, for he hadn't told the couple everything. On the last day Bransen had been seen in the city, Destros had been summoned by Affwin Wi to use his gemstone magic on the grievous wounds of one of her warriors, wounds from which the man had succumbed. Across the room, obviously the scene of a terrific fight, another of the Hou-lei disciples lay dead. The Highwayman was nowhere to be found, but Affwin Wi had his sword and his brooch, and Destros didn't need to stretch his imagination far to imagine the likely scenario that had led to the devastation: Bransen had fought with Affwin Wi's followers and had subsequently been killed by the powerful woman and quietly disposed of.
Destros had never been comfortable with Affwin Wi and the other warriors from Behr. His was not a parochial prejudice, for Destros was far more knowledgeable and tolerant of the traditions-even religions-of the southern kingdom than his monk brethren. He had been to Jacintha, the teeming, colorful, vibrant city south of the Belt-and-Buckle, and truly loved the place and its loud and emotional citizens. The Order of Abelle, like most of the folk of Honce, considered the southerners to be unsophisticated, uncultured barbarians, the "Beasts of Behr." But like the more knowledgeable folk of Ethelbert dos Entel-and Laird Ethelbert himself-Father Destros knew better.
Still, he had little use and even less love for the ferocious Affwin Wi and her small band of mercenaries. He was fairly certain that she had killed the ma
n known as the Highwayman and that it was likely not at the behest of-or even with the knowledge of-Laird Ethelbert.
But the pragmatic monk, who truly wanted this alliance among Ethelbert dos Entel, Vanguard, and his beloved St. Mere Abelle, had no intention of making his suspicions known to the laird or to anyone else. By the time King Yeslnik caught up with Prince Milwellis and the Palmaristown garrison in the small town of Weatherguard, down the long grassy hill from Chapel Abelle, the siege and assault preparations were already well under way. Lines of men bearing great logs streamed into the town, which now had far more invading soldiers living in tents than residents in more permanent structures. Huge piles of stones grew daily.
Milwellis stood in the command tent before a large topographical map spread wide on a table. On the map were lines of models of the catapults and small, carved markers to represent cavalry units and archer brigades.
"Do not begin your bombardment of the fools until the harbor is secure," Yeslnik instructed as he entered.
"My father's fleet will see to that presently," the prince replied.
"His warships are in the gulf, yes," said Yeslnik. "But beware, for if the monks determine that they must flee, they will go out in great numbers armed with their devilish gemstones. Before the weight of magical fire and lightning, even our greater ships will prove vulnerable."
Yeslnik and his wife, who stood just behind him, noted a wry smile on the ever prideful Milwellis's face.
"They will not get out of their harbor," the prince assured his liege. "They protect their docks with a narrow channel between high cliffs. There is but one approach between rocky reefs."
"Still, one boat armed by the great magicians of the order might break through that gauntlet," said Yeslnik.
"They waited too long," Milwellis replied with obvious confidence. "You will see the value of your loyal subjects of Palmaristown in the dawning light of tomorrow."
Yeslnik looked to Olym, who could only shrug.
"We awaited your arrival," Milwellis explained. "We did not feel it necessary to move with expedience since the monks and their visitors from Vanguard show no apparent haste to be free from their walled prison. They hold to the notion that their chapel will withstand all that we can offer, and they may be correct."
"But when the rest of the world, Vanguard included, bows to King Yeslnik, that security will seem as a prison," said the king, and the Prince of Palmaristown smiled and bowed respectfully.
"You will leave here for Ethelbert's city with all confidence that Palmaristown controls the gulf coast and that your enemies will not escape Chapel Abelle," Milwellis assured Yeslnik.
The king did not sleep well that night, but not for any lack of confidence that the plan was going along splendidly. He was agitated and excited by the surprise Milwellis had promised him, and so when the prince's man came to rouse him at first light, he was already awake and dressed. He and Queen Olym met with Milwellis on a bluff overlooking the dark gulf waters. A stiff wind blew in from the sea, but it was not cold, and lines of whitecaps crashed in against the rocks far below.
Milwellis nodded to the left, where a large ship was just coming into view. "An old cargo barge," the prince explained. "Refitted with many tall sails and with great posts running deep below her, far below her keel."
The ship turned, making straight for the narrow approach to the gap between the high cliffs, a thousand feet below the walls of the great chapel. Through that gap, unseen from this angle, sat the docks of Chapel Abelle, accessible to the chapel complex high above only through long tunnels.
"You are attacking by sea?" a confused Yeslnik asked, for the defensible nature of Chapel Abelle's docks had been made quite clear to him and it seemed impossible that any force could break through that way. "How many warriors are aboard that ship?"
"None," said Milwellis, smiling still. "And only a handful of crew."
Yeslnik looked at him curiously but said no more, instead watching as the large ship passed from sight into the cliff gap. Almost immediately there came the sharp retort of Abellican lightning, flashes of fire and bursts of thunderous magic as the monks defended their docks.
Then came a tremendous explosion, and though Yeslnik did not know it, this one was self-inflicted on the ship, a blast calculated to take out her starboard hull just below the waterline.
Yeslnik looked at Milwellis curiously.
"The ship is sunk," the prince said, and he seemed quite pleased by that.
Yeslnik just stared at him for many heartbeats.
"In the shallowest and narrowest part of the approach," Milwellis explained. "Where her wreckage"-he held his hand up diagonally before him-"will block the entrance or egress of any sizable boat. We reinforced every corner of the barge with thick metal. It will take the monks weeks of difficult work to clear enough of the flotsam to have docks accessible to anything larger than a small, rowed craft."
"Brilliant!" Yeslnik exclaimed as the situation became clear. "You have just freed many of our warships from the duties of blockade so that they may run wild along the Vanguard coast. Or even all the way to Ethelbert dos Entel should I need them to finish that troublesome laird."
"You have entrusted us with the most important duty of all," said Milwellis, and in that moment of victory Yeslnik allowed him his exaggeration. "Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan will not escape Chapel Abelle. They will exit only under a flag of surrender to King Yeslnik of Honce."
King Yeslnik could hardly contain his elation. Behind him, Queen Olym clapped excitedly. Half of his plan for victory, the isolation and irrelevance of Dame Gwydre, Father Artolivan, and the forces of Chapel Abelle, seemed assured. Now all that he had to do was push Ethelbert into the sea. Bannagran would command a force that could accomplish the task.
Yeslnik merely had to stay alive to be assured the absolute and uncontested kingship of Honce.
It was a good morning.
Brother Pinower of St. Mere Abelle crawled from a vertical chute, climbing into the early-morning air on a small ledge halfway up a giant rocky cliff face, one of the guardian cliffs sheltering the bay that held the chapel's docks. The young brother noted his fellows on the cliff across the way who had crawled from similar tunnels. One of the first things the monks had done after the initial construction of the chapel more than half a century before was to catacomb these two cliffs to create lookout points and attack perches, and now, for the first time, it seemed as if they would need them.
Pinower could hardly believe his eyes as the huge ship glided into view, moving easily across the choppy water. The deck was not crowded with archers, nor were any ballistae or catapults evident. Did they think they could just sail in to the docks uncontested? Pinower looked back to the chapel walls looming in the distance more than two hundred feet above his perch. He pictured the four great catapults set behind them.
The warship executed her last turn around the reef and headed straight between the cliffs. Pinower could only imagine that the large craft's hold was full of warriors. They would try to weather the beating. Pinower squinted and tried to gauge the plating on the ship.
It seemed absurd. The Palmaristown sailors had to know that they could not withstand the power of St. Mere Abelle!
"Put up a flag of truce," Pinower quietly whispered to the unseen enemy sailors, thinking this had to be an attempt at parlay. How relieved would he, would any of them, be if such a deal could be struck!
The ship moved to the mouth of the cliffs.
St. Mere Abelle's catapults fired in rapid succession, four huge stones in the air at the same time. The catapults hadn't been used in years, though, and despite careful sighting, the stones splashed down into empty water, three in front of the approaching ship and one to the side.
Calls rang out across the cliffs, and Pinower reached his hand forward, grasping a graphite, the stone of lightning.
"Raise your flag of truce!" the monk demanded. Across the way the first lightning bolt thundered down at the sails, tearing one
asunder. A second bolt from Pinower's cliff, just below the monk, thundered into the mainmast, and the top of the shaft began to burn.
Pinower heard the sound of the catapults again, and that prompted him to fall within his own graphite. He felt the energy building, his fingers tingling with power, and he let fly a considerable blast that blinded him as it flashed down upon the ship, lighting fires on the mainsail.
A boulder plopped into the water right before the ship, a second sailed over, but the remaining two both struck home, crashing through the deck.
Pinower winced, expecting to hear cries of pain and fear from below.
But there was nothing, just the damaged ship sailing in toward the docks, one sail burning and another hanging torn.
The monk noted movement then on the aft deck, a handful of men scrambling over the taffrail.
But they weren't running in terror; their movements were precise and practiced.
Pinower understood, and his eyes widened. He started to call to his brethren to hold their lightning and for the catapults to cease, but even as he started to yell the thunderous retort of a lightning bolt drowned his words. More ensued, a cascade of blue-white lightning reaching down from the cliffs and battering the craft with such brilliance that Pinower had to avert his eyes.
He looked back just as the starboard side of the great ship exploded, a great bubble of water and a flash of flames reaching forth.
"No, no, no," Brother Pinower mouthed, and he noted a small rowboat moving away from the warship, pulling out into the gulf. Almost directly below him, the warship listed and swirled to a stop.
Pinower scrambled back down the chute and rushed along the narrow tunnels to inform his superiors. He heard other monks in the tunnels cheering their victory, but he knew better.
The enemy had achieved their goal this morning.
He found all the principals gathered in Father Artolivan's quarters. The masters of St. Mere Abelle were there, along with Father Premujon of Vanguard's Chapel Pellinor, Dame Gwydre herself, and, of course, Father Artolivan.
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