The Bear sotfk-4

Home > Science > The Bear sotfk-4 > Page 13
The Bear sotfk-4 Page 13

by R. A. Salvatore


  Reandu rubbed his face, looking very weary indeed. "In helping Bannagran, you aid Yeslnik."

  "Yeslnik or Ethelbert," said Bransen. "They are one and the same. Equally worthless."

  But Reandu shook his head, slowly and deliberately.

  "What has changed?" Bransen asked again.

  "King Yeslnik's advance guard came in this day. The king is not far behind," said Reandu. He got up and moved about the room, peering out every exit to ensure that they were alone. "King Yeslnik has declared war against St. Mere Abelle."

  "St. Mere Abelle?"

  "Chapel Abelle," Reandu explained. "Abelle has been declared a saint by word of Father Artolivan and the masters, and so the chapel has been renamed in deference to Abelle's holy station. With the declaration has come a determination of defiance against King Yeslnik, and he, in turn, has declared the church outlaw. Do you know Father De Guilbe?"

  Bransen scoffed at the mention of the unpleasant man.

  "Then you do," said Reandu.

  "He has brought trouble," Bransen reasoned. "That is no surprise."

  "He will arrive here with King Yeslnik in the morning."

  Reandu went quiet, and Bransen sat back and digested the bits of information. "So if King Yeslnik has declared the church outlawed and yet Father De Guilbe travels with him…" He paused and looked at Reandu, who was nodding slowly.

  "Then De Guilbe is now outside the order," Bransen finished.

  Reandu frowned. "The Church of the Divine King."

  "No," Bransen corrected, "the order, your order, is now led by De Guilbe and not Artolivan."

  The weary Master Reandu rubbed his face and looked away.

  "So it does matter to you now which side proves victorious," Bransen said. "Before, you were interested merely in ending the war, but now the stakes have been raised. Now it has become a personal trial for Master Reandu."

  The monk looked back at him, and there was no disagreement in his solemn expression.

  "Do you wish to recant your advice to me, your humble servant?" Bransen asked, unable to resist a bit of smugness at that confusing moment. "Should I betray Bannagran and flee to Ethelbert's flag? Or should I simply surrender to Bannagran once more and go back to his chains and blades?"

  "No, of course not," Reandu said. "No, Bransen. My advice to you would not have changed."

  "But you do not wish Yeslnik to win," Bransen said bluntly.

  Reandu's eyes widened, and he glanced all around nervously. Then he growled, angrily, and began breathing heavily, and Bransen could see that the man was torn here, was mad at himself. Did Reandu, perhaps, not like what he was learning about his own courage and convictions?

  "When the war was merely about the torn flesh of peasants, Reandu cared less," Bransen stated. "But now, over some silly allegiance to a sainted dead man and a meaningless church, Reandu has come to care."

  "I always cared, Bransen," Reandu replied, his voice showing the wound. "Always did I wish to alleviate the suffering…"

  "If the war was declared over this very day, Yeslnik the victor, De Guilbe the new religious head of Honce, would Reandu accept the verdict?"

  The clever question had the monk wincing in pain and embarrassment.

  "I would not have advised you differently, even had I known the escalation of enmity between St. Mere Abelle and King Yeslnik," he said, strength returning to his voice. "My duty is to advise you to do that which is best for you and for your family. I would not have Bransen executed by Bannagran before King Yeslnik's throne, nor would I demand of you that you find in this war a higher context and mission."

  "Even as you are faced with exactly that?"

  "Perhaps," the monk said and shrugged. "I see no clear path before me, but I will seek the correct road for myself and for those who look to me for guidance."

  "De Guilbe or Artolivan?" Bransen asked. "Hardly a difficult choice."

  Reandu looked around once more as if he expected the royal guard to swoop down upon them at any moment. "What do you know?"

  "De Guilbe is a wretch," Bransen said. "A merciless brute quick to punish any who disagree with him. You know of his history?"

  "I know that he went to Alpinador at the request of Father Artolivan."

  "Where he imprisoned those who would not bend to his demands of conversion and warred with those who came to rescue their imprisoned brethren," Bransen replied. "Murdering them at the base of his fortress walls. Do you think that a proper use of the holy gemstones? And when one of the brothers in his charge could not stand the needless bloodshed any longer and thus freed the captured Alpinadorans, bringing peace to the island, De Guilbe ordered the monk beaten unconscious and cast out in a boat to die. But he did not die-indeed, he rescued me in the cold north, and that man, that monk Cormack, is of great character and conscience, a man your order should revere and not torture!"

  Bransen's own volume gave him pause, and he was surprised to realize how much he had emotionally invested in the fight between Cormack and the church. He couldn't help but give a little self-deprecating laugh at his own unexpected passion. "I was in the north at the demand of Dame Gwydre of Vanguard," he explained.

  "Yes, to battle Ancient Badden. The details have come to Chapel Pryd. Your exploits were no small matter to the Order of Blessed Abelle, I assure you."

  "And when I went to battle Ancient Badden, I went with many allies, including the monk De Guilbe had cast out to die. But De Guilbe was not beside me, nor were any of those under his command. Nay, he fled the field."

  Reandu stared at him.

  "And when Dame Gwydre pardoned the monk De Guilbe had banished, and when Father Premujon of Chapel Pellinor supported her edict, so began the battle between the church and Father De Guilbe. In Chapel-St. Mere Abelle, Father Artolivan, too, opposed De Guilbe, strongly."

  "And you believe that his defection to Yeslnik is self-serving and not necessarily rooted in the call of his conscience," Reandu reasoned.

  "It is rooted in his wounded pride," Bransen assured him. "And nothing more, unless it is his realization that his actions have cost him the succession of old Artolivan's seat."

  Reandu took a moment to digest this information before stating the obvious, "You are not pleased with Yeslnik's choice of De Guilbe, and never were you pleased with Yeslnik himself, as I recall. Has this news given you pause over your agreement with Bannagran? Will you betray him and simply run away?"

  "No," Bransen answered without hesitation. "For I have seen the alternative, Laird Ethelbert, and am no more impressed by him. My fight is personal with Affwin Wi; she stole my sword and the star brooch Father Artolivan entrusted with me. I ride with Bannagran but care nothing for the larger questions of the day. There is no right and wrong to be found there in my heart."

  "I don't believe you," said Reandu.

  Bransen started to rebut the monk but held his tongue. Something about the manner in which Reandu was looking at him told him the truth of the monk's accusation: Reandu didn't believe him because Reandu expected more of him.

  That notion shamed Bransen. He wanted to deny that Master Reandu's opinion held any meaning to him. He reminded himself of his years living in the hole in the floor of Chapel Pryd, when Reandu and Bathelais and the other brothers had practically imprisoned him and had given him the most humiliating and filthy duties. He had carried chamber pots for this man, Reandu, and given the unsteady legs of the Stork, he had often worn their contents.

  He brought back all of those unpleasant memories then in an attempt to defend against the pangs of guilt, but one truth kept peeking through the wall he was constructing: Reandu had cared about and for him, and in the critical moment when Master Bathelais was about to strike Bransen dead-as Bransen tried to rescue Cadayle from the rape of Laird Prydae-Reandu had stopped Bathelais.

  "I'll not betray Bannagran," Bransen said. "My fight is with Affwin Wi. Your own choice is more important to the ways of the world."

  "Many look to the Highwayman with hope."
r />   "Your order is fractured and is choosing sides," Bransen reminded. "The Highwayman is but one man." He paused and lowered his eyes, closed them, and closed his heart. "The Highwayman is but one dead man, killed in the east by warriors from Behr." Brother, begin the process," Father Premujon ordered. "It is no small matter," Brother Jurgyen replied with obvious exasperation.

  "It is necessary."

  Jurgyen shook his head. "We cannot affect the fate of Vanguard's ports. Whatever information we may garner would be cursory and would not alter our course…"

  Father Premujon closed his eyes, his face growing very tight, and Jurgyen wisely quieted.

  "Brother," Premujon said after taking several deep breaths, "the gulf teems with Palmaristown warships-likely Delaval ships, as well. Lady Gwydre is cut off from her people, and those people may well prove critical in our battle with King Yeslnik."

  "We cannot affect the fate of-"

  "Information is power!" Premujon interrupted. He raised his voice for effect and not in anger, grabbing Jurgyen by the shoulders. "We have in our grasp the greatest weapon of all. We can see events far removed and know the outcomes weeks before our enemies can adjust accordingly. We will be the quicker!"

  "Father Artolivan did not agree with you," Jurgyen dared to reply. "You tried to make this argument with him, no doubt, and yet he did not assemble the brothers and hand them soul stones that they might go forth in spirit alone. The edicts of our order-"

  "And yet even as you argue with me, you would have sent the brothers forth in spirit to inform the other chapels of the passing of Father Artolivan."

  "There are times for such risks," Jurgyen admitted. "We sent word of the canonization of Blessed Abelle. We came to you in spirit in the far north of Vanguard with word of the war."

  "And so you shall go to Vanguard again with news of the war and with words of rally," Premujon explained. "And to gather information from the northern holding that Dame Gwydre can rest easy as she continues her battle with Yeslnik."

  "You ask for more than a single, simple journey and for more than the communion with prepared brothers on the other end."

  "I do."

  "The risks are unprecedented! Many will die!"

  "I know."

  "Yet you persist in this madness all so that Dame Gwydre can rest easy," Jurgyen remarked.

  "He would," came a voice from the door. The speaker, Dame Gwydre, entered the room.

  Brother Jurgyen closed his eyes and lowered his head.

  "For that and so that we might learn of events in the gulf," Gwydre went on. "Events that may well determine our course here at St. Mere Abelle." She looked to Father Premujon and nodded her chin toward the door. The monk caught the cue and promptly left them alone in the room.

  "Pray speak your mind," Dame Gwydre said to the brother. "Bluntly."

  Jurgyen looked at her skeptically.

  "I have been at war for more than a year, brother," Gwydre said. "I have witnessed utter carnage in Vanguard villages, where every man, woman, and child was slaughtered by vile trolls. I stand here now amidst a rain of catapult throws. I promise you your words will not hurt me."

  "We should not risk the spirit walking so casually as I was commanded," Jurgyen said. "To send brothers out across the gulf on so regular a schedule is madness."

  "It is necessary."

  "And this is why you elevated Father Premujon to the leadership role," Jurgyen accused.

  "Father Artolivan selected his replacement, as is acceptable in times when a formal Council of Masters cannot be convened."

  "Father Artolivan acceded to your request," Jurgyen accused. "Dame Gwydre asked him for Father Premujon."

  "You heard such a thing?" she asked.

  "I deduced such a thing," the monk admitted.

  Gwydre laughed helplessly. "Had you been in attendance, I admit you would have heard such a thing."

  Jurgyen's eyes went wide at the unexpected confession.

  "The choice was logical," the woman explained. "None here have more experience than Father Premujon. None have served the order more loyally, and none have shown such nimbleness."

  "Nimbleness?" Jurgyen asked, perplexed. Only for a moment, though, as he considered the history of Dame Gwydre and the Order of Blessed Abelle. Her war with the Samhaists hadn't begun out of whole cloth, and one of the precipitating events to Ancient Badden's turn against her was her intimate relationship with a monk. Gwydre had fallen in love with a brother of Chapel Pellinor, and Father Premujon had known about it from the beginning. "Nimble," he said aloud with a little smile. He thought it a good word.

  "He understands me," said Gwydre. "And he complements my decisions appropriately."

  "And he follows your orders, obviously."

  "Nay," Gwydre replied without hesitation. "Not that stubborn one!"

  "He has ordered me to prepare rooms of meditation and to send many brothers to the corners of the world, particularly across the Gulf of Corona, to gather the information you desire."

  "Because he knows it is the correct tactic. We are trapped in here, brother, as Ethelbert was trapped in his city. Our enemies run across the land and sail across the seas. We must know the result of their movements if we are to properly counter."

  "And you must know of your beloved Vanguard."

  "I want to know," the woman admitted. "Wouldn't you?"

  The simple honesty and logic hit Jurgyen hard and shamed him for his abstinence. Truly he felt the fool for having so accused this woman of nefarious plotting!

  "But you would not have us impart the word of Father Artolivan's death?" he stammered, finding suddenly that he wanted to change the subject.

  "Oh no," she replied. "We cannot do so. Not while Yeslnik holds so visible an advantage. Such news will strengthen the hand of Father De Guilbe in this dangerous time. If Father Artolivan is no more, then those brothers at the many chapels across the land may well turn De Guilbe's way. He has King Yeslnik's sword. He is the easier choice."

  "You have little faith in the brothers," Jurgyen scolded.

  "I understand human weakness, brother. I understand that even brave men may need a measure of hope to facilitate their course to battle. Now is a time of great uncertainty in the chapels of Honce, a time of confusion and difficult choices. Now is not the moment to herald the death of Father Artolivan, who has stood so bravely against the tyrant Yeslnik."

  Jurgyen considered for a few moments, then nodded his agreement to all of it. "You would have most travel across the gulf even though the more immediate events lie to the south?" he asked.

  "This was not my fight, and I am unknown to many of the folk in the southern holdings of Honce," Gwydre explained. "But it is my battle now, and by Father Artolivan's own design I will be presented as a possible alternative ruler to both lairds, Yeslnik and Ethelbert. Is this not true?"

  "It is."

  "And so our ultimate hope rests in the security of Vanguard, for if Yeslnik claimed that land in conquest, then with what title might I presume to climb the throne of Honce? I am Dame Gwydre only because that northern holding, Vanguard, is my domain. Without it, I am merely Gwydre."

  Once more Jurgyen felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He had thought that he was correct in his arguments against Dame Gwydre's course, mainly because he had presumed the woman had not thought through her plans.

  In a strange way, though, when his embarrassment wore away, Jurgyen was comforted by the forethought and calculation of Dame Gwydre. He even viewed the promotion of Father Premujon in a new light, more complimentary to this woman. Yes, Gwydre had manipulated Father Artolivan, had lobbied him hard for her preferred successor, but truly, given his experiences with the kind and wise father from Chapel Pellinor, Jurgyen could not disagree with Father Artolivan's decision.

  The brother argued no more. He assembled the brethren of St. Mere Abelle that very night, choosing from their ranks those most powerful with the gemstones and most seasoned in the act of spirit walking. He delivered Fat
her Premujon's orders-Dame Gwydre's orders-with all the zeal as if they were his own.

  "Information is power," he told the brothers. "A weapon we will use to bludgeon this pretend King Yeslnik and the traitor De Guilbe."

  They began assembling that weapon in the dark of night, insubstantial spirits moving through the shadows with not a whisper of sound. At Bannagran's insistence Bransen stayed in Chapel Pryd and out of sight the next day when King Yeslnik and his grand entourage entered Pryd Town. Yeslnik rode in splendor in a coach befitted with sparkling jewels and leafed in gold. Trumpeters announced his arrival, their sharp notes rousing the townsfolk while guards filtered throughout the side avenues, demanding the villagers rush to the main thoroughfare and cheer for their king.

  The army of Delaval marched behind Yeslnik's coach, eight abreast and stretching for miles down the road, more than twenty thousand strong. They kept their formations tight, their boots stomping the cobblestoned road in sharp cadence, in time with the drummers set at intervals among their ranks.

  Master Reandu stood beside Bannagran before the gates of Castle Pryd. The monk stiffened. His discomfort was not lost on Bannagran as the glittering coach wheeled to a stop just outside the gates. Attendants scrambled to the door to pull it wide and place a short stairway before it to help King Yeslnik and then Queen Olym descend. Others carried the royal chairs, but Yeslnik waved his away and started toward the waiting laird even before Olym had taken her seat.

  "Laird Panlamaris and Prince Milwellis have besieged the traitors inside Chapel Abelle," the king said before Bannagran could even offer a greeting. "Land and sea. The treacherous Artolivan and that beastly Dame Gwydre will sit in their hole and witness the birth of my kingdom all around them."

  Bannagran respectfully bowed to acknowledge the important news, but he didn't look down as he did, instead watching as four bearers-slaves captured from Ethelbert's army-carried the powdered and vain Queen Olym. Behind her came a large monk, tall and wide, a giant of a man perhaps ten years Bannagran's senior but showing little sign that he was past middle age in his steady and strong gait.

  "This is Master Reandu?" the large monk asked, his voice stern and loud.

 

‹ Prev