"It is," Yeslnik answered, a wry smile on his face as he motioned the monk to take the lead in the conversation. The giant man didn't hesitate moving right up to Reandu, standing tall and imposing over the man.
"Father Artolivan has betrayed Honce," he announced.
Reandu didn't blink. He knew enough of the story to realize that this was Father De Guilbe.
"Chapel Abelle-"
"St. Mere Abelle, they call it now," Reandu corrected.
De Guilbe fell back a step though hardly cowed and even looking as if he was winding up for a charge. "They shame Abelle with their exploitation of his name at this time."
"You do not think our founder worthy of sainthood, father?" Reandu asked innocently.
"That is a process, master, and one ignored by Father Artolivan for no better reason than to separate himself from King Yeslnik. We both know why this time was chosen for Abelle's ascent to sainthood. The cynicism of that premature proclamation shames the memory of Abelle."
"We should discuss this in private, father."
De Guilbe scoffed at him. "The business of the church is the business of Honce," he replied. "All that we do, we do in the name of divine King Yeslnik."
Reandu didn't even try to hide his shock. "Divine king?" he echoed.
"It is providence that has brought this great victory and circumstance," Father De Guilbe explained. "Abelle, great Abelle, started the process, and here, less than a century later, we find Honce soon to be united." He turned and motioned to Yeslnik. "Under this man, this divine king. And we as ministers of the word must accept that truth and embrace it. Artolivan believed that it was time for the order to evolve, and he was right, though his direction was the past and not the future. It is time now for the Church of the Divine King to stand behind this man who has won Honce and united her. All the land will know peace if we stand strong."
"The Father of St. Mere Abelle and all the masters within would not agree with you, father," Reandu said.
"They have made themselves irrelevant by their obstinacy and their treason!"
Reandu wanted to shout at the fool to be silent, but he held his words and looked to Bannagran for some support. But the Laird of Pryd slowly shook his head, urging Reandu to silence.
Reandu took a deep breath to steady himself. He reminded himself that his words would affect all of the brothers under his guidance and the future of Chapel Pryd itself. His heart told him to fight De Guilbe's assertions, to stand proud and strong on principle, but his mind easily calculated the ultimate cost of such a stand. To what gain?
"So as with the lairds of Honce, the chapels, too, are pressed into choice," said King Yeslnik, and he motioned for Father De Guilbe to move back beside him. "Where will Chapel Pryd stand when Bannagran leads my armies to the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel, this time to destroy the outlaw laird?"
Reandu looked to Bannagran again, and the Bear of Honce stepped out before the king. "Master Reandu and his brethren will march beside me, of course," he stated flatly. "Their gemstones will serve the men of Pryd as they have without question and without reservation these long months of trial."
"Indeed," said Yeslnik, seeming hardly convinced. "And tell me, regarding my edict on the disposition of the prisoners-"
"Those prisoners taken from the field who were once loyal to King Yeslnik serve in my ranks," Bannagran assured him.
"And those loyal to Ethelbert?"
"Eliminated to a man," Bannagran lied. "Your orders were explicit. There are none loyal to Laird Ethelbert in Chapel Pryd or in all of Pryd Town."
"That is good," said Yeslnik. "Then the choice by Master Reandu has already been made and made correctly."
"We will march with Laird Bannagran, my king," said Reandu, but he was staring at Father De Guilbe as he spoke the words. De Guilbe's returned glare showed that he did not believe his fellow monk.
"I add ten thousand to your ranks, Laird Bannagran," Yeslnik said. "March east and not south. The southland has gone wild, and no supplies will be found there. I charge you with the defeat of Ethelbert. Claim his city for me, and I will widen your holding greatly."
Bannagran bowed and did well to hide the contempt on his face. This assault should have been accomplished months before when the combined armies of Yeslnik, Bannagran, and Milwellis had converged on Ethelbert dos Entel. Still, with ten thousand extra soldiers, Bannagran didn't doubt that he could win the day and the city.
"Beware Ethelbert's assassins," Yeslnik continued. "The Highwayman-"
"The Highwayman is not in Ethelbert's employ, nor has he ever been," Bannagran interrupted.
Yeslnik stared at him incredulously. "He killed King Delaval!"
"Nay, my king, we were mistaken."
"His blade broke off in my uncle's chest! I gave that very blade to you!"
"Nay, my king, it was not his blade," Bannagran continued. "It was the sword of Affwin Wi, a murderess hired by Laird Ethelbert."
"How can you know this?"
"I am closer to Laird Ethelbert's lines," Bannagran explained. "Affwin Wi's exploits and those of her mercenary band have been whispered all about, and I do not doubt them. The broken blade you gave me surely resembled the sword of the Highwayman, but the patterns carved into the silvery metal were wrong. On closer look Master Reandu informed me of this."
He looked to the monk as he finished, as did Yeslnik and De Guilbe and every man and woman near the castle gates.
"It is true," the monk reported. "We have confirmed it. The assassins who killed your uncle were in the employ of Laird Ethelbert, but Bransen Garibond, the man known as the Highwayman, was not among them."
Behind the gaping King Yeslnik, Queen Olym gasped and fanned herself with obvious relief. Yeslnik shot her a dangerous look, and she reached out and grabbed his arm for reassurance as he turned back to face Bannagran and Reandu.
"The Highwayman is still wanted for other crimes," he said. "You would do well to drag him to me or deliver his head, at least."
Reandu's eyes widened as Bannagran nodded.
"There are few in the world who understand this murderess from Behr," the monk blurted. "Perhaps the Highwayman-"
Bannagran cut him short with an upraised hand.
"The Highwayman is a blood enemy of this Affwin Wi creature," the laird explained. "She and her order are not in the favor of the cult he claims as his own. He will likely kill her and solve our problem for us."
King Yeslnik eyed him suspiciously. "You seem to know a lot about him."
"You charged me with finding him," Bannagran reminded. "To do that, I needed to learn all there is about him. Knowing one's enemy grants power. I know where he is and I know where he is going, and that path will lead him to do battle with Affwin Wi. Whatever the outcome of that fight, our position-your kingdom-is strengthened."
"You let him go once, and I forgave you," said Yeslnik. "I will not forgive you again if the Highwayman escapes."
Bannagran nodded.
"I grant you ten thousand of my soldiers to strengthen your own five thousand," Yeslnik said. "Secure every village between Pryd and Ethelbert and then lock the wretch in his city by the sea. I will join you at his gates, and we will push him into the sea and be done with him."
"It will be my pleasure, my king," Bannagran replied. "But I would ask of you a short respite for the soldiers."
Yeslnik's face screwed up with curiosity. "What do you mean?"
"A week of rest and plentiful food here in Pryd Town. We have been marching from coast to coast. Many have feet so swollen they cannot tie shoes upon them."
"A week? A week for that dastardly Ethelbert to strengthen his defenses! No, I say! Go and kill him! Go straightaway, I say!"
"The forward scouts will be out this very night," Bannagran promised.
"And the rest of you?"
"As soon as I can organize the forces appropriately."
"Tonight!" Yeslnik demanded. "Tomorrow morning!"
"That would be a disaster," Bannagran said
coolly. "I know not your men or their leaders. To simply march off without the proper precautions would risk attrition and even skirmish within our own ranks."
"I would have Ethelbert," Yeslnik demanded.
"Indeed," Bannagran agreed. "And with two days' preparation, my march will be swift and strong."
Yeslnik looked as if he wanted to stamp his feet like an angry child, and he even crossed his arms over his chest. But Bannagran would not back down. In the end the warrior laird got his way.
King Yeslnik was back on the road to the west soon after, leaving behind a tent city of soldiers now under the command of the Laird of Pryd. To Reandu's great relief, Father De Guilbe departed with the king.
"You'll not kill Bransen," Reandu said when he was alone with Bannagran.
"We have a deal. Once he has dispatched Affwin Wi-"
"King Yeslnik will still demand his execution."
"He will charge me with that, but alas, I will never quite catch up to the Highwayman."
"You told him that he could live in Pryd Town with his family."
Bannagran gave a little laugh. "What would you have me do, monk?"
Reandu wanted to shout that Bannagran should defy Yeslnik, should demand that Bransen's name be cleared, but he offered no more than a simple, frustrated sigh. For there was no answer to Bannagran's question. King Yeslnik would not be persuaded by any sense of justice.
With a curt bow the monk left the castle, but before he got out the door Bannagran called after him. "Tell Bransen to shadow our march in disguise and to speak only with you or with me directly. Three days from now, perhaps four."
Reandu paused and brightened a bit at the surprising defiance Bannagran was showing to the impatient young king. But he did not look back. With ten thousand of Yeslnik's soldiers in the march and likely their own orders concerning the disposition of the Highwayman, Bannagran's call for disguise seemed quite appropriate. It fits you well. It fit your father well," Reandu said to Bransen after the young man put on the brown woolen robe the monk had offered. "Even in your days with us so long ago, I never imagined that I would see Bransen in the robes of an Abellican brother."
"They are as uncomfortable as they are impractical," Bransen replied.
"More uncomfortable to you because of what they represent, no doubt."
"As they will become to you when Father De Guilbe claims supremacy over your church."
The retort obviously stung Reandu, his shoulders slumping almost immediately. "Few will follow him," he replied, but there was little strength or conviction in his tone.
"Fewer will follow Reandu to King Yeslnik's gallows," said Bransen, refusing to let the monk get away so easily. "I am no longer amazed by how quickly a man will justify his change of heart when a spear is leveled his way."
"Your cynicism is inspiring," the monk deadpanned.
"Only because you know it to be well placed."
Reandu stood straighter suddenly. He moved to the small room's single door and pushed it closed, then turned back on Bransen and asked, "Do I?"
Bransen shrugged as if the answer should be clear.
"I am afraid," the monk admitted. "I fear that De Guilbe will win and those at St. Mere Abelle will pay for their courage with their lives."
"It seems a likely outcome. But not all, I promise you. Cadayle is there, and Yeslnik will not have her."
"Because she is something for which the Highwayman will fight."
Bransen narrowed his eyes.
"But the rest of Honce be damned?" Reandu asked.
Bransen snorted. "The rest of Honce is beyond my influence…"
"The women and children of Honce, the helpless elderly of Honce," Reandu continued, his voice rising, his shoulders squared, "all of them can be trampled under Yeslnik's armies or Ethelbert's armies, and Bransen cares not. Those miserable peasants who suffer under the horrors of this war are not Bransen Garibond's concern. The thousands of Garibond Womaks who try to simply live their lives without upset are not your problem."
"You cannot place that burden upon me," Bransen replied sharply.
"I should not have to," said Reandu. "The Bransen I knew would take it upon himself." He shook his head and opened the door, motioning for Bransen to leave.
Bransen didn't move immediately. He stood there, staring after Reandu, wanting to shout at the monk for his blindness to the obvious truth of the matter. There was nothing Bransen could do, that these events were beyond him, were beyond any man, and were, indeed, the wretched truth of mankind. What did it matter who won this foolish war? What did it matter which noble, be it Delaval or Ethelbert or even Gwydre, assumed the throne of a unified Honce? What did it even matter that Honce be unified? Certainly Gwydre would be the best choice, but to what end?
For she could be no more than a temporary light to curb the darkness of human reality.
But Bransen didn't shout at Reandu. Silently, garbed as an Abellican monk, the Highwayman left the small room in Chapel Pryd, and three days later walked with the fifteen thousand whose boots shook the ground of Pryd Town on their march to the gates of Ethelbert dos Entel.
Bannagran stared out the eastern window of his room in Castle Pryd overlooking the chapel. Once again the Highwayman had come into his life, and once again he had not killed the outlaw.
Why would he show such mercy to this one? He could claim pragmatism in each instance, but he knew that doing so would only half answer the question. What was it about the Stork that had so often stayed Bannagran's hand? Respect?
Perhaps, for none could question that the resilient young man had overcome tremendous obstacles in his life, as none could question the prowess of the warrior. But it was more than simple respect, Bannagran believed, though he had never taken the time before this moment to actually sit back and try to sort it all out.
The last candle went down in Chapel Pryd across the way, its small windows going dark. Reandu and the brothers had retired for their last night in Pryd Town, perhaps forever, Bannagran knew. He hadn't actually lied to King Yeslnik when he had declared that Reandu would be by his side for the march to the east or that Reandu and the brothers would serve well the army of Pryd and Delaval.
But neither had he told King Yeslnik the whole truth, for Bannagran knew Reandu well enough to understand that the monk would never betray the Order of Abelle for this new Church of the Divine King that the brutish De Guilbe had proclaimed. No, Reandu and most of the brothers (certainly those who had joined the chapel only to erase their status as prisoners doomed for execution) would not remain in Pryd Town under that option. They would flee to St. Mere Abelle or somewhere else beyond the immediate reach of Yeslnik.
That thought troubled Bannagran deeply, and he was surprised to realize that truth as he mulled it over. He had no wife, no family, and, indeed, no friends other than Reandu. Yes, Reandu was his friend. Not a friend like the sycophantic and opportunistic young noblemen who followed him about his court, laughing at his every joke with too much enthusiasm. Not a friend like the many women Bannagran took to his bed, all eager to steal his heart and claim a place as the Dame of Pryd. Reandu wanted nothing from him, though in many ways, the brother demanded more of Bannagran than any other person alive. Yeslnik ordered Bannagran to follow his orders, but Reandu always reminded Bannagran to follow his heart, which was the more difficult course by far.
The laird thought back to the scene in the dungeons the previous day. Would he have killed Bransen had not Reandu intervened? Certainly he was moving with that intent, and certainly he was angry enough with the Highwayman to do so. But no, he realized, he would not have killed Bransen. He did not want to kill Bransen.
Why was this one so different from all the others who had errantly crossed Bannagran's path and inspired his wrath? Why this man whose actions had led to the death of Bannagran's dearest friend, Laird Prydae?
A wistful look came over the face of the Bear of Honce. He felt a kinship to Bransen, for, like himself, the young man was a victim of his
physicality. Bransen's infirmity had trapped him as the Stork for most of his life, had determined his course in life. So it had been with Bannagran. At the age of fifteen, young Bannagran had been stronger than any man in Pryd, and his proficiency in the fighting arts had caught the attention of Laird Pryd. And so Pryd had summoned him to the castle and had enlisted him to befriend his son, Prydae.
Thus had Bannagran's life path been set in motion. He and Prydae had trained together, had ridden together, and, when they were still teenagers, had gone to battle together. Bannagran the bodyguard had become Bannagran the trusted friend, and so he had spent the whole of his adulthood in Castle Pryd beside the prince, who became the laird.
He had achieved a great reputation through great exploits. He became known as the Bear of Honce, the champion of Pryd, and lairds from all around Honce had taken note of him in the powrie wars in the east.
It had been a grand life, full of adventure, full of wine and women and rousing cheers.
So why, now, did he feel so empty? So without purpose? He was the Laird of Pryd Town, a community flourishing under his control. He was the commander of King Yeslnik's main force, and his men loved him and would follow him to the gates of the demon dactyl's lair if he so asked them.
Strangely, he didn't care.
PART TWO
THE THREE ROADS OF JAMESTON SEQUIN
Despair. It is a trap or it is the awful truth, the stark and undeniable realization of ultimate futility.
My legs are now strong, but I stand on shifting flats of mud. I am straight now in posture but crooked in vision, for I have glimpsed the horizon, and it is a dark place. Not for any dactyl demon, not for any goblins or trolls or powries, but dark by the incessancy of mankind's foibles. In Weakness… In Pride, they will call themselves god In Envy, they will kill their neighbor In Wrath, they will lay waste to the fields In Sloth, they will let their neighbors starve In Avarice, they will steal all unto themselves In Greed, they will horde excess In Lust, they will damn consequence.
The Book of Jhest was my companion, words copied by my father, wisdom garnered by the generations of Jhesta Tu mystics over the centuries, their reflections of the simple truths of the world. The book, my companion, resides in me still with passages I had thought unraveled but which reveal to me new secrets as my experience grows. Once I read "In Weakness" and saw a world not worth redeeming, and then I was the Highwayman. Then, with Cadayle by my side, I considered the passage as a warning against my own limitations and darker potential.
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