"Brother!" she scolded.
"How many will die for your insatiable need to scour your beloved Vanguard?" he roared. "To confirm the tragedies that the Palmaristown sailors yell at us every day? It is madness!"
"Nay, brother," she replied, keeping her voice very calm and motioning for Jurgyen to take a seat across from her as she sat before the burning hearth. The evening air had a chill, though summer was upon them, for the winds were off the gulf this night.
The monk moved to the chair but did not sit down.
"I am no less concerned than you regarding your brethren," Gwydre assured him. "And I salute their heroism in going forth in spirit form."
"You act as if they have a voice in the matter."
"No more than the warrior who charges the enemy line."
Jurgyen winced at that honest reply as he slid into the chair. He remained determined, though, to hold the edge of his anger. His brethren were depending on him to end this madness of spirit walking, he believed.
"We have lost another one," Jurgyen said to her. "Our ranks thin."
"But you are training more?" Gwydre asked, though her tone made it sound more like an order than a question, as indeed it was.
"Do you mean to destroy the whole of our order?"
"Would you prefer the stewardship of Father De Guilbe and the Church of the Divine King?"
The cutting question settled Jurgyen, and he looked away.
"Dawson McKeege came into St. Mere Abelle this day," Gwydre said. "Brave Brother Pinower's gamble in running across the waves brought to us great news and hope."
Jurgyen reluctantly nodded.
"It is our only hope," Gwydre said to him. "We will know of far-off events before our enemies learn of the situation, and so we will prove more nimble. With the spirit walking of brothers, perhaps our armies will better position for a battle or will learn of traps Yeslnik sets for us. You cannot underestimate the value of that, brother. What commander would not wish to know the movements of his enemy's armies?"
"Nimble," Jurgyen grumbled. "We can barely depart these gates."
Before Gwydre could reply, shouting from the hallway caught their attention and a moment later, an out-of-breath Brother Giavno rushed into the room. "Bass Cove," he said, gasping for air.
"Bass Cove?" Jurgyen echoed with confusion.
"Bass Cove of Vanguard?" Gwydre asked, coming out of her seat. "The fishing village?"
Giavno nodded and worked to catch his breath, and Gwydre wailed, thinking it had suffered a terrible fate at the swords of Palmaristown sailors.
"A victory," Giavno stammered.
Now Jurgyen, too, scrambled to stand.
"A great victory for us," Giavno said again, and finally he calmed enough to stop gasping. "Your warriors set a trap for the Palmaristown ships," he explained. "Many of Pireth Vanguard's refugees found their way to Bass Cove, and so they were prepared."
"How do you know this?" Brother Jurgyen asked, and he looked to Gwydre as he spoke.
"I was there," Giavno explained. "In spirit."
That brought a nod to Jurgyen from Gwydre.
"I told them of the coming of the Palmaristown fleet," Giavno said, barely able to contain his ecstatic giggling. "I-"
"By Saint Abelle," Brother Jurgyen said, and he made the sign of the evergreen.
"Three Palmaristown warships taken whole," Giavno elaborated. "Three Palmaristown crews killed or captured."
"This is fine news," said Gwydre, and when she looked to Jurgyen, she found him nodding his agreement with enthusiasm.
"There is more, lady," said Giavno. "The Vanguardsmen are organizing to sail south, a large armada full of warriors. To their lady's side, they believe."
"They will be sunk in the gulf!" Jurgyen exclaimed. "Even with the three Palmaristown warships at the tip of their flotilla."
"I tried to caution them," Giavno replied. "But I dared not engage too closely without returning to report on the turn of events."
Dame Gwydre nodded and looked to Jurgyen. The monk sucked in his breath, for he knew well the risk of Giavno's act. To walk in spirit form was dangerous enough, but imparting information in such a state would put a brother in close contact with another being-often too close to resist the almost irrepressible temptation of possession. Giavno had gotten away with it once, apparently, but he was risking his sanity in the act.
But Jurgyen couldn't deny the potential here for exactly that which Gwydre had claimed. He glanced at the floor, a smile of self-deprecation creasing his face.
"Go out again when you are able, brother," he told Giavno. "I beg of you. You and many others, myself included."
"You would venture forth in spirit?" Gwydre asked, and Jurgyen looked up at her and let her see his admission that he had been clearly wrong.
"With coordination, we brothers can guide this Vanguard fleet," he explained. "Perhaps they will avoid the warships of King Yeslnik."
"You are our strength," Dame Gwydre said to both monks. "The brothers of Blessed Abelle afford us a power that our enemy cannot know and cannot match. Go with honor, pride, and great care, I beg. We will know quickly what they will not fathom for days or weeks, and that will be our advantage."
TWELVE
The Second Road
Master Reandu looked from the trio of robed "brothers" to the other observer, the Laird of Pryd, who scowled as they moved out the far side of the monk enclave of the wider army encampment.
"He knows," one of Chapel Pryd's lesser brothers remarked to Reandu in harsh and nervous tones.
Master Reandu took a deep breath, then walked slowly across the way, garnering Bannagran's attention as he approached.
"No word from Bransen," he said to the laird.
Bannagran didn't look at him, but kept staring at the departing monks who were not monks at all.
"They are fleeing?" Bannagran asked in a flat and even voice.
"I cannot ask them to go to war with their brethren."
"So you allow them to fight beside their brethren against us?"
"No, laird," Reandu said, patting his hands in the air to calm the volatile man. "No, never that. The battle is ended for them. They will find a chapel…"
"I am to trust that?"
"They joined the order."
Bannagran did turn on the monk then, scowling fiercely. "I allowed you to claim they had joined the order so that we did not have to follow King Yeslnik's demand that all of Ethelbert's prisoners be put to death," he reminded. "You repay my mercy by betraying me?"
"I did not betray-"
"They will flee to Laird Ethelbert's side at first opportunity. They will be given arms and will return to kill your fellow men of Pryd."
Reandu shook his head with every word. "I have their word. The war is over for them. All they want is to return to their families. Surely you cannot disagree with that!"
"You try my patience, monk."
"I recognize your humanity."
Bannagran scowled at him even more fiercely, but then the tension broke and the large and muscular man looked at him more curiously. Reandu found that expression far more unsettling. "Or is it that Master Reandu, too, is thinking of deserting the cause of King Yeslnik?" he asked bluntly.
Reandu rocked back on his heels, not blinking and not replying.
"It is true," Bannagran stated. "You chose to bring those three along and selected the other brothers among the flock of Chapel Pryd because these are the ones who wish to flee the cause of King Yeslnik. You would leave me-would leave your fellow men of Pryd Town-on the battlefield without gemstone healing?"
"No," the monk stated flatly. "No, we will stay throughout the fight to aid the men of Pryd and all the wounded who come to us."
"But you would deny King Yeslnik?"
"I serve the Order of Blessed Abelle, whose masters reside at St. Mere Abelle in the north of Honce," the monk dared to reply. "I have heard no good of this man, Father De Guilbe, whom King Yeslnik has determined to speak as the leader of
this new Church of the Divine King. You cannot ask me to renounce my allegiance any more than Bannagran would have renounced his loyalty to Laird Prydae, were he still alive."
"A brave admission," replied Bannagran. "I could tie you to four horses and send them running to the points of the compass for merely speaking those treasonous words."
"I would rather that than renounce Father Artolivan."
Bannagran looked at him as if he had lost his mind but only for a few moments before the large and muscular laird began laughing. He continued to shake his head, then simply turned and started away.
"Laird Bannagran, not I or any of my brethren will desert you in the fight, should it come," Reandu called after him, a promise he intended to keep.
Bannagran didn't stop walking but looked back over his shoulder and said, "And after the fight?"
Master Reandu could only stare at him, letting the words hang empty in the air. He stood there for some time, watching Bannagran as the man receded among the tents and other soldiers. Strangely, Reandu found that he wasn't surprised by the laird's seeming indifference. Bannagran's heart wasn't in this campaign, wasn't for King Yeslnik. Reandu was certain that Bannagran fairly hated the foppish pretender. Still, Reandu had all but admitted that he would defect to Artolivan, who was now openly opposing Yeslnik. Actually witnessing Bannagran's nonchalance in the face of that was no small thing.
Reandu closed his eyes and reconsidered his course, not for the first time, and he doubted for the last. His loyalty was to Artolivan and the Order of Blessed Abelle-the real one and not the shadow church King Yeslnik was trying to create. The monks at Chapel Pryd agreed with that decision almost to a man as they had applauded Master Reandu for cleverly dodging the king's order to execute the prisoners held at Chapel Pryd.
But Reandu's heart was for Pryd Town most of all. Pryd was his home-his family had been there for as long as any could remember, many generations. And Reandu had grown to respect and admire Bannagran as well. How could he leave his home and his laird?
But how could he not, if remaining there meant a declaration of fealty to that awful Father De Guilbe and this new made-up church whose name elevated the wretched Yeslnik to "divine"?
"It will all work out," he whispered to himself, nodding and silently reminding himself that the issue between King Yeslnik and Father Artolivan was far from settled. Likely they would come to an accord since no army could possibly topple the great fortress that was St. Mere Abelle and since, when at last the war between the lairds was over, it would be in no one's best interest to continue a fight between church and state.
The assurance found little hold in Reandu's heart, though, for the master had more than enough personal experience with King Yeslnik to know that the man could not be trusted to do the right thing, particularly as far as the common folk were concerned.
Still, the monk could hope, he supposed.
He heard a call then for "Master!" and from the insistent tone, he realized that the younger brother had likely been shouting for him for some time. He glanced about, finally spotting the monk and others gathered on a knoll, pointing to the tree line. Reandu understood their excitement, and his own eyes widened indeed when he, too, spotted Bransen.
The young warrior looked haggard, indeed, and though no wound was evident upon him, Reandu had to think that he had suffered some type of physical trauma, for he held one hand up to his forehead and walked shakily, not quite Stork-like, but certainly not with the agile and balanced strides of the Highwayman.
Reandu rushed down to him, but Bransen didn't stop or glance at or acknowledge him in any way.
"What is it?" Reandu asked, and he noted that it was indeed a soul stone that Bransen was pressing against his forehead.
"I… I… I…" Bransen stammered in reply. He shook his head, spittle flying, and staggered past.
Master Reandu nearly gagged. The Stork had returned and persisted even though Bransen had a soul stone against his forehead! Reandu rushed to Bransen's side and took him by the arm. He wouldn't let the young warrior shake him away, though Bransen surely tried.
"Bransen, what has happened?" Reandu asked. Other monks came rushing down to help.
"I… I n… nee… need rest," he managed at last as he tried to pull away. But another monk grabbed him by his other arm, and that brother and Reandu ushered Bransen quickly to a tent and a cot and eased him down.
Bransen lay there for some time, staring off to the side, though he was surely looking at things within his own mind and not at Reandu or anything else in the tent. Reandu called to him repeatedly to try to get some explanation, but the young warrior wasn't talking.
Soon after, the exhausted Bransen fell fast asleep.
"A strip of cloth," Reandu instructed the other monk, who rushed from the tent and returned almost immediately with a small square of wool. Reandu rolled it up and tied it about Bransen's forehead, setting the soul stone underneath it to hold it in place, much as Bransen had typically done before Father Artolivan had given him the lost star brooch.
Reandu dismissed the other monks, but he didn't depart with them. He sat beside Bransen throughout the rest of the day, occasionally using a second soul stone to infuse the weary young warrior with warm waves of healing magic. Finally, as the night deepened, Master Reandu stood to take his leave, to gather some dinner before retiring.
"You were ri… right," Bransen said as the monk turned away. Reandu spun back to see the young warrior open his eyes. "Does that fill you with pride?" Bransen asked, and his voice seemed steady once more, though surely not nearly as strong as it had been when he had gone out the previous night.
"What do you mean?" Reandu asked, coming back and crouching low over the prone man.
Bransen looked away.
After a moment, Reandu understood. "You could not do it," he said, and a smile widened on his face. "You could not kill them."
Bransen looked back, and he wasn't returning that smile. With a great scowl he said, "Does that please you?"
"More than you can imagine, my friend."
Bransen's frown melted into a look of curiosity.
"Did you think I would cheer your fall from morality?" Reandu asked him. "Did you believe that I would be glad to learn that you, a wonderful and generous soul I have known since your childhood, were as crass and callous as so many of these supposed leaders?"
"Perhaps I am not as brave as I assumed."
"Brave?" Now Reandu couldn't suppress his chuckle. "You are no assassin, Bransen Garibond, nor is this other image of you that you name the Highwayman. You have never been an assassin."
"Ancient Badden would not agree with your assessment."
"In killing Ancient Badden you saved hundreds of innocents," Reandu answered without the slightest hesitation. "In that act you ended a war, and the man was deserving of his end. But this pact you forged with Bannagran… No, Bransen, that was not a just and moral agreement. You knew it, and in the moment of truth, when you could not continue your deception of your heart, when continuing would fundamentally and adversely change the man you are, you chose the correct road. I could not be happier."
Bransen stared at him hard. "I am afflicted once more," he said, and his voice remained unsteady.
"What happened? Did you suffer a wound?"
"No."
"When did it occur? Did you engage in a fight?"
"The fight was over, and I won and was not injured," Bransen explained. He lifted his hands before him and stared at them as if they were covered in blood. "I had her," he said, and he clenched his left hand. "Head back and helpless."
It wasn't hard for Master Reandu to piece the rest of it together. The Stork had manifested itself to save Bransen from his worst instincts, the monk master believed, and he was very glad for it. He grabbed Bransen's hands in his own and squeezed them gently.
"And now I am crippled once more," Bransen said, his voice barely a whisper.
"Was it not this Jhesta Tu training that you claimed ha
d freed you of the Stork and of the need to use the soul stone?" Reandu asked.
Bransen looked at him, obviously intrigued and apparently unwilling to admit it.
"What would that discipline say to Bransen in that situation? Are the Jhesta Tu assassins?"
"No," the weary young warrior whispered.
"Is that not anathema to their beliefs?"
"It's all a lie," Bransen muttered and looked away.
He was ashamed of himself, Master Reandu knew. That, the monk believed, was a very good thing.
Reandu said not another word that night and stayed with Bransen for a long while, until the emotionally battered young man fell asleep once more.
Bransen burst from the tent the next morning with the soul stone strapped securely to his forehead and his black silk mask hanging loosely about his neck. He wasn't solid on his feet, though certainly more balanced than he had seemed the previous day.
"You slept well?" Master Reandu inquired, moving to join him.
Bransen nodded.
"That is good, because we have a long march before us by order of Laird Bannagran. If you intend to continue this road, I mean."
"I will retrieve my sword and the brooch Father Artolivan gave me," Bransen replied. "And then I will be gone, far from this place, far from Yeslnik's Honce."
Reandu cocked an eyebrow curiously at that. "You concede the land to him?"
"It is a foregone conclusion."
"So where will you run? Alpinador?" he asked. "To Behr, perhaps, the home of the Jhesta Tu?"
"Or to Vanguard," Bransen replied. "To the wilds of the north beyond the reach of Yeslnik's soldiers. I will gather Cadayle and Callen, and we will be gone across the gulf. To all the world the Highwayman will be dead."
"Dead?"
"Yes."
"That is how you want it?"
"Yes."
"And those who would benefit from the work of the Highwayman should be content with their miserable lot in life, because the Highwayman could not be bothered to champion them?"
"I care not," Bransen declared. "My road is my own to choose, and my responsibility is to myself and to my wife and family."
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