“You appreciate the difficulty I have in openly defying King Yeslnik at this time, on this issue?” Father Artolivan asked.
“I do.”
“I cannot offer you any imprimatur that would serve you against the king’s men,” Father Artolivan said. “But perhaps I can fashion some writ to add my voice to Dame Gwydre’s, some imprimatur to ensure those favorable to your cause that I witnessed Dame Gwydre’s testimony on your behalf and found it credible.” He looked around as he finished and both Pinower, who had moved up to stand beside him, and Premujon nodded their agreement, albeit with some obvious reservations.
“That would be most helpful,” said Bransen.
“Your wife and her mother are welcome to remain here at Chapel Abelle,” Artolivan added. “I trust you will not be bringing them along on your undoubtedly perilous journey.”
Bransen sighed deeply; the thought of being away from Cadayle again after only a few short months together gnawed at him. Thoughts of traveling to Behr flickered through his mind once more, along with a nagging feeling that he should sail north again with Gwydre and Dawson and make his home in Vanguard. It had been a fine winter, the most peaceful and enjoyable Bransen had ever known. Beside Gwydre and Dawson and Cormack and Jond and even Premujon, Bransen and his family had felt as if they were truly among friends.
“Bransen?” he heard Artolivan remark, and realized that he had fallen deep within himself and had missed a question or two. He shook the doubts away and looked at the leader of the Order of Abelle.
“Your wife?” Artolivan asked.
“I have to go,” Bransen said, as much to himself as to the others. “If Yeslnik is to be King of Honce, then I have to clear my name and regain the freedom I earned from Dame Gwydre.”
“King Yeslnik is a stubborn one,” Father Artolivan warned. “He will not be easily swayed.”
Bransen, knowing Yeslnik better than any in the room, nodded, but he smiled as he did, and in a flash drew out his magnificent sword. “For the third time, I will put him at the tip of my sword,” he promised, and he didn’t fight that mischievous, almost reckless, smile from widening on his face as he went into a sudden slash and thrust move, ending up in a powerful pose, sword forward. “I suspect that while his eyes are seeing the sharpened edge, his heart will see the truth of Bransen.”
Brother Pinower looked horrified, and Father Premujon cleared his throat uncomfortably, but Father Artolivan let forth a great squeal of laughter and clapped his hands. “Brilliant!” he congratulated. “I only hope that Honce will forgive you for stopping short your deadly blade.”
“Father!” Pinower and Premujon said together, but Artolivan waved them away and walked up to Bransen, patting the young man on the shoulder.
“I would like for you to stay, Highwayman,” he said. “Though I know you cannot. Return to me, if you find the time.”
“To retrieve my family, of course.”
“And to sit with me! I have only heard small stretches of the history of Bransen Garibond and this hero known as the Highwayman.” He paused and looked at Bransen as if seeking permission, before finishing, “And of the Stork. I would like to hear the whole story.”
“Ask Cadayle,” Bransen replied. “She can tell it as well as I, since she was there for most of my steps, even the awkward ones of the Stork, that as often as not left me face down in the mud.”
“Sometimes in the mud of Chapel Pryd, with buckets in hand,” said Artolivan, and Bransen looked at him, surprised that he knew so much.
“Small stretches of your history,” Artolivan assured him. “And there is one more thing.” He reached up and touched the front of Bransen’s black bandanna, tapping right atop the soul stone hidden beneath it and secured to his forehead.
Artolivan turned to Pinower and pointed to the desk, and then pointed more emphatically when the younger monk hesitated.
“I have had a long discussion with Brother Cormack,” Artolivan said, and it took a moment before Bransen realized that Artolivan had added the church title to his friend’s name.
Pinower walked over with a small, decorated box. With obvious reverence, he handed it to Artolivan, who held it before Bransen as he slowly opened its hinged lid.
Bransen’s eyes widened as he stared at the contents: a small star-shaped brooch, no more than a fingertip across at its widest point, centered with a soul stone and containing in its five tips other stones of various colors. He recognized the ruby at its top point, flanked left and right by malachite and a particular type of agate known as cat’s eye. The striated stone set in the bottom left point he thought to be serpentine, and the other he knew as quartz, but a cloudy variety whose properties Bransen did not know.
“This was made for Laird Delaval’s grandfather, ironically,” Artolivan explained, “in the early days of the Order of Abelle. To Father Abelle’s surprise, the laird refused it, despite its obvious powers, since we were not as accepted back in those days, when the Samhaists dominated Honce.” He lifted the brooch and slowly turned it so that Bransen could better see its wondrous craftsmanship, including small hooks and pins on the backing. “It is fashioned of silverel, the same metal as your unusual sword, and edged in graphite, the stone of lightning.”
“What does it do?”
“Separately, the gems are each possessed of their own blessing.”
Bransen, who knew of the gemstones, of course, nodded. “They are all enchanted?”
“It is a fine item,” Artolivan confirmed. “It was crafted to be sewn to the chest, above the heart, but perhaps on your forehead…”
Bransen reached up and touched his bandanna. “To the cloth?”
“To the skin itself,” said Artolivan, and Bransen’s eyes widened in surprise and a bit of trepidation. He calmed quickly as he remembered the fight on the road with Dame Gwydre’s raiders, when his bandanna and stone had been knocked away and he had been helpless against the troll enemies.
“I have spoken about you at length with Brother Jond, as well,” Father Artolivan explained.
“Women in Behr wear gemstones in such a manner,” added Brother Pinower. “They call it tikka, and it is considered quite beautiful.”
“And those are simple and mundane jewels,” said Artolivan. “Magically speaking, I mean. You will find these stones useful in other ways.”
He handed the brooch to Bransen, who slowly lifted it to his forehead with one hand, slipping free the other soul stone as he slid the new one in place. He closed his eyes and fell within the flux of energy offered by the gems.
His ki-chi-kree, his line of life energy, remained straight and strong, as with the other soul stone. And other possibilities flitted through his thoughts, a jumble at first, but gradually sorting themselves out.
Possibilities.
“You would give this to me?” he asked, opening his eyes to stare hard at Father Artolivan.
“An extraordinary gift for an extraordinary man,” Artolivan replied. “It does my old heart good to see that brooch, so long in the coffer, upon your forehead.”
“And it looks quite good,” Father Premujon added with a smile.
Bransen left Artolivan’s quarters with his bandanna in his hand, and he walked with the sure gait of the Highwayman, not the awkward stumble of the Stork.
You hate me,” Bransen said solemnly after a long and uncomfortable pause.
Cadayle looked up at him; across the room, Callen laughed.
“For a hero, you’re sure for saying some stupid things,” the older woman remarked. “She’s no more for hating you than you are for her, and you should be able to see that clear enough in her eyes by now.”
“Of course I don’t,” Cadayle added, and she hugged Bransen close. “But I am afraid, and I’ll miss you dearly, as I did in Vanguard those weeks you were gone from me.”
Bransen hugged her back even more tightly. “I know. But I have to do this. My name is clear, as Dame Gwydre agreed.”
“We’d be free enough in Vanguard,
” said Cadayle.
“I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out how and where I belong,” Bransen replied. “Honce is our home-Pryd is our home. Even if we choose not to live there, we should be able to return at our leisure.”
“When we left, you left a dead laird behind,” Cadayle reminded him.
“But even that is forgiven by Gwydre.”
“By Bannagran?”
“I don’t know, but I will find out.” He paused, his next admission coming hard. “I want Brother Reandu-Master Reandu, I mean-to know the truth of it, to know that I am no criminal and that his order, at the very highest level, has deigned to honor and accept me.”
“Because of your life at Chapel Pryd. Because of the way Reandu and the others treated you.”
Bransen couldn’t deny the obvious truth of Cadayle’s observations, so he just slid back from her a bit and shrugged helplessly.
“If Bannagran or Yeslnik catches and kills you, I’ll never forgive you,” Cadayle said, ending with a spreading grin.
“Then you don’t hate me?”
Callen let out a great burst of laughter.
“I know you have to do this. I only wish I could go with you,” said Cadayle.
“Not now.”
“I know.”
“Here, you hero,” said Callen and she took a couple of steps toward Bransen and tossed him his bandanna, which she had been sewing. He caught it and examined it, then slipped the now thin eye-mask on.
“The dashing Highwayman,” said Callen.
“They know who I am,” Bransen replied. “And now I need not hold a gemstone in place. There is no point to the disguise.”
“Yes there is,” said Callen.
“The common folk of Pryd know the Highwayman more than they know Bransen Garibond,” Cadayle agreed. “Your reputation is your advantage against Bannagran.”
Bransen’s step was sure-footed but much less animated as he walked out of Chapel Abelle that afternoon. He was confident that his course was correct, and that he had justice on his side, but the thought of leaving Cadayle for an extended period yet again-even though he expected to be gone from Chapel Abelle for no more than a couple of weeks-wounded him. He glanced back to see Dame Gwydre and Dawson McKeege watching him from the wall, Gwydre nodding her approval.
Cadayle was not there, though, and Bransen was glad of it, for had his beautiful wife been watching, he would have turned and rushed back to her.
He sighed and laughed at himself for his own weakness, then adjusted his hat, brim low to cover the gem-studded star set in his forehead, and hoisted his pack higher on his shoulder and moved on his way. He stayed mostly to the side of the road, moving along the brush and trees, enjoying the solitude and the sounds of a world awakening in the full bloom of spring.
He let his guard down-who wouldn’t in so idyllic and peaceful a setting?-and so he was caught by surprise when a voice called out, “You’ve got a longer road before you if every step forward is taken with half a step backwards!”
Startled, Bransen jumped back, his hand going reflexively to the hilt of the sword set on his hip. He relaxed when the speaker, Jameston Sequin, walked out of the shadows.
Bransen glanced all around and back the way he had come, back toward Chapel Abelle, which was long out of sight by then.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“Been a long time since I’ve walked the ways of Honce.”
“Vanguard is part of Honce,” Bransen said, but Jameston, like most Vanguardsmen, dismissed that notion with a snort and a wave of his hand.
“Haven’t been here in more years than you’ve been alive,” he continued. “Thought this’d be as good a time as any to reacquaint myself.”
“Heading where?” Bransen said suspiciously.
“You’d know that better than myself.”
“I am going to Pryd Town.”
“I am going to Pryd Town,” Jameston echoed.
Bransen put his hands on his hips and stared at the man. “Dame Gwydre believes I need a bodyguard?”
“Doubt that, since she sent you against Badden.”
“But she asked you to come with me on my journey.”
Jameston shook his head. “Was my idea.”
“One she thought wise.”
“I’ll give you that much. But I do want to walk the ways of Honce again, and I know more than a bit about staying out of sight and out of notice. I think you’ll find that helpful.”
“I am no novice.”
“Could’ve fooled me with the way you were dancing down the path. And if I was one of Yeslnik’s men, one with a bow, you’d be lying dead in the brush.”
Bransen just stared at him hard.
“Oh, but quit pretending,” said Jameston. “You know I’ll be helpful, you know I won’t slow you down, and you know you don’t want to walk alone. You also know, but you’re too proud to admit it, that you might learn from my long experiences. Sure, you know how to fight-you’re as good as any I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen many!-but you could learn a few things about when to fight and where to fight from, I’m thinking.”
Bransen didn’t reply, but his visage did soften.
“You know you don’t want to go alone,” Jameston said with a grin under that outrageously thick mustache of his.
Bransen couldn’t resist that smile, and returned it.
“Good thing we’ve got a long road ahead of us,” Jameston said, moving beside Bransen as he walked by. “Because you’ve got a lot to learn and I’ve got a lot to teach you.”
Bransen didn’t reply, other than to widen his smirk. He had spent his life in learning, from the Book of Jhest his father had penned, from the brothers of Chapel Pryd, and, more recently, from Dame Gwydre. He wasn’t about to let foolish pride get in the way now, not with the likes of Jameston Sequin offering him the lessons!
SIXTEEN
Moments of Private Clarity
Young Brother Pontitious huffed and puffed as he ran along the road to the west, his precious cargo, the edict from Father Artolivan, set in a scroll case and slung over one shoulder. Until that morning, he had been jogging along with three other brothers, but they, with their scroll cases, had turned down the southern road for other destinations.
Pontitious’s pace was much greater that day, for he hoped to reach Palmaristown, his goal, before sunset. Suddenly he felt very vulnerable there alone on the road with so important a letter, and those feelings only increased when he heard the clip-clop of a horse and the rattle of coach wheels behind him. Pontitious veered off the side of the road, moving down into a gully behind some brush, where he crouched and looked back the way he had come.
He relaxed when he saw the horse, adorned in a bridle that showed the evergreen symbol of Chapel Abelle and his beloved order. He knew this horse, and recognized the small wagon it pulled. He scrambled back up to the road, waving for his brethren.
“Ho, Pontitious, Brother,” hailed the driver, a man named Josaul, and he slowed the horse to a stop. “I’d hoped to find you on the road. You’ve made a fine pace!”
“Would that Father Artolivan had decided to afford me a coach all the way from Chapel Abelle,” Pontitious said, moving to climb up beside Josaul. “My feet are sorely bruised.”
He reached up, but froze in place when the coach’s door flew open and Father De Guilbe leaned out, lifting his head over it and scowling fiercely at the young courier.
“Father,” Pontitious stammered and fell back.
“I do not recall hearing an invitation for you to ride with us,” De Guilbe said.
Josaul started to say something, but Pontitious spoke over him. “No, Father. I assumed that a coach from Chapel Abelle would afford a brother a seat.”
“You deliver Father Artolivan’s message to Laird Panlamaris?”
“That is my duty, yes, Father.”
De Guilbe offered an unsettling grin in reply. “Do you know Laird Panlamaris, boy?”
“No, Father.
But I met his son when Prince Milwellis passed through Chapel Abelle.”
“And your impressions of the young man?”
Pontitious realized that his expression and body language were giving away his feelings for the brutish man, none of them positive. “I… I… I didn’t know him well.”
Father De Guilbe laughed at him, and he knew that he needn’t say any more. The large and imposing father then motioned toward the bench seat beside Josaul. “Do join us,” he said in a tone as unsettling as that wicked smile. “I wish to see the look on Laird Panlamaris’s face when you deliver to him the notification of Father Artolivan’s treason.”
Brother Pontitious swallowed hard and never stopped staring at Father De Guilbe as he made his way onto the seat beside Josaul. Behind them, the door closed, and Josaul urged his horse back into motion.
Pontitious looked at him with concern, but he just shrugged and shook his head helplessly.
They made the great port city by mid-afternoon, and, with Father De Guilbe guiding Josaul, for the father was obviously quite familiar with Palmaristown, the Chapel Abelle coach soon rambled right up to the coach house of Panlamaris Keep.
Ordering Josaul to stay with the coach, De Guilbe escorted Pontitious into the castle, and, again, this time as a diplomat and not a navigator, had them at their destination in short order, standing before the throne of old Laird Panlamaris.
“De Guilbe, young fool, is that really you?” greeted Panlamaris, a grizzled old man, still thick and strong and carrying the scars of a thousand fights.
“Not so young anymore, laird,” De Guilbe replied.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Alpinador, converting barbarians to the light and the stones?”
De Guilbe waved the notion away. “Too stubborn and stupid a lot for that,” he replied jovially, for these two were obviously old friends (which of course made Pontitious even more nervous). “I could not convince them, so I killed a bunch instead.”
Laird Panlamaris laughed heartily, as did the many attendants in the room, as did Father De Guilbe. Only Pontitious, so obviously and painfully nervous, did not join in.
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