The Ancient

ELEVEN

Two Birds

It is a lie,” Brother Pinower remarked as Dawson, stepping lightly as if the weight of the world had been removed from his shoulders, started out of Father Artolivan’s audience hall.

Dawson stopped with a small hop and turned to face the younger monk, but Artolivan spoke before he could reply.

“A tale of mutual benefit,” the old priest said.

“A tale untrue,” said Brother Pinower. “We know the fate of Brother Dynard.”

“Do we?” asked Artolivan.

Pinower licked his lips and glanced over at Dawson. “We know at least that Dawson’s concoction has no basis in any known facts, Father.”

“Vanguard is a large and untamed place,” said Artolivan.

“We make a leap of circumstance based on less than compelling reasoning, Father. To spin such a claim, without cause, seems the very definition of…”

“Prudence,” Father Artolivan interrupted. “Play it out to logical conclusion in your thoughts, young Brother, absent this ‘concoction,’ as you deem it. The benefactors of your veracity would be?”

Pinower’s gaze went from Artolivan to Dawson and back again, and again. After a few moments, he could only sigh, having no practical response.

With an appreciative nod to Father Artolivan, Dawson McKeege took his leave.

“Go with him,” Father Artolivan instructed Pinower. “Supply to his tale the imprimatur of the Abellican Church.”

Brother Pinower’s expression showed his ultimate dismay, but he did not argue and did not respond, other than to bow politely and rush away in pursuit of the Vanguardsman.

Named because she sat below the peak of the northern cliffs and thus offered protection from the cold winds that howled down from the gulf, Weatherguard nevertheless still afforded her residents and visitors a magnificent view of Chapel Abelle, so strong and solemn and crisp against the steel-gray sky beyond the high rise.

Bransen, Callen, and Cadayle stood and enjoyed that view for a few moments when they first came in sight of the renowned abbey, with the two women flanking Bransen and holding him relatively straight, as he had been for most of their journey, particularly those parts when they neared more populated areas. Today he walked in genuine Stork form.

“Built by the hand of God, so they say,” Callen whispered, awe evident in her voice. For how could it not have been? Many of Honce’s traveling bards named this the most impressive structure in all the land, even above the magnificent palace of Laird Delaval.

Bransen slipped a hand into his belt pouch and clutched a soul stone. He had become quite adept at making this movement unobtrusive and even more so at accessing the power of the stone, almost instantly transforming himself. “We know the Abellicans far too well to make the mistake of listening to ‘they,’” he reminded. “How might Chapel Abelle measure against the Walk of Clouds of the Jhesta Tu?”

“One day we will know, my love,” Cadayle whispered to him. She nudged him gently to make sure he was aware of people walking by.

Anytime Cadayle rubbed his upper arm and said “my love,” it meant that he should revert to his disguise. Bransen took the cue and let go of the gemstone. Any hint that he was faking his malady would surely land him on the front lines of the vicious war as both sides scrambled for more and more fodder to feed their kingly designs.

Cadayle and Callen helped Bransen to Weatherguard’s long inn, a ramshackle old structure so warped and aged that the floor showed stains of the water that easily crept through whenever it rained or snowed. Still, the common room’s hearth was enormous and well stocked. The fire, seeming like three separate conflagrations, worked its way through the jumble of logs piled high behind an iron grate, their flickering ends sometimes joining, sometimes flaring in opposite directions so that they resembled a trio of dancers acting out the tragedy of a failing love triangle.

The patrons in the room showed no such intrigue. Old men and women young and old littered the many small round tables set about the generous floor. Glances both scornful and bitter came at Bransen immediately as he entered. Only as he staggered storklike, drool wetting the corners of his mouth, did many of the patrons nod their understanding and let go of that resentment. Few men of Bransen’s age remained in Weatherguard, and everyone in the room had suffered the loss of a husband or son or brother in the seemingly endless war between Ethelbert and Delaval.

“Wounded in the South,” Cadayle explained to a gaggle of old women who stared incredulously as Bransen staggered into a seat.

“Ah,” they all said together.

“A pity he weren’t killed outright, then, ye poor girl,” one dared offer.

Cadayle merely nodded, accepting their misplaced pity. She’d heard that one often enough.

Cadayle noticed then that one middle-aged man in the tavern seemed quite out of place. Sitting in a back corner, his weathered boots up on the table, he was surely of age and fitness to be at the front. He cradled a mug of mead in one hand, absently running the index finger of his other hand about its thick rim. And all the while he stared at her and at Bransen with more than a passing interest. Too much so!

Cadayle told herself that she was being ridiculous, that the man, like everyone else, was simply intrigued by the abnormality of the Stork. She settled into her chair beside Bransen, facing Callen.

Callen’s glance over her shoulder was Cadyle’s first warning. Before she even turned, a strong hand patted her shoulder.

“Well seen and well to drink,” the man greeted, sliding up beside Cadayle near to the fourth chair at the table. He looked to her and then to it as if asking permission to sit down.

Cadayle glanced at her mother, who gave a quick nod.

“Do join us,” the younger woman said.

The man settled in heavily, staring at Bransen all the while. “You look as if you’ve a long road behind you.” He motioned to the bartender to bring a round of drinks.

“My husband cannot indulge,” Cadayle said quietly.

“Make him unsteady on his feet, will it?” the man asked, and Cadayle glowered at him.

“Apologies, good lady,” he said unconvincingly. He half stood and bowed toward Bransen. “Wounded in the war?” he asked, again too intently.

“In the South,” said Cadayle.

“A pity, that. The towns are full of torn men. Arms and legs missing. Brains all scattered so that they can hardly speak. An ugly business is this war.”

“One you seem to be avoiding,” Callen said across the table, and Cadayle was glad indeed for the diversion.

The man gave what seemed to be a helpless chuckle. “I’ve come from Vanguard to the north across the gulf.” He stood and tipped his heavy cap. “Dawson McKeege at your service, good ladies and yourself, good sir. Here on a brief-too brief!-respite. War’s no less up there, I tell you.”

“So you fled?” Cadayle asked.

The man laughed harder. “Nay, that wouldn’t do. I’ve sailed under Dame Gwydre’s banner to Chapel Abelle for supplies, you see? The gemstones of the Abellicans have proven well worth the journey. We’re taming a land as vast and great as Honce herself.”

“The brothers help you, then.”

“Oh, indeed!” Dawson replied. “We’ve several working our chapels. Good men, one and all, though I’ve no doubt that more than a few found themselves in the northland for reasons of discipline and not choice.”

Cadayle gave a pleasant and polite smile.

“Whenever the Church has one out of line, the road turns north, is my guess of it,” the clever Dawson went on. “And don’t be misunderstanding me! Pray no! We’re all too glad to have them.”

“Surely,” said Cadayle, sharing a glance with Callen.

“And why might you be at Chapel Abelle?” Dawson asked. “Seeking help for your man, there, from their gemstone magic?”

Cadayle nodded.

Dawson returned it. “If they’ve the time, perhaps you’ll find what you seek, though your man will likely find himself on a wagon heading back for the fighting if they manage the task.”

Cadayle clutched Bransen’s hand tightly. “He does not fear any battle,” she said.

“Surely,” Dawson replied. “Have you come far, then?”

“All the way from Pryd Hol…” Callen started.

“South of Pryd Holding,” Cadayle quickly corrected. “Closer to Entel, even.”

Dawson’s eyes widened. “A long and trying journey, to be sure, with one so impaired.” He paused as the barmaid came over and delivered a pair of pale ales.

“Don’t ye let Dawson here bother ye,” she said, exactly as Dawson had paid her to remark. “He’s the lout of the North, so goes his reputation.” She gave him a playful slap on the shoulder as she finished to diminish any real warning in her words, again, exactly as he had paid her to do. There was nothing like a charming rake to calm a stranger’s fears, Dawson knew.

“But he’s just harmless,” the barmaid said in Cadayle’s ear. “Always looking for a warm bed for his spike, don’t ye know? And he’s looking to yer friend there-yer ma, she is, I’m guessing, or yer older sister-and don’t she look so pretty? My, but ye’ll be a long time with yer charms following that one!”

Cadayle snickered despite herself. She lifted the ale to her lips and took a long and welcomed draw.

“Don’t you be showing my dice, Tauny Dentsen!” Dawson complained as the barmaid whirled away, giggling. He looked back at Cadayle to find a warm smile waiting for him.

“How long are you to stay, then?” Dawson asked.

Cadayle and Callen exchanged uncertain looks.

“If you’re to wait on the brothers, then some time, of course,” Dawson reasoned. “Chapel Abelle is full of activity, readying for the new class of brothers who will enter her gates in but a few days. I doubt you will get Father Artolivan or Brother Pinower to even hear your request before the week is through.”

“You know them?” Callen asked before Cadayle could.

“All of them, of course,” said Dawson. “I told you that my Dame Gwydre is on fine terms with the brothers of Blessed Abelle. They’ve eyes on Vanguard, to be sure, as would any far-seeing man.”

“And they have brothers up there,” Cadayle added. “As you said.”

“Aye, many have come for more than twenty years now.”

Cadayle glanced at Bransen, a perfectly natural movement, and one that would not have been telling to Dawson had he not already known the true reason the trio had ventured to Chapel Abelle.

“So you’re to seek the work of the brothers with their gemstones,” Dawson said. “A reasonable request, and one that would likely be met with some sympathy were it not for these times.”

Cadayle furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

“The brothers are exhausted,” Dawson explained. “Overworked, particularly with the gemstones, as they tend constantly to the wounded of both the warring lairds. As long as you have a writ, you have a chance, I expect.” He addressed Bransen directly. “You fought under Delaval’s flag, yes? And his commander offered you a Writ of Plea for the Brothers of Chapel Abelle? The higher his rank, the better your chances, of course. A Writ of Plea from Laird Delaval himself would likely get you into their healing chambers.”

“A Writ of Plea?” Cadayle asked, shaking her head.

“To be sure! A letter from a laird, or his commanders, begging special attention to a valiant warrior’s wounds. Without it, you’ll not get near to the leaders at Chapel Abelle, and they are the most powerful ones with the gemstones. They are not so-” Dawson stopped in a hush and sat staring sympathetically at Cadayle, then at Bransen. “So you do not possess a writ?”

A horrified expression came over the woman, and she looked to an equally surprised and upset Callen.

“All hope is not lost,” Dawson was quick to add. “Have you a friend or relative among the brothers, anything to elevate your needs above the maladies of so many other poor souls? Was your man there particularly valorous?”

Cadayle stared at him incredulously.

“I recant!” said Dawson. “Dear lady, forgive my foolishness. Of course he was, but what I mean is… well, is there a witness to his bravery? A letter of honor if not a Writ of Plea?”

Cadayle’s expression answered that clearly in the negative.

“Then a relative among the brothers?” asked Dawson. “Think hard, I pray you. A friend? An acquaintance, even? Anyone who can speak for your poor man there to elevate him from the throngs of wounded.”

“We have come in hopes of healing, to be sure,” Callen said, drawing the attention of both Cadayle and the man, and both looked equally surprised. “But also in search of one who might well speak for us.”

“A brother?”

Callen nodded. “From Chapel Pryd, far to the south. He traveled to Chapel Abelle many years ago, so it is rumored, and we came here specifically in the hopes that he would help my daughter’s poor husband.”

“Your daughter?” said Dawson, and he seemed as if his breath had flown. “Surely I thought her your sister!”

Callen blushed and smiled, despite the obvious ploy.

“Well, if this brother is here, then you shan’t have wasted your time, I expect,” said Dawson. “I know all the brothers presently at chapel. What is his name?”

After another quick glance at her mother Cadayle said, “Brother Dynard. Brother Bran Dynard.”

Dawson furrowed his brow and fell back in his chair, a look of knowing his expression.

“You know him?”

“No,” the Vanguardsman replied. “But I know of him.”

“He is at Chapel Abelle?” asked Callen.

Dawson managed a glance at Bransen as he looked to the older woman, and he recognized the sure signs of interest there, how the swaying man was actually managing to lean forward a bit.

“No,” Dawson answered, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the clear signs of disappointment on the debilitated man’s face. “Not here. Not for a decade and more at least.”

Cadayle rubbed her face.

“He is in Vanguard, of course,” Dawson said. Both women sucked in their breath, and Bransen turned sharply toward him-so much so that he nearly tumbled out of his seat.

“Aye, across the Gulf of Corona to the north,” said Dawson. “Serving Dame Gwydre’s flock.”

“Then he is alive,” Cadayle breathed, words she hadn’t meant to utter aloud.

“Last I heard, indeed,” said Dawson. “Would you go there, then? To Vanguard to find him?”

Neither woman had an answer to that, as was obvious from their respective, and equally overwhelmed, expressions.

“You cannot walk to Vanguard, of course,” Dawson offered. “A month and more by land and through wild lands. The only way to Vanguard is by boat across the dark waters.”

“And they sail from where? Palmaristown?” asked Cadayle.

“And the price of passage?” Callen added.

Dawson offered a warm smile. “Sometimes they do, yes, and I know not that there is ever a set price. No passenger boats make the crossing, you see. Trade ships, one and all, like my own Lady Dreamer.“

“What price then?” asked Cadayle.

“For the three of you? Why, if I’ve room I’ll gladly have you aboard. The price will be fine company and stories of the South. I can see by the looks of you that you’ve many interesting tales to tell.”

“If you have room,” Callen said.

“And I will, though the brothers have bade me to carry many of the war-weary prisoners,” said Dawson. “Oh, they are not dangerous,” he added, seeing a bit of alarm on Cadayle’s sweet face. “Just poor souls fighting for one laird or another who got hurt or caught and by agreement of honor and convenience were put out of the war for its duration. The brothers take them in, both sides treated equally, but the ferocity of the battle has given them more than they can handle. Still, I expect I’ll have room for three extras on Lady Dreamer.“

Cadayle looked to Bransen and Callen for an answer, and Callen had one. “You are too kind,” she said. “And we will surely consider your most generous offer. When do you plan to sail?”

“Tomorrow,” said Dawson. “And I will hold three open seats. You will find Vanguard most accommodating. We’ve wood aplenty, and thus, Dame Gwydre has built entire towns in anticipation of emigration from the war-ravaged mainland. Most welcomed, I assure you, particularly with two so beautiful ladies among your trio.”

He stood up then and motioned to the barmaid again, flashing a piece of silver and setting it on the table for her.

“I must see to my other arrangements,” he said to the three. “A strong wind to fill your canvas, and moving seas to you.”

He bowed and took his leave. Cadayle and Callen sat there, stunned, for many moments, each trying to digest all that had just happened.

“Can it be?” Bransen mouthed quietly to both of them, closing his hand on his soul stone once more. “Alive?” Even with the magical aid, the young man seemed to have a hard time sitting still and sitting straight.

You confirmed my tale to them, of course?” Dawson McKeege asked Brother Pinower the next day, soon after he had noted Cadayle, Callen, and the man known as the Highwayman moving through the courtyard of Chapel Abelle and into the tunnels leading down to the dock where Lady Dreamer waited.

“As Father Artolivan demanded of me, yes,” the monk confirmed.

Dawson grinned as he turned to regard him. “You disapprove?”

“I pride myself on telling the truth.”

Dawson looked back out over the wall to the dark waters of the gulf. “In this instance the tale was better for all. Would this Highwayman be better off if he did not sail with me? Or would Father Artolivan be compelled to arrest him, surely to be hanged by the neck? You may have saved a life, good Brother. Isn’t that worth a lie?”

“If the man is a criminal then it is not my province to deny justice.”

“Criminal. Justice,” Dawson echoed. “Strange words in this time, when men slaughter their own kin to further the aspirations of greedy lairds. Would you not agree?”

Brother Pinower sighed and looked out to sea.

“This is an easier course for Father Artolivan and for all of you. Perhaps you saved more lives than the Highwayman’s, if it had come to blows. His reputation is impressive. If he is half the warrior Father Artolivan believes, he will serve Dame Gwydre well.”

Now Pinower did look directly at the sea-worn man. “He goes to Vanguard under false pretenses. His anger will rise when he learns of the deception. You do not know that he will serve Dame Gwydre at all.”

“Oh, he will,” said a smiling Dawson. “For he goes not alone, and they, all three, will find themselves alone and vulnerable in a land they do not understand. Consider it his sentence for the crimes of which he has been accused. We will be your gaolers-it seems the way of things.”

“If you say,” said Pinower, staring out at the dark waters.

Dawson similarly turned. “Oh, he will,” the man mumbled.