The Bear

THREE

Rows of soldiers lined the docks, archers trained their bows, ready to sweep the decks clear. Dawson McKeege's Lady Dreamer came into the southeastern port of Ethelbert dos Entel under three flags: the crossed wood axes of Dame Gwydre's holding of Vanguard; the evergreen symbol of the Order of Abelle; and a universally acknowledged pennant of peace, a simple white affair. Lady Dreamer had picked up an escort a mile away from the city, a pair of Ethelbert warships, the best open-sea sailing vessels in Honce, with a high deck and three masts of multiple, billowing sails. As they had neared the city, the famed Entel longboats-giant shore-hugging vessels sporting only a single square sail with thirty sturdy oars to a side-had joined the armada.

One boat had rushed ahead to warn the city, and so thousands of people were out and about the hills overlooking the docks, staring down.

"Uncertain and afraid," said Cormack. Tall and long-legged with sinewy muscles, the former monk gave the impression that he was a much younger man, almost boyish, with a disarming smile and bright green eyes, a mop of shaggy blond hair on his head, and a scraggly beard such as a teenager might try to grow. Despite having left the Order of Abelle, Cormack still wore the signature brown robes, not so unusual a sight in Honce, but atop his head he sported a distinctive red beret: the bloody cap of a powrie. And so to all who did not know him Cormack surely seemed a walking contradiction-young and innocent, a bearded child as tall as a giant, wearing the robes of a beneficent order beneath a murderer's prized beret.

"Aye, all word's that they been pushed back inside their walls with nothing but the sea behind them," said Dawson McKeege, the old, grizzled sea dog. Lady Dreamer had put in to port only once since departing the great chapel of St. Mere Abelle, at a small town's single wharf along the outer reaches of the Mantis Arm, to gather supplies and catch up on the news of the day. News that had not shone favorably on the cause of Laird Ethelbert in his struggle against the allies of Delaval City. "Good that they're scared, I'm thinking, given what we're asking. If they thought their side winning, would they even have let us in to port? Nay, they'd've put us into the dark cold far up the coast."

He glanced away from the dock to look directly at Cormack, who directed his gaze to Cormack's wife, Milkeila, and the look of utter amazement on her wide, round face. Following her eyes to the city of Ethelbert dos Entel, it was not hard to fathom the source of her astonishment, given her background as a shaman among the tribes of rugged Alpinador. Ethelbert dos Entel was much larger than any city Milkeila had ever seen. More than that, the strange southern architecture-domes and slender towers and multistorey structures of angled walls and overhanging eaves-were as impressive in their own manner as the massive cliff and walls of St. Mere Abelle.

The woman shook her head in wonder, beaded black braids bouncing wildly about, framing her excited smile. Even Cormack, who had lived all of his youth in Honce proper and had heard many stories of this city and had even seen murals depicting it, couldn't help but giggle a bit at the exotic wonder of Ethelbert dos Entel.

Lady Dreamer slid into the slip readied for her, and Dawson, Cormack, and Milkeila went to the top of the gangplank while the crew and dockhands tied her in place. The three exchanged worried glances as they simultaneously spied archers at the ready lining the dock. Through them stepped a greeting procession comprised of monks amidst a swarm of warriors.

Dawson called down to them in his most charming voice. "We come from Chapel Abelle with word from Father Artolivan and Dame Gwydre of Vanguard Holding."

"St. Mere Abelle, you mean," answered the leading monk of the greeting party. "And glad I am to hear that!"

"You know?" Cormack blurted before Dawson could reply.

"Good word travels fast across the land, particularly when brothers are fleeing from the brutality of Laird Yeslnik and his armies!" answered the monk.

Cormack, Dawson, and Milkeila all breathed sighs of relief.

"Come along, and welcome!" the monk on the docks said. "I am Father Destros of Chapel Entel, sent to escort you to Laird Ethelbert."

"You mean, now that you're thinking you don't have to murder us," Dawson replied with a laugh and a glance around at the rows and rows of archers, bows still leveled Lady Dreamer's way.

Destros's reply was to flash a disarming smile. Dawson led his two companions down to the docks.

"You are a long way from Vanguard," Father Destros said as the procession made its way to the streets and open markets of the remarkable city. It was no secret across Honce that Laird Ethelbert was quite fond of Behr, the desert kingdom to the south around the towering Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, upon whose northern foothills Ethelbert dos Entel had been built, and upon whose southern foothills lay the great Behr city of Jacintha.

"Dame Gwydre's no fool," Dawson replied. "She's seeing Honce tearing itself apart. Don't doubt that your troubles are to become Vanguard's troubles in short order."

"My Laird Ethelbert has no such designs upon the northern wilderness of Vanguard, I assure you."

"Word has it that your Laird Ethelbert isn't the one winning."

That remark jolted Destros to a halt, and all about them, soldiers and monks alike, gasped.

"I didn't come here for pretty words and pretend thoughts," Dawson said. "That might crinkle your nose a bit, but you'll be glad to see Lady Dreamer soon enough, I promise."

"Quite the diplomat," Cormack whispered to Dawson amidst the uncomfortable silence.

Dawson just chortled and gave a crooked-toothed grin.

Laird Ethelbert's palace was not a grand affair compared to the splendors of St. Mere Abelle, but it was quite beautiful and, like the city around it, filled with the colorful and exotic goods of the strange kingdom to the south. Painted screens and fans gave a myriad of angles to every room. The polished stones of the hallways prompted shiny and intricate designs of swirling colors and even a few small distinctive images that seemed like pieces of larger murals or teasing sentence fragments on an ancient and much-damaged parchment. The effect proved intoxicating even to grumpy Dawson.

A long time passed before Cormack and the others realized that Father Destros had slowed his pace considerably to let them bask in the beauty of Castle Ethelbert. He'd led them in a roundabout path to view it all, they realized, when at last they came into the wide audience hall of the laird.

There was no carpet leading to the marble throne and the old man seated upon it, but the patterns on the floor tiles showed them a clear enough path. A pair of delicate fountains stood to either side of that walkway, two-tiered and with graceful fish statues spitting water into the lower bowl and complementing beautifully the flow and grace of the mosaic tiles and the many screens and tapestries along the walls. Even the guards-dressed in red and blue and with wide flowing sashes as belts and sporting tassels along the length of their tall pole arms-seemed more decorative than utilitarian, though there was no doubting the strength of those iron hooks and axe heads they held fast!

Cormack, Dawson, and Milkeila took it all in, basking in the designs, but the former monk's gaze soon enough locked on a most curious figure, a small woman, her black hair and brown skin revealing her to be from Behr. She was dressed in black silks and carrying a sword that Cormack was certain he recognized. She stood to the right of the dais that held Ethelbert's throne, beside a man of similar heritage who was similarly dressed. Cormack instinctively understood the danger of these two, much more pronounced than the power of the laird's military advisors standing across the throne from them. It was hard to discern the musculature of the man, who was not of extraordinary height or girth, but Cormack knew that his muscles were tightly wound, like a coiled spring. His head was shaven, his eyebrows thick and black, and his dark eyes did not ever seem to blink, as if the lids dared not interrupt his intense stare.

"My laird, I present Dawson McKeege of Vanguard, emissary of Dame Gwydre," Father Destros said after bowing to Ethelbert. "And his companions, Cormack of…"

He paused and glanced back at Cormack and silently mouthed, "St. Mere Abelle?" to which the monk smiled and nodded.

"Of St. Mere Abelle, the Blessed Chapel," Destros continued. "And his wife, Milkeila of Alpinador. A most varied and unusual crew has come to our docks!"

That last flourish seemed lost on Laird Ethelbert, who stared only at Cormack with great intrigue.

"What are you wearing?" the old man said, and, indeed, he seemed ancient to the three newcomers, as old and tired as Father Artolivan himself.

"My laird?" Cormack asked.

"On your head," Ethelbert clarified. "Is that the beret of a red-cap dwarf?"

Cormack shuffled from foot to foot and cleared his throat. "It is, Laird Ethelbert," he explained. "Won in mortal combat."

"You killed a powrie and took his cap?"

Cormack thought back to that fateful day on a beach in far-off Alpinador, on the steamy, hot lake of Mithranidoon, when he had battled a nasty little dwarf named Pragganag. He hadn't actually killed the wretch, but he had won the fight. The other powries had then finished the job and had given him Prag's hat as a trophy as agreed upon before the duel.

"I defeated the dwarf and took his cap," said Cormack, trying to sound confident, "and by order of Father De Guilbe, who led my chapel, I am bound to wear it forevermore."

Ethelbert looked to Destros, but the young monk could only shrug, having never heard of such a thing before.

"Any man who can beat a powrie…" Ethelbert paused. "What weapon did you use?"

"No weapon," Cormack assured him.

The response brought a great guffaw of laughter from the old laird. "Any man who can beat a powrie-and with his bare hands no less-is a man I want by my side in battle!" the laird proclaimed, to many approving nods.

Ethelbert came forward in his chair suddenly, poking a finger Cormack's way. "But if you're lying," he warned, wagging that digit and wearing a scowl-but one that could not hold as he fell back and laughed again. "If you're lying, then I'd want you beside me anyway, to tell my tales as fancifully as you weave your own!"

Almost everyone in the room began to laugh, including the three newcomers, who looked to each other with great relief. Everyone, that is, but the silk-clad warriors, who were not even grinning.

"You've sailed a long way," Ethelbert said when the titter and chatter died away. "Do you mean to tell me why?"

"To tell you of the proclamation of St. Mere Abelle," Cormack said, "though it seems you have already heard the word."

"Even the church could not swallow the bile of the fool Yeslnik," said Ethelbert, his voice strained as he spat the cursed name.

"And we came because you've wound yourself into a tight spot," Dawson said bluntly. "And so have we, caught in the walls of St. Mere Abelle."

Ethelbert paused, his face growing very serious. All around him men tensed, a reaction similar to that out on the docks when Dawson had mentioned the state of the war.

"The Dame of Vanguard will not see Yeslnik win," Dawson quickly added.

"Dame Gwydre will support my cause?"

Dawson paused, frowning. "It's a bit more complicated than that, Laird Ethelbert." Dawson looked all around. "Perhaps in a setting more private," he continued in a lower voice. To the surprise of many in the room, and to the absolute shock of Father Destros, Laird Ethelbert nodded his agreement and told his attendants to arrange it immediately.

Dawson and Cormack exchanged quick, knowing looks: Laird Ethelbert's predicament was obviously as dire as they had heard.

In short order, the three visitors to the city sat in a small room before Ethelbert, who was flanked by an older veteran warrior and Father Destros on one side and by the dark-skinned woman from Behr on the other. Unlike all the others in the room, she did not sit down, and her hand did not stray far from the hilt of the fabulous sword hanging on her left hip, a sword that looked exactly like the one Bransen carried.

"Choose your words carefully," Laird Ethelbert warned to begin the negotiation.

"We didn't sail halfway around the world, dodging Palmaristown warships and powrie barrelboats all the way, to dance pretty," Dawson replied.

"What does Dame Gwydre offer?"

"Not just Dame Gwydre, but St. Mere Abelle, as well," Cormack interjected.

Ethelbert shifted painfully in his seat, seeming even older than before.

"The war does not go well for you," said Dawson. "You've put a grand fight against Yeslnik and his uncle before him, by all accounts, but there's too many in Delaval and Palmaristown, and all along the river. Yeslnik can put fifty thousand in the field, and you've just a tenth o' that."

"We have heard proclamations of our defeat before," answered the veteran at Ethelbert's side. "Usually right before we chased Yeslnik from the field!"

"A grand fight," Dawson said again. "And no disrespect intended-far from it. Would that Laird Ethelbert had won the war outright, but 'twas not to be and is not to be."

"Then what?" asked Ethelbert. "I thought Dawson claimed that he did not dance prettily."

"True enough," replied the old sea dog from rugged Vanguard. "You cannot win, and you know you cannot win."

"I will kill him for you, great Ethelbert," the woman in silk promised in a thick Behr accent, leaning forward.

Ethelbert held up his hand to silence her. "What do you know?"

"Only what you know," Dawson replied. "And not to doubt that our own situation isn't much more promising, except that we're caught behind the tall and thick walls of the great chapel, with a horde of monks and magical gemstones to keep our enemies out. And not to doubt that we're not to win over Yeslnik's thousands, either."

"Not alone," Cormack explained.

"You've come for an alliance," said Ethelbert. "Ethelbert dos Entel and Vanguard, combined against Yeslnik."

"And the Order of Blessed Abelle," Cormack added. "Those who remain loyal to Father Artolivan, at least, for rumor spreads that Yeslnik has created a shadow church to subvert Father Artolivan's power."

Father Destros's face tightened at that, but he nodded to show that he was not surprised and, it appeared, to offer a bit of support for Artolivan.

"Then as I said out in the main chamber you have come to offer your support for my cause," said Ethelbert.

"Partly that," Dawson replied. "An alliance, but not fealty."

"Explain."

"Dame Gwydre is your peer, not your subject, and the church of Father Artolivan is something altogether different than those choices," said Dawson. "We need to work together to rid the land of Yeslnik, but not to place King Ethelbert in his stead."

That had all of those seated opposite Dawson bristling with outrage. Except for Ethelbert, who leaned back and rubbed a hand wearily over his old, wrinkled face. After some consideration, he shook his head.

"Vanguard separate, perhaps," he said. "But not the other holdings. It cannot be. After years of war and with the roads locked under the boots of armies, Honce cannot be as she was. The lairds must stand united."

"Aye, and not Vanguard separate," said Dawson.

"Then what?" Ethelbert demanded. "What does Dame Gwydre want?"

"Queen Gwydre," Dawson dared to correct, widening the eyes of the four across the room. "Ethelbert remains independent and supreme in his holding," Dawson quickly added. "Your city is your own, good laird, in gratitude from all of Honce for the battle you dared wage."

"Silence!" Laird Ethelbert shouted. "You come to my throne demanding fealty of me?"

"We come demanding nothing but offering our help in your struggle with Yeslnik."

"Mutual benefit?"

Dawson nodded. "Best kind."

"But to the end result of a Queen Gwydre?" Ethelbert asked incredulously. "Why would I agree to any such thing?"

"Because your only other choice is to be pushed into the sea," Cormack said, surprising everyone. "Or to remain trapped here surrounded by enemies. With a Queen Gwydre enthroned, Laird Ethelbert would be a man of the highest standing across the realm, independent within his own holding and in his dealings with others, like the sheiks of Behr. Such will not be the case with a King Yeslnik."

"But wouldn't that be the case with King Ethelbert?" the laird asked.

"We cannot prevail were those the terms," said Cormack. "Our only hope lies in turning some of Yeslnik's minions to our cause. The Order of Blessed Abelle helps with that, but the name of Ethelbert is not held in high esteem in the lands of central and western Honce. You have dug deep trenches with your war, and not a family in Honce has been spared the grief. Such is not true of Dame Gwydre, who will be viewed as an alternative to the misery the common folk have known these last months and years. They will view her with hope, a savior from their pain, and will perhaps turn against their King Yeslnik and fight for her."

The old warrior to Ethelbert's side began to protest, but the laird cut him short with a snarling and derisive, "The common folk."

"All the men of Vanguard and all the men at your command combined would falter at the feet of Yeslnik's great army," said Dawson.

"And so you are in as desperate a situation as I," Ethelbert protested.

"Nay, for we can just sail home and be done with it," Dawson replied.

"The walls of St. Mere Abelle are impenetrable," Cormack added. "Forever and more can the brothers remain within. We are all quite above this war of yours if we so choose."

Ethelbert's narrowed eyes were his only response.

"Or it would have been, and still would be, a small matter for Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan to broker a truce with Yeslnik in exchange for the autonomy of Vanguard, a land for which he cares little, and to which he cannot easily march or sail," Cormack added, though didn't quite believe. "But we choose this path."

"Because Dame Gwydre is no different than Delaval and Yeslnik," Ethelbert said with a snicker.

"So different you'd never think her a laird… err, dame," Dawson answered.

"Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan choose this path out of generosity and duty," said Cormack. "They cannot abide the agony the common folk of Honce suffer because of the designs of an ambitious laird."

Ethelbert stiffened at that, and Cormack added, "We know that Delaval began this war, and that you tried to do as we now hope. And we have no love of Yeslnik or his second from Palmaristown, a brutal and wretched man. We would see Yeslnik defeated. This is the only way, and even this plan seems desperate."

"But you would do it for Queen Gwydre?" asked Ethelbert.

"We do it because it's right," Dawson answered. "Same reason we just fought the Samhaists in Vanguard."

"But you called it desperate and claim that you can sail away from it."

"A sorry bunch of heroes that'd make us," said Dawson.

"Heroes, yes," the laird replied with more than a little sarcasm.

"We have come as friends and allies, Laird Ethelbert," Cormack said, "openly and under a flag of truce. Our offer is one of cooperation and friendship and is yours to accept or reject."

"And if I reject?"

"We sail away to St. Mere Abelle."

"To Yeslnik's side?"

"Never," Cormack and Dawson said together.

Ethelbert managed a nod of acceptance at that. He waved them away, then. "Go to your boat or remain in the castle if you choose-my attendants will see to your room and needs. We will meet again when I have discussed this with my generals here."

The three rose, bowed, and turned to leave, but Cormack hesitated and fixed his gaze on the Behr warrior woman. "That sword," he said. "It is most marvelous."

The woman eyed him dangerously, unblinking.

"Affwin Wi is from the land of Behr, where such swords are crafted," Ethelbert answered.

"It is Jhesta Tu, is it not?"

"Speaking a name does not reveal understanding," the dark woman replied in her thick Behr accent, biting the syllables short and almost stabbing with the hard consonant sounds. "And does not impress. Speaking of what you do not know is the mark of a fool."

Cormack sorted out a reply, wanting to explore the origin of this particular sword a bit further. Instead he changed his mind and just smiled, bowed, and caught up with his companions, who had decided to go back to the security of Lady Dreamer. Impertinent fools," said Kirren Howen, the general who had sat by Laird Ethelbert's side for the private meeting. Past middle age but not nearly Ethelbert's contemporary, the thick-haired, graying warrior took care with his tone to make his claim one of support and not absolute judgment.

Laird Ethelbert turned from the counter where he was pouring fine liquor for the two into delicate glasses he had recently received from Behr.

"Look at these," he said, holding them up for his friend. "You can see the tan liquid through their shining sides. So much more delicate and beautiful than a bronze mug, no matter how many wolves or dancing ladies you carve into one."

Kirren Howen cocked his head curiously. "Yes, laird." He took the glass as Ethelbert moved over and extended it to him.

"Yet another fine example of the idiocy of parochialism, do you agree?"

The general seemed not to understand.

"Beasts of Behr!" Ethelbert exclaimed with a laugh, explaining it all so bluntly and so simply, as was his wont. Certainly Kirren Howen caught on to the meaning immediately. For most of Honce, the desert kingdom south of the impassable mountains was a place of barbarians and beasts masquerading as men. But Laird Ethelbert and those of his court knew better.

"Have you ever seen Affwin Wi dance?"

"My laird?"

"You have witnessed her in battle, no doubt."

"Of course."

"As fine a warrior as ever carried a blade-though she would not even need a blade to kill most opponents."

"I cannot deny the truth of that."

"She is equally exquisite when she dances. A promise of love, delicate and beautiful, or dangerous, even deadly. She can twirl about on the ball of one foot slowly enough to kill a man with lust or break into a spin so fast that if she kicked out of it she could surely crush a man's heart with her foot. She is Behr, you see. So raw and pure, colorful and dark, delicate and deadly."

The door burst in then and two men, brawny warriors both, stumbled into the room, nearly tripping over each other.

"My laird," they said together.

"I can take their miserable ship right out of the water, Laird Ethelbert," promised one, Myrick the Bold, the ferocious and impetuous commander of Entel, the city's dock section.

"And I will deliver their heads to the gates of Chapel Abelle," said the other, an enormously strong man named Tyne.

"I thank the old ones and Blessed Abelle and the Sun God of Behr-whichever might be listening!-for you every day, Kirren," Ethelbert said to his older and calmer general. He tapped his glass against Kirren Howen's.

Another man, small of frame and hardly hinting at any warrior stature, rushed into the room. "Your pardon, my laird," said Palfry, Ethelbert's favorite attendant, like a son to the old laird. "I tried to slow them…"

"I told you to summon these two, Palfry, not to excite them," Ethelbert said with a slight chuckle. "You know how hot run the humors of Myrick and Tyne!"

"Yes, laird," Palfry said, lowering his eyes.

"What do you think, Kirren?" Ethelbert asked. "Should we let Myrick sink this boat from Vanguard and just kill the emissaries, or cut off their heads as Tyne suggests?"

Kirren Howen's eyes went wide with surprise. Quite the diplomat, are you not?" Cormack scolded Dawson again when they and Milkeila were alone in the captain's private room on Lady Dreamer.

Dawson snorted. "Speaks the man who told Ethelbert he couldn't win the war."

"What choice was I given after Dawson proclaimed Gwydre the Queen of Honce?"

"I didn't sail halfway around the world to parse my words, monk," said Dawson.

"His temperament might have been more calm if we'd brought Callen Duwornay," Milkeila suggested softly, not looking at them.

Both men gaped at her, then laughed aloud, the tension broken. The budding love between Dawson McKeege, Dame Gwydre's most trusted advisor, and Callen, the mother-in-law of the rogue known as the Highwayman, was, after all, the worst-kept secret on the Mirianic.

"It was a dangerous play," Cormack said after a bit, as Dawson broke out a jug of his rum and three wooden mugs.

"The world's burning, front to back," Dawson replied, handing Milkeila her mug first. It pleased him for some reason each time he remembered that this woman from Alpinador could drink the both of them under the table.

"A play no less dangerous than Cormack's follow," Milkeila said in her somewhat shaky command of the Honce tongue. She brought the mug up, dipped a finger into it, and closed her eyes.

"Now why do you do that?" Dawson asked. "A bit of barbarian magic to take the bite away?"

Milkeila merely smiled as she always did when Dawson asked that predictable question. She took a great swallow of the rum, nearly draining the considerable mug.

"She cheats," Dawson said to Cormack.

"At everything," Milkeila's husband agreed. "That's why I keep her by my side."

"Oh, I'm knowin' why you keep her by your side, monk. Too many days in a chapel full of men."

Both men looked at Milkeila as Dawson finished the crude remark, but both knew better than to expect a blush from this warrior, strong with the spear and her shamanistic magic and secure and comfortable in her skin.

"What I'm wondering is why she's keeping you," Dawson finished, raising his mug in toast to Milkeila, who smiled and returned the lift.

"For once we agree," said Cormack.

"Your words with Laird Ethelbert were correct," Milkeila said. "We should state our case openly with that one. He will see any deception, and he knows more about us than we believe."

"Now where do you get that?" asked Dawson.

Milkeila just stared at him hard, gradually directing his gaze to Cormack.

"The woman from Behr," Cormack explained. "Her sword."

"Looked a lot like Bransen's sword," said Dawson.

"Such swords are common in Behr, perhaps," Cormack offered.

"When we see her again, seek a vantage to peer beneath the left fold of her blouse," Milkeila advised.

"Why would I be doing that, aside from her obvious charms?" asked Dawson.

"I'm not sure," Milkeila replied. "Just a hint, perhaps, and a guess. Laird Ethelbert is no fool. He has survived the overwhelming force of Laird Delaval and several times seemed almost on the edge of victory."

"True enough," Cormack said. "He is cornered and in a desperate place, but let us not underestimate him."

"Or those around him," Milkeila added. "We have witnessed the fighting prowess of the Highwayman, and if Laird Ethelbert's bodyguards are of equal skill they will be formidable."

"If they're half as good as that one they could sink my ship by themselves," Dawson agreed and drained his wooden mug. I would, laird," Myrick the Bold said. "At your word, my archers will sweep the deck…"

He stopped under the mocking laughter of Laird Ethelbert.

"My laird?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, we should kill every one of them!" Ethelbert said with sarcastic exuberance, which melted into a self-deprecating, lonely chuckle. "They committed the greatest crime of all."

The three generals looked to each other with mounting confusion, and Kirren Howen finally asked, "Laird?"

"They told the truth," Ethelbert explained. He wasn't looking at them as he spoke, rather staring off into the empty corner of the room. "The greatest crime of all, to tell a laird the truth."

Another sad laugh ensued. When Ethelbert lifted his glass to his lips, his hand trembled severely. "Especially an old laird," he finished, looking back at the three.

"What would you have me do, laird?" an exasperated Myrick asked.

"Think," came the simple response.

Myrick and Tyne exchanged confused looks, but when they turned to Kirren Howen they saw that he understood. His expression revealed his sadness.

"So this is how we lose," Ethelbert said. "A much softer fall than we had expected, yes, Kirren?"

"Perhaps no fall at all," the general replied. "Do you trust their promises of autonomy?"

Ethelbert paused, then chuckled again, then shrugged. "Have I a choice? Truly?"

"Yes, laird!" said Tyne. "Send them away! Or send their heads away!"

"Our enemy gathers in the west," Ethelbert replied. "Our allies north along the coast have been ravaged. We'll find no reinforcements from Felidan Bay or the Mantis Arm. Yeslnik has razed those towns immediately west of us, so we'll find no support, supplies, or warriors should we choose to march. What is left to us, then? To wait here until the armies storm our gates once more?"

"A better deal with Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan, then," said Kirren Howen.

Ethelbert nodded, looking very old. "More assurances, perhaps."

"King Ethelbert!" said Myrick the Bold.

The old laird laughed again but then steadied himself and straightened more fully than they had seen in many weeks. "It will not be," he replied, his voice strong. He held up his nearly empty glass. "Be of good cheer, my friends," he said, and he waited for them to return the toast. "For hope has come to us on a boat from Vanguard, and the fool Yeslnik has turned the church against his designs. No more do we fight alone!"

He drained his glass, then threw it against the stone wall, his old eyes sparkling as if reflecting the shattering and flying shards. "Go and retrieve our guests. Myrick, and Tyne, bring me Father Destros and Affwin Wi. Bid her to drag that angry Merwal Yahna along with her."

The two looked at each other in confusion, and Ethelbert said, "Go! Go!" and waved them away.

"Bid for better terms," Kirren Howen said when they were alone.

The old laird nodded, though he understood that he and Kirren Howen would not be in agreement over what those better terms might be. The wily old general was still thinking of Ethelbert as the King of Honce, as Ethelbert himself had been only a day before-assuming, of course, they managed to find some way to defeat Yeslnik of Delaval and his overwhelming garrison. With only oblivion or flight to Behr as the alternative to absolute victory, Ethelbert had held fast his dream of ruling the whole of the land. What would happen, after all, to his people, to Kirren Howen and poor Palfry, if anything other than that unlikely scenario came to fruition? No, losing to Yeslnik was simply unthinkable.

But now another possibility had rudely entered the equation, a third way, perhaps, and as if a great responsibility had been lifted from Ethelbert's tired old shoulders, the words of Dawson McKeege, crude and blunt as they had been, had invigorated his spirits.

At the same time, however, that new element had allowed Laird Ethelbert to physically slump. He could feel old again because the consequence of that inevitability was somehow not quite so dire.

Kirren Howen wanted him to bargain for greater power, a more prominent role, and perhaps even to fight for his well-earned right to the throne, should their alliance prove victorious, but Ethelbert, though he meant to play it out, was more concerned with those he would soon leave behind. A large part of him, the old and tired man, just wanted to agree to the terms the emissaries had brought and be done with it. But when he looked at Kirren Howen, so long his friend and companion, who had sailed with him and fought beside him for all these years, Laird Ethelbert had to nod his agreement.

He threw a wink to his general when the others began making their way into the room. "Better terms," he whispered so that only Kirren Howen could hear.

"Glad we are that you have arrived," Ethelbert said when all had gathered. "I admit to knowing little about your Dame Gwydre, though I am certain that you would regale me the day through with tales of her honor and strength were I to give you the chance."

"At least a day," Dawson said.

Kirren Howen and the other two generals grimaced at the interruption, but Ethelbert just laughed it off.

"I've not the time," he replied. "But pray do tell me, Dawson of Vanguard, is your lady as crass and irreverent as her emissary?"

For the first time it seemed as if Ethelbert had taken Dawson off his balance, as the old sea dog stumbled for a reply.

"Dame Gwydre is beloved by her people," Cormack dared say. "Her bloodline is long and true, good lairds all. Kind and generous."

"Not traits that will aid us against the wretched Yeslnik," said Ethelbert.

"But a demeanor that will endear many to her cause as we do battle," Cormack promised.

"Yes, you have already claimed as much," the old laird replied doubtfully. "I accept your… impatience as a call to action, but of course I cannot accept your terms as presented."

The three emissaries looked to each other nervously.

"You'd have us sail away?" Dawson said.

"If that is your choice. Did you really expect me to cede Honce to you before it is even won?"

"This is the choice of Father Artolivan, and if Honce is to be won it'll be no small part owed to his doing."

"And no small part to Dame Gwydre's, and no small part to the warriors of Ethelbert who have resisted the dominion of Yeslnik and Delaval before him for all these bloody months. More than ten thousand warriors from a multitude of holdings and fighting under my flag have given their lives for King Ethelbert. Am I to disrespect their loyalty and sacrifice?"

"You cannot win."

"I could take hostage emissaries from Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan and use them to barter with Yeslnik. I doubt that he would give to me any less than Dawson of Vanguard has offered." Ethelbert let that uncomfortable thought hang in the air for a few heartbeats before breaking the tension with a smile. "But you see, friends, I hate Yeslnik more than you do. I prefer the alliance."

"We're not to turn the other lairds to the hoped-for flag of a King Ethelbert," Dawson reminded. "There's too much blood on the ground."

"Tell them to fight for Dame Gwydre or for the monks and Chapel Abelle," said Ethelbert.

Father Destros shifted uncomfortably.

"Your pardon, Father. For St. Mere Abelle," the laird clarified.

The monk bowed to Ethelbert.

"I care not of the promises you give to the minor lairds," said Ethelbert. "But they are not binding to me or to my generals or to my holding. Where was Dame Gwydre when Delaval declared himself King of Honce?"

"Warring with Samhaists, trolls, goblins, and barbarians in the north!" said Dawson.

"Only I slowed Delaval's march," Ethelbert went on as if Vanguard's struggles hardly mattered. "Only Laird Ethelbert dared step forth to oppose the tyrant. You say that some of the lairds loyal to Yeslnik may turn to our cause, to Dame Gwydre's cause, but how many of the lairds now fighting for good Laird Ethelbert will then desert to the more apparent winner?

"So, please, good man Dawson, do not bluster and bluff. Your loyalty to your lady is commendable and speaks well of her and for her. We will need such conviction if we are to prevail over the dastardly Yeslnik. Let us join and complete that deed and then worry over the spoils that may remain."

"The other lairds-"

"Tell them whatever you would tell them to turn them against Yeslnik," Ethelbert replied sharply. "Most are not fools and likely hate the foppish pretender already. He is not half the man as his uncle, Laird Delaval. But I will not pledge fealty to your Dame Gwydre or to your church. I will, however, promise not to turn my armies against you once our common foe is defeated in exchange for your like promise."

Dawson, Cormack, and Milkeila exchanged concerned and confused glances.

"Perhaps you should sail back to St. Mere Abelle to deliver the terms," Laird Ethelbert said. "And then sail back here to tell me if they are agreeable to Dame Gwydre and Father Artolivan."

Dawson sputtered to respond to that absurd notion.

"Then make a decision, Dawson of Vanguard," Laird Ethelbert demanded. "Here and now, or be gone from my docks."

Dawson's weather-beaten face scrunched up as he eyed the old man dangerously.

"Do you think that your Dame Gwydre will be pleased that her man let his wounded pride sever an alliance that we both need?" Ethelbert said simply. He paused for just a moment before adding, "Have we an agreement?"

"You're everything they said you'd be, old laird," Dawson replied, his face and posture relaxing. "And aye, we'll throw in with you to the death of Yeslnik."

"Palfry, my good lad," Ethelbert said to his attendant. "A feast is in order to celebrate this union. See to it."

The young page bowed and ran out of the room.

"Go and retrieve your crew," Ethelbert said. "A night of celebration and plentiful food will see them well on their way."

"I would stay, good Laird Ethelbert," Cormack said. "Along with Milkeila, my wife." He put his arm about the shaman.

"Your wife?" the old laird repeated with clear skepticism. How many times Ethelbert had witnessed such mixed marriages, although usually between one from Honce and one from Behr. Rarely had they succeeded.

"We will serve here, with your permission, as representatives of the Order of Blessed Abelle and of Dame Gwydre," Cormack offered.

"Well, indeed," said Ethelbert, and a sly smile spread across his face. "And given. But can you fight?"

"We can fight."

Ethelbert nodded and waved them away. Before they had even left the room he turned to Kirren Howen and to Myrick and Tyne, who drew very near. "Prepare a flotilla for Jacintha. I would advise my friends in Behr of the hopeful turn of events."

"Perhaps they will at last send us more warriors," said Myrick.

"It is possible," said Ethelbert, but with obvious skepticism. He looked to Kirren Howen, who nodded to show that he understood the true purpose here: to secure an escape route, should one be necessary, and to bring another possible ally into the mix should Ethelbert and Dame Gwydre prove victorious over Yeslnik. True to Ethelbert's word, Dawson's crew ate well that night at a grand feast in the open market outside the doors of Castel Ethelbert. The laird and his generals attended, but only for a short time.

Long enough, though, for Cormack to finally get near to the woman warrior from Behr. He tried to strike up a conversation with her regarding her heritage and her sword, but she pretended not to understand him and just turned away.

In that turn, however, the former monk got a glimpse under the fold of her black silk blouse and was able to recognize a star-shaped, gem-studded brooch she had pinned to her chest. Perhaps there were more swords such as hers and Bransen's in the deserts to the south, but surely there were no other such distinctive magical brooches.

"It's Bransen's sword," Cormack later explained to Dawson on Lady Dreamer's deck long after the moon had set in the west.

"How do you know?"

"She wears his brooch," said Milkeila.

"He's dead, then," Dawson said, his voice full of regret. "Might be that he was killed by Ethelbert. You two should sail with me, then."

Cormack shook his head. "Milkeila, perhaps."

"Not without my husband."

"Then, no," said Cormack. "We will be safe here. Father Destros is a man of fine reputation within my order. A man loyal to Father Artolivan."

"And you want to find out about Bransen," Dawson reasoned.

"We owe him that much at least."

"You had best walk with care and question in whispers," Dawson advised. "If it was Ethelbert who killed him, those answers might get you two tossed into the sea."

Dawson patted Cormack on the shoulder and gave Milkeila a hug before heading belowdecks to plot his course.

"This is a magnificent city," Milkeila said to Cormack, following him to Lady Dreamer's rail.

Unexpectedly, a smile spread on Cormack's face, and Milkeila didn't quite understand until the man nodded his chin, prompting her to follow his gaze to the southeast. There, far, far across the dark waters of the great Mirianic Ocean, swirls of colors painted the sky, the legendary aurora that gave Corona its name, the heavenly ring of magical gemstones that God had shown to Blessed Abelle a century before. That gift had sustained the founder of Cormack's church on a distant deserted island and had returned Abelle to Honce, the blessed man walking on the ocean waters across the many miles. Cormack had heard of the equatorial aurora, of course, and had even seen hints of it from St. Mere Abelle on a couple of occasions, but never had he witnessed it so clearly. Never had its glory shone to him to so lift his heart as now.

"It is beautiful," Milkeila remarked with awe.

"The fruits of the ring did sustain Blessed Abelle," Cormack replied. "And so they will sustain us through these dark times."

He put his hand on the rail, and Milkeila put hers atop his. The lovers stared out at the aurora for a long while, then turned their eyes to each other and sealed the promise of the magic of God with a long and gentle kiss.